All those defenses were useless against someone that could reach them from warp space. The Mind-Killer exposed its victims directly to the horrors of warp space. The Tah-Leen were the perfect targets for the device. A human might survive such an attack, but the warp-blind Snowflakes would be completely helpless against it.
The problem was that as soon as the Scholar discovered what she’d found, he would kill her. His quest had been inspired by some half-forgotten legends. In those stories the Marauders murdered enemy leaders who’d been behind seemingly-impregnable defenses. He hadn’t expected that the weapon system in question could be used against his entire species, not just a few individuals. Such a device was too dangerous to be used, or allowed to exist for that matter. So was the pesky Marine pilot who’d stumbled into the secret.
She, and every human in Xanadu, were as good as dead.
Unless I pull the trigger first.
Nice thought, except she was armed with an unloaded pistol, so to speak. The Corpse-Ship was missing its power plant. She had no way to activate the Mind-Killer.
Lisbeth checked the time. The Snowflake had given her a thirty-six-hour deadline, after which it would be all over for her. Time was running out, and if she didn’t have something to show the alien she’d be discarded like so much trash. About the only piece of good news was that her last dip into the Marauder’s collective memories had taken her a whole fifteen minutes, even though it had felt like days, if not weeks. She had the better part of a day to come up with something useful. Heather McClintock was going to hack into the habitat’s network; if she could somehow help Lisbeth power up the Mind-Killer, they’d be able to make the aliens pay. She had to prepare herself to seize any opportunity that came her way.
Lisbeth needed to learn more, but she needed to find an alternative to the Marauders. Those murderous psychopaths were of no further use to her.
They weren’t the only ghosts she could reach from this ship, however.
* * *
“We found them, all right,” LC Howard ‘Suckass’ Montero said as lasers filled the air above him or tried to burn through the pile of rocks and dirt sheltering him.
“I see them. Three Battle Bugs,” Sergeant Weiner said next to him. “All right. Team leaders: load up one twenty-mike-mike each, armor-piercing, on my mark.” He waited for several seconds to make sure the volley was properly coordinated. They had to make every round count, because they didn’t have any to spare.
“Lasers are getting through this chunk of hill, Sergeant,” Suckass said after his imp reported his personal force field was being drained.
“Did it get you?”
“I’m still alive, ain’t I? No, it didn’t get me.”
“Then quit yer bitching,” Weiner said before going back on the squad channel. “Fire!”
The four team leaders opened up with their 20mm launchers just as a mortar barrage and a missile volley from the rear landed on the Lamprey mobile units. The triple combo had the intended effect: one mechanical bug brewed up when its battery case was breached; a second war machine stopped firing, still more or less in one piece but out of action.
“Not bad. Suckass, you’re up.”
Sergeant Weiner had sacrificed all his remaining 4mm ammo to let Howard reload the SAW. A whole fifty rounds.
“Aye,” he said, moving up to the edge of the small rise as soon as the portable force field went up to keep him alive. He ignored the glare of lasers impacting on the shield and swung the gun towards the designated target, the last Battle Bug still standing; a handful of Lamprey grunts were dug in around it. His first burst splashed plasma all over the BB’s shield before it failed with a bright flash. Howard poured it on and stitched the fighting vehicle with multiple plasma discharges that chewed through its tough metal armor like heavy rain hitting an ice sculpture.
A second, much brighter flash temporarily blinded him. When his helmet sensors cleared up his vision, the Bug was nothing but scattered flaming bits. There was no sign of the infantry that had been surrounding it. If they were smart, they started running the second their mobile unit’s force field went down. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be anyone’s problem anymore.
Another Lamprey position further back opened up as soon as the smoke cleared, forcing him to scramble back behind the hill. The incoming wasn’t as heavy as it’d been before they took out that fighting position and the three Bugs dug in there. The Lampreys were almost out of juice.
“Not bad at all,” Sergeant Weiner repeated. “We done found and fixed them in place. Now it’s time to give them the other two ‘Fs.’”
* * *
Russell was used to life in the Suck hitting new and unexpected lows, but this one took the cake.
Walking through the forest with nothing but a spear in his hands and a couple of overpriced Molotov cocktails hanging from his belt just wasn’t right. ETs loved to call humans a bunch of primmie barbarians, but this was ridiculous.
It could be worse, though. At least his personal shield was at near a hundred percent, and his suit’s twin power packs were two-thirds full. Sergeant Fuller was toting a loaded IW-3a, so they wouldn’t be completely helpless if it came down to a firefight. It was still a hell of a way to earn their combat pay.
Their point man signaled at them to stop, so they did. A quick laser-comm conversation with the sergeant followed. Sergeant Fuller passed on the word the same way.
“Listen up. There’s three Lampreys watching their flank, forty meters out from the tree line. No portable fields, but they’re in fighting holes and all three have lasers. I’ll keep them busy while the rest of you go around the clearing and engage them in close combat.”
“Aye, aye,” they all said. This was the moment Russell had been dreading: rushing energy weapons with a pig-sticker in his hands. The ETs must be almost dry, though, and maybe they’d use up their power packs killing the sergeant. Best possible outcome would be if FOS and the aliens took each other out, which meant Russell would get this gun as the next senior man in the squad. He liked Fuller well enough, even with all his bullshit motivational stuff, but he liked the idea of having an Iwo a little more.
The eleven troops started moving through the trees and underbrush as the sergeant opened up, trying to stay behind cover and concealment for as long as they could. Short bursts of laser fire flashed from the fighting holes, all aimed at FOS. Eventually, though, the Marines had to get out into the open with about forty meters to go. They rushed forward, screaming like a pack of maniacs. Russell knew his Marine history as well as any other leatherneck. Oorah originally meant ‘charge.’ So it made perfect sense to shout that while they ran to their deaths.
“OORAH! OORAH!”
Sergeant Fuller popped a can of 15mm whoopass on the aliens, trying to suppress them. It mostly worked, but a few laser bursts reached towards them.
Off to Russell’s left, Lance Corporal Bruno grunted before face-planting between one step and the next. His status went from green to black, do not pass ‘Go’ or collect two hundred bucks. Nothing to do but keep going. He finally got close enough to crouch down, grab one of the liquid-filled containers on his belt, and use the lighter app in his glove to fire it up. A laser pulse burst made Russell’s personal shield flash brightly. The power meter on the left corner of his eye changed from ninety-eight to sixty-three percent.
Russell threw the bottle at the fucker who’d almost killed him. It landed in the fighting hole, and the burning mixture of Vyrlian brandy, lubricant oil and hand soap spread all over the Fang-Face’s lower torso and legs. It stopped shooting and dropped its gun, beating on the flames spreading flames with both sets of hands.
“Burn, motherfucker!”
Throwing the Molotov cocktail meant he was the second grunt to reach the fighting hole. First place went to PFC Jimenez, who got shot in the face for his troubles. Turned out there was a fourth Lamprey nobody had seen, crouched inside the hole, and it tagged the private with a full laser burst. Steam came out of th
e three holes the laser had drilled into the Marine’s helmet as the corpse toppled back. Russell rushed past the falling body. All he cared about was the Lamprey who’d killed Jimenez, the fucking Lamprey that ignored the pool of fire and the trashing tango at its feet. It turned its laser towards him.
“Fuck!” Russell struck the energy rifle aside with his spear, swung it back into line and drove the point into the bastard’s torso. The Ka-Bar tip punched through the flexible chest armor and the tough hide beneath. He kept jabbing at the ET, driving the weapon deeper in with each thrust. He heard the Lamprey’s hissing squeal of pain right through the bubble helmet protecting its mouth and eyes.
If the Lamprey could make noise, it wasn’t done yet. Russell leaned forward until the spear head was all the way in, then braced himself against the side of the fighting hole and twist-pulled the weapon free, along with a mess of alien guts. The tango was still screeching, so he stabbed it again, aiming for the spot right below the helmet. The point skidded off bone and ended up lodged in something that might be the Lamprey’s spine. Even after all that, the damn alien was still twitching.
More troops arrived. Grampa rammed his own weapon into the back of the tango that Russell had lit on fire, just as it was reaching for a laser after putting itself out. A few moments later, there were four or five Marines surrounding the trashing aliens and driving their spears into them, over and over again, just the way their ancestors had done it to mammoths and cave lions and any critter they’d chosen for dinner or decided was something that needed putting down.
By the time they were done, the only recognizable bits were the Lampreys’ big pipe-mouths, still inside their protective bubble helmets. From the triumphant yells over at the other fighting holes, somebody had taken care of the rest of the ETs.
Sergeant Fuller caught up with them just as they were finished. Russell sucked some water through the feeding tube in his helmet and waited for orders while checking status icons. There were two yellows, one red and two black. Bruno and Jimenez. It occurred to him one of the black icons could just as easily been named Edison, but he was too pumped up to give much of a shit at the moment. A couple of guys were seeing to the wounded.
“Come on,” the squad sergeant said, sliding home another magazine. “That’s my last one, and three fifteen-mike-mikes. After that, I’m gonna have to use my e-tool like the rest of y’all. Come on, we’re in their rear now. Move!”
* * *
It was a basic Four-F maneuver. Find, Fix, Flank and Finish.
The last part was simple and quite literal butchery.
The Lampreys had all but exhausted their power supplies during their own robot attack the previous day. They spent their last charges when the fixing force engaged them, and by the time the flanking units rolled up their lines and reached their rear, the aliens had neither lasers nor force fields to protect them.
No surrender was demanded or offered. Most tried to run, trampling their own fellows in the process; the sight of men moving forward with naked steel in their hands had the same demoralizing effect as a bayonet charges had, back in the day. Fleeing only delayed the inevitable, however; the Lampreys ran into the flanking forces and were struck down. A few attempted to fight with their hands, digging tools or, in the officers’ case, some kind of ceremonial sword. Another Marine died and a handful more were wounded during the final melee, but it didn’t change the outcome. Every SPF soldier had been stabbed, bludgeoned or slashed to death.
Fromm walked into the enemy’s camp. Two lines of fighting holes surrounded the final bastion; that was where enemy’s remaining heavy lasers and Battle Bugs had made their last stand, and where Fromm’s troops had spent all their heavy ordnance taking them out. The Battle Nest’s Chief Centurion lay near the top of the hill; three spears were sticking out of it. There were thirty-odd Lampreys scattered around their commander, pools of thick blood spreading out under their still bodies; another twenty or so lay further out. The Nest had been well below their original strength before the fight started.
At five KIA and eleven WIA, Fromm’s losses were only good by comparison. His unit had been decimated in this fight alone. Charlie Company had been just as badly mauled during the Parthenon deployment, but only after weeks of combat, not a few days.
Gunny Freito would soon let him know just how bad their supply situation was, but he knew the short version: they were running on empty. There was no telling what else the Snowflakes had in store for them, and they would have to handle it with melee weapons.
They would try to scavenge what they could from the dead aliens. Their power packs weren’t compatible with the American equivalents, but they could be used to recharge theirs, with a bit of creativity and, unfortunately, a good deal of wastage. Every bit counted, though.
“You should have this, sir.”
First Sergeant Goldberg handed him one of the Lamprey swords. It was a single-edge, top-heavy hacking blade. Its hilt was long enough to wield it two-handed. He hefted it; noting it was heavier than it looked.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
He knew just what he’d do with the weapon, if he ever got the chance.
Twelve
“Aren’t they awful? Aren’t they the worst?” the Hierophant all but cooed as all the screens and holotanks replayed the final moments of the battle, over and over.
“They are truly a pack of magnificent barbarians,” the Priestess agreed.
“The way they tore into those poor Lhan Arkh, the primal gusto they displayed as they speared them over and over, mimicking the human male sexual act, the sheer aggression involved… I have to say, Madame Secretary, you humans have provided us with a most gratifying spectacle.”
“Is it over, then?” Secretary Goftalu asked. She looked sick; most of the Americans in the delegation did, after watching the extermination of the Lamprey Combat Nest. Only General Gage and Heather had been able to watch the final massacre without betraying their feelings. The Marine officer had seen too much combat to care about the fate of their enemies, and she had engaged in hand to hand combat personally. The experience gave her a unique appreciation for what Charlie Company had just gone through.
Peter was alive, and he was preparing for whatever the aliens had planned next. They all knew the Snowflakes would come up with something. The wise, ancient race had turned out to be nothing more than a gang of monsters. For a culture that claimed to cherish diversity, the Tah-Leen seemed remarkably uniform in their sadism. Heather felt disgusted and disappointed. Hundreds of millennia of existence, and this was the result?
“Are you satisfied now?” Sec-State went on. “Satisfied with this pointless slaughter? With killing one in ten of our soldiers, who came here on a peaceful mission? Are we free to leave?”
“Well, your troops’ heroism does deserve a reward,” the Hierophant said. “They can rest easy for the remainder of the day, although they will find their night rather… eventful.”
“No spoilers, Great One,” the Priestess said. “You’ll ruin the surprise.”
“You are quite right, my Goddess. I apologize. But the answer to your question, Madam Secretary, is no. We are not done with you yet.”
The grinning alien turned to address the Lampreys.
“You, on the other hand, have failed. All you deserve is a tragic end.”
As he spoke, several doorways opened up in the spherical room, and over a hundred Tah-Leen poured through them. The Snowflakes wore a multitude of different bodies: in addition to humans and Lampreys, dozens of other species were represented, from Puppies to Vipers to creatures long extinct and plenty Heather didn’t recognize; the new arrivals outnumbered the Lampreys by a fair margin. The Tah-Leen spread out around the Lhan Arkh delegation, blocking all the exits.
The Syndics jumped to their feet as their guards drew their weapons.
“By attacking emissaries protected by the sign of truce, you declare war on the Lhan Arkh Congress and the Galactic Alliance,” Syndic First Class Boosha said.
/>
“In Xanadu, your Congresses and Alliances are of no consequence,” the Priestess declared. “Your passing will allow us to celebrate our individuality, by letting us indulge in every pleasure that can be gained from ending your sad existence. Rest assured we will send your superiors a detailed multisensory rendering of what we do to you. It is bound to make an impression.”
The Spaceborne Popular Front soldiers opened fire: lasers and particle beams lashed out at the surrounding crowd. The Tah-Leen’s personal force fields remained unscathed even after every armed Lamprey in the chamber concentrated their fire on a single target.
Heather glanced at Agent In Charge Petroysan. The security officer watched the failure of her counterparts with grim expression, clearly aware her agents would be equally helpless if – when – the Lampreys turned on them.
“I see you have ordered your ships to attack the habitat,” the Hierophant said after the shooting had stopped, mostly because all the Lampreys had emptied their weapons. “If you expect them to rescue you, you are even more foolish than we thought.”
All the screens in both the human and Lamprey rooms switched to external views from the Habitat for Unique Diversity. The Lhan Arkh dreadnought and its escorts were going into battle stations; the tell-tale glow of force fields at full power was visible to the naked eye. The Syndics must have sounded the alarm – and the Tah-Leen must have allowed the signal to go through.
“They are about to fire on us,” the Hierophant said. “I am almost tempted to let them. Almost.”
A twisting bolt of darkness speared the Lamprey flagship. A graviton beam, but one of unimaginable size and power. The largest grav-cannon Heather knew of was a two-hundred-inch monstrosity the Wyrms mounted on their war-planetoids; it took as much energy to fire one of them as it did to power all the systems in a battleship division. The Habitat’s weapon dwarfed it by a fair margin.
The Lamprey vessel had two layers of force shielding and armor made of highly refractory composite materials. The impossible beam tore through them with ease, making the dreadnought stagger like a wounded beast. Secondary explosions soon followed, engulfing its rear half in flames. A few moments later, the proud warship broke apart.
Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series Page 84
