by Eric Flint
"I knew they were bad," he commented mildly.
Wiley snorted. "Bad? The Resistance—as you damn well know—is about as politically homogenous as a bouillabaisse. All the fascists gravitated to Kenny George in north Texas. KKK, Posse Comitatus, white citizens' councils, so-called 'militias' and 'survivalists'—you name it, George has got 'em. You sure as hell won't find anybody of my color in that crowd. Nor any of Hispanic or Oriental descent."
Wiley was a black man. It was a mark of his capabilities that he'd quickly risen to be the central leader of the Resistance in the Rocky Mountains, an area whose population was predominantly white.
Not too surprising, perhaps, given the general prominence of black people in the Resistance in most parts of the former United States. Oppuk had never made the attempt to understand his human subjects, so he'd never thought to use long historical grievances to pry America's black population away from its former political allegiances. He'd simply left the black population to suffer even worse than ever—after slaughtering a disproportionate number in Chicago and New Orleans.
"Okay, Rob," he'd said, smiling grimly. "Hammer 'em, it is. I don't imagine Orrie Abbott will have a problem with that." Like Wiley, Major General Orville Abbott was black.
Hammer them, he had, and Abbott had been none too concerned about human legal customs. He was, after all, a jinau officer—and he followed Jao practices when suppressing rebellions. In broad outlines, at least. The Jao never bothered with curlicues like "hanging them from lampposts."
The so-called "Dallas Uprising" had been over before Aille and his little fleet even lifted from Terra. Kenny George had decorated a lamppost himself.
* * *
The submarine was now racing toward the first Ekhat warship. Aille was taking advantage of a sudden swirl in the currents to bring them alongside as quickly as possible.
As quickly as possible, and as closely as possible—a task made all the more difficult because their target was the central pyramid, which required threading a trajectory through the outer lattice. Kralik hissed before he could restrain himself. For a moment, he thought that Aille had decided to ram the Ekhat, even though they'd all agreed that ramming was a tactic of last resort. Given the speeds involved, ramming was almost sure to destroy the submarine that tried it despite the flimsy construction of the huge Ekhat ships. And even if the submarine itself survived, the tanks that had been welded onto its back to serve as makeshift gun turrets would surely be stripped off. And the men inside it with them, including a certain Lieutenant General Ed Kralik, the laws of physics being no respecter of ranks and titles.
"Here we go!" Aguilera exclaimed—as if Kralik needed to be told. The huge flank of the Ekhat ship loomed like a cliff. Aille's superb piloting was going to bring them into point-blank range.
"Just say the word, sir," murmured the gunner.
Kralik's turret was the lead one. The submarine, a former boomer, had had eight tanks welded onto its back, each one above a former missile hatch. Four on each side, providing the submarine with the equivalent of a broadside, assuming the pilot was skilled enough to bring them into proper position.
Aille was skilled enough. "Light 'em up," commanded Kralik.
The tank's 140mm cannon erupted. The depleted-uranium penetrator blazed across the mile distance in less than a second. It looked like a tracer round, not because it was designed to be but simply because the surrounding ambient temperature—six thousand degrees Kelvin, once the penetrator shed the sabot and left the shield around the submarine—stripped away the outer layers of the projectile.
But not much of it, not with a muzzle velocity of over two thousand meters a second and less than a mile to travel. Just enough to allow Kralik and the gunner to follow the trajectory and see the fifteen-kilo penetrator strike the hull of the Ekhat warship. They managed to get off four shots before the submarine's own trajectory carried them past the Ekhat central pyramid and Kralik called off the firing.
The computer immediately confirmed what had been Kralik's own estimate. The four turrets able to bring their guns into line had hit the Ekhat warship with fifteen out of sixteen rounds. Kralik's own turret had fired the only miss, and that simply because it was the first in line. Kralik's last shot had been fired after the submarine carried too far past the enemy. The penetrator sailed off into solar oblivion, adding its own miniscule trace of heavy elements to the untold jillions of tons already there.
"Didn't look like much," muttered the gunner, half-complaining.
Half, but only half. Like Kralik, the gunner was an experienced tanker. The Ekhat ship was so gigantic that neither one of them had expected the pyrotechnics that always resulted when a DU penetrator hit another tank. But they knew full well that fifteen sabot rounds would have turned the inside of that ship into a charnel house. That much of it, at least, that the rounds could penetrate.
From the outside, it didn't look like much. Fifteen holes, mere inches in diameter, stitched across a vast surface. But once those projectiles penetrated the thin shell of the Ekhat ship, each of them would turn into an explosion of uranium fire. A bloom of sheer heat which would ignite almost anything it touched.
When it hit a tank squarely, a DU penetrator essentially incinerated everything inside. That wouldn't happen here, with the much greater volume of the Ekhat ship to absorb the blow. Neither Kralik nor Aguilera really knew exactly what would happen under these circumstances. But what they suspected, was that the explosions would send molten and half-molten droplets of metal and other substances scattering through the Ekhat ships. If they were all designed like the Interdict ship—and the Jao records seemed to indicate as much—that huge central chamber would become an abattoir. A good portion of it, at least.
His previous fear was gone, now, replaced by cold fury and something that was almost battle lust. Kralik didn't expect to survive, and for the first time in his life understood something of what the ancient berserks must have felt.
"Damn, that Jao bastard's good!" exclaimed the gunner.
Indeed so. Somehow, Aille had converted another careening granular swoop into a flank attack on a second Ekhat warship. Bringing the submarine even closer than before, less than half a mile away at its nearest approach.
Unfortunately, the passage was also even faster, so neither Kralik nor any of the other turrets were able to get off more than two shots. And, again, Kralik's last shot sailed off as the submarine carried past the target.
Chapter 37
The discordance was extreme, true, with whole ranks of Huilek swept aside in mid-ululation. Still, the blazing fireflowers brought ecstasy to the Point and Counterpoint, causing them to shift into their own frenzied syncopation.
Short-lived, though, much too short-lived. Another series of percussive fireflowers removed the Counterpoint's legs; then, another series ruptured the Counterpoint altogether and turned its remains into a blazing pyre.
For a moment, the Point tried to maintain the dance alone. But the Critic intervened.
End the dance. We are under attack. The leitmotif creatures must resume their normal posts.
The Point was confused, even more than it was outraged. Attack was impossible within a sun. But then, observing more ranks of Huilek destroyed by another percussive round, the Point was forced to shed that function-mode. The Melodist emerged and began shouting commands.
To your posts! To your posts!
Many of the Huilek had already broken ranks, fleeing toward the far gate of the choreochamber. The Melodist crushed several in the way of reprimand before giving up the enterprise. Futile in the face of such discordance. Best to begin a new melody altogether. It began striding toward the gate.
Two strides only.
The tanks that contained the aromatic compounds necessary for the olfactory component of the dance were located in sections of the outer hull. Several of the tanks had been damaged and now one of them burst open entirely, spilling its complex organic substances into the choreochamber. Exposed to the inten
se heat, the chemical compounds ignited in a flash explosion that sent the huge body of the Melodist flying across the choreochamber, shredding its limbs along the way and carbonizing its integument. When the Melodist landed atop a crowd of fleeing Huilek, crushing them in the process, it was already half-dead. Its last thoughts, blurred and confused, were simply wonder at the meaning of the extreme dissonance.
* * *
In the control chamber of the craft, the Critic stared at the image being relayed from the choreochamber into the holo tank before the Conductor. The Conductor voiced the Critic's own thoughts.
The work is not finished and cannot be. Many Huilek have been completed before their time. Without a Melodist, the remainder will be useless. The craft cannot be operated without its leitmotif components.
The Critic understood the thoughts, but still groped at their meaning. Everything had unfolded too quickly, too unexpectedly.
The Conductor, naturally more decisive, provided meaning also.
My function-mode ends.
That much, the Critic could comprehend. With a quick strike of its forelimb, using the genetically-modified forehand-blade specific to its own function-mode, the Critic completed the Conductor.
The Lead, after gazing at the corpse of the Conductor, lowered itself to expose the thoracic joint.
The craft will be swept down, to premature completion. There is no way to prevent it, with neither Conductor nor Melodist nor sufficient leitmotif components. My function-mode ends.
The Critic completed the Lead. Then, in quick succession, as they each reported the end of their own function-modes, the three remaining Ekhat in the control chamber.
Of course, it completed the eight leitmotif components also present. The Critic was forced to seal the gates to prevent the augment species from escaping. The squeals of the little Huilek added further disharmony to an already dismaying performance.
When it was alone, the Critic changed the view to display the craft's exterior. Already, it saw, the craft was plunging down one of the granular currents. Soon, with no Lead to guide the way, it would be swept into one of the supergranular cells; and, soon thereafter, would be completed long before it reached the radiation zone.
That was a pity. The Critic would have found solace, even ecstasy, in the music of death-in-creation. But there would be nothing, beyond the increasing discordance of a craft being shattered by crude convection.
The Critic completed itself. Not without difficulty; being forced to strike four times, very awkwardly, until the forehand-blade found the thoracic ganglion.
* * *
"Until this moment, I did not really believe," Yaut said softly, almost whispering. "That ship is out of control. Thrown out of control, by your guns. It is doomed. Truly, I did not believe it could be done, until now."
Aguilera glanced at him, startled by the fraghta's tone of voice. Yaut's mood usually ranged from unflappable to caustic. This was the first time Rafe had ever seen him shaken by anything.
He and Yaut were standing in the center of the sub's control room, just behind Aille in the pilot's seat. By the time he looked back at the holo tank, the Ekhat ship had vanished into the solar fog. Fighting a battle in the sun's photosphere was like a dog fight in heavy overcast, except these clouds were fiery bright. An ambient temperature of six thousand degrees—and more turbulent than any storm cells in Earth's atmosphere. Were it not for the forcefields, the submarine would have been ripped apart by the shear stresses even before it melted and vaporized. What made the experience even more disconcerting was that the sub's artificial gravity field kept those in it from feeling any of the vessel's sudden and sharp movements. There was a complete disconnect between someone's tactile perceptions and sense of balance and what they could see in the holo tank.
Aguilera winced. He had suddenly realized that one of the dangers they faced, which he simply hadn't thought about, was the very real possibility of two submarines colliding with each other. There was no way to maintain electronic communication in the photosphere. For all that Jao comm technology was more highly advanced than human, it still depended on electromagnetic signals. Here, trying to send or receive such signals would be like trying to talk in the middle of a waterfall.
About the only thing they could still do was detect other ships by their faint magnetic disturbances, until they drew close enough for visual spotting. But those magnetic signals were fuzzy. Just enough to give the sub pilots a sense of where another ship was located—which they then tried to zero in on as best as possible. Given that the solar turbulence made "steering" here more akin to white water rafting than what Aguilera normally thought of as piloting . . .
It was a grim thought. Two or more submarines, targeting the same Ekhat ship, might easily be thrown into each other by sudden shifts in the currents.
But, since there was nothing Aguilera could do about it, he pushed the worries aside. He had other concerns, anyway, and more predictable ones.
"What's the turret environmental status?" he asked the human tech monitoring those readings. Kenny Wong, that was.
"Pretty good," he replied, "except for Turret Six. Their environment's degrading faster than the others, and by a big margin. I think there's a leak somewhere. A material leak, I mean." Wong glanced at the screens in front of a woman seated next to him, which monitored the forcefields. "Jeri's the expert, but those readings look okay to me."
Jeri Swanson grunted sourly. "Okay to you, maybe. To me they look like my mother's wedding gown when they hauled it out of the trunk for me to wear the first time I got married. Can we say 'tattered and moth-eaten'?"
She glanced up at Aguilera. Seeing the look of alarm on his face, she grunted again, even more sourly. "What? You were expecting something else? We're in a fricking sun, Rafe." Jeri went back to studying her monitors. "Relax. We're still a ways off from a field collapse."
Aguilera swallowed. He'd been so busy and preoccupied getting the tanks converted to turrets that he had only a dim awareness of other aspects of what faced them. "Will you have any warning, if the fields are about to fail?"
Grunting was Swanson's stock in trade. "Some. Few seconds. Enough to tell you to bend over and kiss your ass goodbye. Stop pestering me, Rafe. There's nothing you or me or anyone can do about it, so why waste time worrying? It'll happen or it won't."
"What the hell happened to military protocol, anyway?" grumbled Aguilera.
"Excuse me? As I recall, you're technically still a civilian—and were never anything more than a sergeant when you were in the service. Whereas I happen to enjoy the exalted rank of major."
That acerbic response seemed to mollify Swanson, a bit. "Okay, sure, a staff weenie. Still a major. Relax, Rafe. I might mention that I did wind up wearing that stupid dress. It worked, well enough. Way better than the bum I married, that's for sure."
Aguilera decided to let the matter go. Swanson was right—there really wasn't anything anyone could do about the forcefields. They would withstand the stress, hopefully long enough to enable them to complete their mission, or they wouldn't. And he didn't want to get anywhere near the subject of Swanson's marital habits. The woman was in her mid-thirties and had been divorced four times. All bums, to hear her tell it. She seemed to have a built-in radar for detecting them, which, unfortunately, never sent off any signals until after the weddings.
So, he turned back to the other problem. "How long can they survive in Turret Six, the way their environment's degrading?"
"Hard to tell, exactly. Partly it depends on them, of course. We need to ride herd on those cowboys, Rafe. They'll try to stick it out as long as they can, but if they push it too far they'll start passing out from heat prostration before they can get themselves out."
Aguilera nodded. "Give me two minutes warning, as best you can figure it." It would take the crew in Turret Six about a minute to evacuate. That would give Rafe another minute to try to convince them to do it. He'd need it, too, with that crew. The tank commander in Six was a cowboy.
He'd grown up on a ranch in Wyoming.
"And now again," Yaut said softly.
Aguilera brought his eyes back to the holo tank. Sure enough, another Ekhat ship was starting to take shape in the solar fog. No—two of them, close together. The second Ekhat vessel had been partially obscured because it was behind the first one.
Aille, as before, would try to bring them alongside rapidly and then slow their own sub's velocity as much as possible to allow the tank crews to fire off multiple rounds. The piloting skill involved was phenomenal, but Aguilera had already seen Aille do it. Maybe he could again.
He spoke softly into his throat mike. "General Kralik, we're coming up on another ship. It'll be on your side again."
"Roger. Any estimate on time and—Jesus Christ!"
Aguilera echoed Kralik's startled outburst. In his case, with a low Mary, Mother of God. Another sub had suddenly loomed in the holo tank—close enough that Kralik had seen it in his own more limited turret screen—and Aille had barely managed to avoid a collision.
Aguilera watched, paralyzed, as the other sub veered out of control. The pilot of that sub had also maneuvered sharply to evade the collision, but apparently didn't have Aille's consummate skill. The sub was now yawing, speeding toward the first Ekhat ship.
It all happened in seconds. The other sub's pilot managed to realign his vessel, but not in time to avoid colliding with the Ekhat ship. It was a glancing blow, yes, scraping the sub against one of the Ekhat ship's fragile-looking exterior lattice-beams. But, as fragile as the thing looked, it still massed more than the sub. All the turrets on one side were stripped away—those men dead in an instant—and a great tearing wound inflicted on the hull of the vessel.
Whether there was more extensive structural damage or not, Aguilera couldn't determine. But it made no difference. With that big a hole torn in the sub, it was doomed. In the cold vacuum of space, the crew might have been able to rig a forcefield to maintain the internal environment—much as Aille had done when the Interdict stripped away the airlock on his small vessel. But there would be no way to shield that large an opening, not with the heat and pressure inside the photosphere. Long before the sub could claw its way out of the sun, everyone aboard would be asphyxiated or cooked alive.
