Devil's Hand

by Jack McKinney

  “There is a second group,” the computer announced. “Closer than the first. In the area where the Tiresians’ transmissions originated.”

  That place had not been found; the Inorganics had instead given chase to the Tiresians themselves.

  “They entered the way the others left,” Obsim speculated. “Could they be in league?”

  The brain assessed the probability and flashed the results in the communicator sphere.

  Obsim made a disgusted sound. “As I feared. They must be stopped.”

  “Activating the Inorganics will substantially weaken the shield,” the brain said, second-guessing Obsim’s command.

  “Do it anyway.” The scientist straightened his thick neck, allowing him to regard the room’s distant ceiling. “Let them waste their firepower battering us from above, while we destroy their forces below.”

  “Puppies?” Wolff repeated, exchanging puzzled glances with the radioman. “Ask him to clarify.”

  Quist listened for a moment. “She says they look like little sheepdogs, sir, except there’s something funny about their eyes and they’ve got some kind of horns. Sounds like there’s a whole bunch of ‘em.”

  “You can hear them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wolff pressed the headset to his ear and heard a chorus of shrill barks. “Sounds like they’re crying,” he commented. “Verify their position. Tell them to sit tight.”

  Aware that the external links were down, Wolff sent a runner back to the entrance, then gave the signal for the team to move out. His group had encountered nothing but mile after mile of corridor and serviceway, with the occasional cavernous room to break the monotony. By all accounts they were well beneath the Royal Hall, but they had yet to locate a way up. The B team, however, had wandered into a tight maze of even smaller tunnels, and were now in what their lieutenant described as a database lab. That’s where they found the puppies.

  Half an hour later the two teams reunited.

  It was indeed a computer room, consoles and screens galore, but the lieutenant’s “puppies” were anything but. The creatures remained huddled together in one corner of the lab, screaming their sad song, loath, it appeared, to leave their spot.

  “Sir, I tried to pick one of them up and it just seemed to disappear right out of my arms,”

  the lieutenant told Wolff.

  He gave her a dubious look and was about to try for himself when the voice of one of the corridor sentries rang out.

  “We’ve got movement, people! From all directions!”

  Wolff studied the motion-detector display briefly. There was a wider corridor two hundred yards left of the lab that led almost straight to the entrance, with a two or three jags thrown in. He dispatched a second runner with instructions for the tankers, and began to hurry everyone along toward the corridor.

  “The…things, sir, do we leave them?”

  Wolff glanced into the room at the Pollinators’ whiteshag pile. “They’re probably just Tirol’s way of saying `rat.’ Now let’s move!”

  Delivered into the upper reaches of Tirol’s envelope only moments before, the Ghost Squadron dropped out of Tiresia’s dawn like brilliant tongues of flame, half to batter away at the Royal Hall’s evaporating shield, while Edwards’s elite rushed in to follow the Wolff Pack’s trail. Edwards had Cabell’s map of that subterranean maze in hand now, and was determined to get to the Invid brain before anyone else.

  The commander of the Hovertanks waiting by the crater entrance to the corridors didn’t know what to think as he watched General Edwards leap from VT’s cockpit and commence what looked like angry strides in his direction. He jumped down from his own turret cockpit and ordered everyone to attention. But it was obvious in an instant that Edwards wasn’t interested in formalities or honorifics.

  “What’s Wolff’s position?” Edwards demanded, pulling off his helmet and gloves.

  A lieutenant ran forward and produced the sketchy map Wolff had sent back with one of the runners. Edwards snatched the thing away before the officer could lay it out.

  “They’re about half a mile in, General,” the lieutenant said, while Edwards began comparing Wolff’s map to the one Cabell had drawn.

  “Who was the last man in there?” Edwards asked, preoccupied.

  A young corporal presented herself and articulated a summary of the present situation.

  “The colonel has pulled back to a position…here,” she said, indicating a corridor junction on the cruder map. “The colonel hopes to lure the enemy along this corridor-”

  “It’s plain what the colonel proposes to do, Corporal,” the squadron commander said before Edwards could turn on the woman.

  Edwards studied the maps a moment longer, then grunted in a satisfied way, and began to suit up in the gear one of his number brought over. “I want you to see to it that no one follows us in there, Captain-no one, is that understood.” Menacingly, Edwards flicked his rifle’s selector to full auto and all but brandished the weapon.

  “Understood, General, we’ll hold them here,” the captain responded, trying his best not to have it come out sounding confused.

  Edwards tapped the man roughly on the shoulder as he stepped past him. “Good for you.”

  He waved his twelve forward and they disappeared into the floodlit entrance.

  Five minutes along, Edwards pulled Colonel Adams aside to give him special instructions.

  Again they consulted the Tiresian’s map, and Edwards pointed out the tunnels that would lead directly to the heart of the Royal Hall.

  “Wolff is closer to the Invid brain than he probably realizes,” Edwards began. “And if he can break through whatever it is they’re throwing against him, he’s going to find the way in.

  Detail three men and make certain that doesn’t happen. Give him rear fire if you have to, anything that’ll pin him down.” Edwards showed Adams the route he would be taking. “I’m going around him, but I need some extra time.”

  Adams glanced at the corridor’s smooth walls and ceiling. “Maybe we can arrange a cave-in for him.”

  “Do whatever it takes,” Edwards said harshly, repocketing the map. “It’ll be no one’s loss if he doesn’t make it out of here.”

  Elsewhere in the corridors, Wolff had ordered his Pack to open fire. They couldn’t see what they were shooting at, but the energy hyphens the enemy was returning were similar to the drone bursts they had faced on the surface. There was nothing in the way of cover, so everyone was either -facedown on the floor, or plastered flat against the walls, retreating by odd and even counts through stroboscopic light, blasts of heat, and earsplitting explosions.

  Backed around the first jag in the maze, they had a moment to catch their breath, while a horizontal hail of fire flew past them down the central corridor. In response to a tap on the shoulder from the radioman, Wolff raised the faceshield of his helmet. They had reestablished traffic with the Hovertank command.

  “We must be outside the field already,” Wolff said.

  “Negative, sir. Command reports the barrier is softening. The Ghost Squadron’s hammering it to death.”

  “Edwards, huh? Guess we shouldn’t be choosy.”

  Quist smiled. “No, sir. The rest of his team-”

  “We got troubles, Colonel,” the team’s point interrupted breathlessly, motioning up the corridor. “I’m picking up movement. They’re boxing us in.”

  Wolff shifted his gaze between the storm off to their left and the corridor ahead. “But how…They would’ve had to pass the tanks-”

  “Incoming!” someone yelled, and the corridor ceiling took two oblique hits.

  Wolff and his team tried to meld with the floor as fire and explosive debris rained down all around them. The ceiling sustained two follow-up hits before he could even lift his head.

  Then he heard Quist say, “It’s coming down!” just when everything began to crumble…

  “It’s no use,” Rick announced in the dark, sitting straight up in bed
.

  Lisa stirred beside him and reached out a hand to find the light pad. He was already out of bed by the time the ceiling spots came on, hands on hips, pacing. Lisa said nothing, deciding to wait until he had walked off some of his frustration. She was exhausted and in no mood for a midnight support session, let alone an argument. Even so, she had managed only an hour of half sleep herself, expecting this very scene.

  Rick had been impossible since the Tiresians’ capture, and his behavior seemed to be having a kind of contagious effect on everyone around him. Suddenly there was an atmosphere of hopelessness, a sense that the situation had become untenable. Lives had been lost, the spacefold generators had been damaged, the very Masters they had come so far to meet were on their way to Earth…For Lisa the events of the past few days had given rise to a peculiar mix of thoughts and feelings; it was not unlike a time ten years ago, when the crew of the SDF-1 had been thrust overnight into a whirlwind of terror. But she refused to permit herself to relive those moments of dread and anticipation, and was determined to steer clear of behavioral ruts. And much to her surprise, she found that she had discovered the strength to meet all the fear and challenges head on, some inner reserve that not only allowed her to maintain, but to conquer and forge ahead. She wanted to believe that Rick had made the same discovery, but it was almost as if he had willingly surrendered to the past, and was actually desirous of that retro-gravitation. This from the man who had been so take-charge these past six years, who had devoted himself to the SDF-3’s constriction and its crucial mission.

  “Rick, you’ve got to get some rest,” she said at last. “This isn’t doing either of us any good.”

  It seemed to be the only conversation they could have anymore, and she knew exactly what he was about to say.

  “You just don’t understand, do you? I need to be doing more than just standing around waiting for things to happen. I have to get back where I belong-even if that means resigning my command.”

  She met Rick’s gaze and held it until he turned away. “You’re right. Maybe I don’t understand you anymore. I mean, I understand your frustrations, but you’re going to have to tell me why you need to risk your life out there. Haven’t you proved yourself a hundred times over, Rick?” Lisa threw up her hands.

  “It’s my duty to be with my team.”

  “It’s your duty to command,” she said, raising her voice. “It’s not your duty to get yourself killed!”

  Rick had an answer ready for delivery when all at once Lisa’s com tone sounded. She leaned over, hit the switch, and said, “Admiral Hayes.”

  It was the bridge: scanners had picked up two Invid troop carriers closing fast on the fortress.

  Rick saw Lisa blanch; agitated, she pushed her hair back from her face. He was about to go over to her when his own intercom erupted.

  “Tell General Reinhardt to meet me in the Room,” Rick said, responding to the brief message. He switched off, and rushed to the wardrobe, pulling out one of his old flight suits.

  “I’m on my way,” he heard Lisa say into the com.

  She watched him suit up in silence; there were tears in her eyes when he bent over to kiss her good-bye.

  “I have to do it,” he told her.

  Lisa turned away from him. “Expect me to do the same.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We have a desperate new mission: to mine enough of Fantoma’s mysterious ore to rebuild the fortress’s damaged spacefold generators, and journey to the other side of the galaxy to save our beleaguered world from destruction at the hands of the Robotech Masters. If this mission sounds suspiciously like the old mission, it’s because it is the old mission, played backwards. I am growing weary of the ironies; I am growing weary of the whole thing.

  The collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter

  The clam shaped Invid troop carriers remanifested in Fantoma’s brightside space, using the giant’s rings for ECM cover and yawning more than a thousand Pincer Ships into the void, while the Earthforces’ superdimensional fortress raised its energy shields and swung itself from stationary orbit. As the fortress’s secondary batteries traversed and ranged in, teams of Alpha and first-generation Veritech fighters streamed from the launch bays.

  Inside the mile-long ship, men and women answered the call of klaxons and alert sirens, racing to battle stations and readying themselves in dozens of command posts and gun, turrets. Scanners linked to the Tactical Information Center’s big boards swept and probed; computers tied in to those same systems assessed, analyzed, executed, and distributed a steady flow of data; techs and processors bent to their assigned tasks, requesting updates and entering commands, hands and fingers a blur as they flew across keyboards, decks, and consoles.

  On the enemy’s side, things were much less complicated: pilots listened and obeyed, hurling themselves against the Humans’ war machine with a passionless intensity, a blind obedience, a violent frenzy…

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Max Sterling asked Rick over the tac net.

  Rick’s image was on the VT’s right commo screen. Miriya was on the left one. There was still time to turn back.

  “Positive, Skull Leader,” Rick responded. “And I don’t want either of you babysitting me.”

  “Now, why would we want to do that?” Miriya said.

  Rick made a face. “Well, that’s what everybody else is trying to do.”

  Max made light of his friend’s plight, but at the same time was fully aware of the concern he felt. He had no worries about Rick’s combat skills-he had kept his hand in all these years. But Rick seemed to have forgotten that out here stray thoughts were as dangerous as annihilation discs. Nothing extraneous in mind or body, Max was tempted to remind him. Any pilot, no matter how good he or she might be, had to keep those words in mind; it was as much a warning as it was a code. Mechamorphosis was a serious matter even under optimum conditions; but in space combat it meant the difference between life and death.

  Max took a long look at the cockpit displays; the Invid crab-ships were just coming into range. The field was so packed the enemy registered as a white blur on his radar screen.

  Signatures and targeting information came up on one of the peripherals.

  “Block party of bandits,” Max said evenly, “nine o’clock clear around to three. ETAs on closure are coming in…”

  “Roger, Skull Leader,” Rick radioed back. “Talk about your target-rich environment.

  They’re going to be all over us.”

  Max could hear a certain excitement, an enthusiasm, in Rick’s tone.

  “We’ve got a job to do,” he advised. “Let’s just take them as they come. Nothing fancy. Go for target lock.”

  Rick acknowledged. “Ready to engage.”

  Max tightened his hand on the HOTAS. He had visuals on the lead ships now, pincers gleaming in starlight.

  An instant later the cold blackness of space was holed by a thousand lights. Death dropped its starting flag and the slaughter recommenced.

  Jonathan Wolff had yet to see a finish line for the hellish race his team was running in Tiresia’s cruel underground. Four had died instantly in the corridor’s collapse, and two more had been pinned under the superheated debris; the rest of the team was huddled on top of each other at the junction, throwing everything they had around the corner. But there was something to be thankful for: the cave-in had only partially sealed off their escape route. Moreover, while the drones were continuing their slow advance, whatever had hit them from behind was goner.

  “I’m not picking up any movement, sir,” the pointman was shouting above the clamor of the weapons.

  Wolff wiped bits of cooled metal from his bodysuit and regarded the mass that had almost buried him. It was the same smooth, ceramiclike material that made up Tiresia’s surface streets and many of the city’s buildings. Some ferrocrete analogue, he guessed.

  A corpsman was seeing to the wounded.

  Wolff motioned to Quist and asked in h
and signals if they still had contact with the tanks.

  The radioman nodded.

  “Advise them of our situation and tell them we need support,” Wolff said into Quist’s ear. “I want to see a fire team down here in ten minutes. And I don’t care if they have to blast their way in with the tanks.”

  Quist crouched down along the wall and began to repeat it word for word. Wolff moved to the medic’s side. The wounded soldier was a young woman on temporary duty from one of Grant’s units. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, and she was torn up pretty badly. Powers, Wolff recalled.

  He reached down to brush a strand of damp hair from her face; she returned a weak but stoic smile. Wolff gritted his teeth and stood up, infuriated. He spoke Minmei’s name in a whisper and hurried to the junction, his handgun drawn.

  Deeper in the maze, Edwards had had his first glimpse of the enemy; but he hadn’t stopped to puzzle out or catalog just what it was he had killed. His team was simply firing its way through corridor after corridor, stepping over the bodies and smoking shells their weapons leveled. Hellcats, Scrim, Crann-it made no difference to Edwards; he was closing on the access stairway to the nave of the Royal Hall, and that was all that mattered.

  Colonel Adam’s splinter group had rejoined the main team after throwing some red-hot rear fire Wolff’s way. If they hadn’t been entirely successful in burying the Pack alive, Adam’s team had at least seen to it that Wolff was no longer in the running for the grand prize, the Invid brain.

  Edwards, at point with a gun in each hand, was the first to see the jagged trench Obsim’s enforcers had opened in the floor of the Hall. He had no notion of its purpose, but he guessed that the narrow band of overhead light was coming from a room close to the nave, perhaps even adjacent to it. He waved the team to a halt and spent a moment contemplating his options. Surely the brain was aware of their presence, unless the Ghost’s bombing runs had given it too much else to think about. Even so, Edwards decided, the enemy was down to the dregs of its force. The things he killed in the corridors were easy prey, and if the Tiresian’s word could be trusted, that was all the more reason to assume the brain was preoccupied.