Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Sten did not know, or much care, what the shooting signified—the situation was bad enough right now for him. He grounded the combat car outside the Carlton and started for the entrance.

  Security, he noted wryly, had improved—three sets of SP men checked him before he hit the main doors. But some things did not change. The two dress-uniformed patrolmen still snapped their willyguns to salute as he came up the steps. Sten wondered if either of them realized that their uniforms were now spattered with muck, blood, and what appeared to be vomit.

  If Cavite City was chaos, Admiral van Doorman's headquarters was worse. Sten desperately needed to know how bad the damage was and what his orders should be. He started at the fleet operations office. It was dark and deserted. Only the computer terminals flashed and analyzed the disaster of the day. A passing tech told him that all operations personnel appeared to have died in the attack.

  Fine. He would try fleet intelligence.

  Sten should have known what was going on when he saw that the door to the intelligence center yawned wide, with no sentries.

  Inside, he found madness—quite literally.

  Ship Captain Ladislaw sat behind a terminal, programming and reprogramming. He greeted Sten happily and then showed him what dispositions would be made on the morrow, moving the gradated dots that were the ships of the 23rd Fleet across the starchart covering one wall.

  The Tahn would be repelled handily, he said. Sten knew that most of the ships he was chessboarding around were broken and smoking on the landing field at the base.

  He smiled, agreed with Ladislaw, then stepped behind him, one-handed a sopor injection from his belt medpak, and shot it into the base of the ship captain's spine. Ladislaw folded instantly across his printout of impossibilities, and Sten headed for van Doorman's office.

  Admiral Xavier Rijn van Doorman was quite calm and quite collected. His command center was an oasis of peace.

  Sten saw Brijit peering in from the half-open door that led to van Doorman's quarters and thanked Someone that she was still alive.

  Van Doorman was studying the status board over his desk. Sten glanced at it and winced—the situation was even worse than he had anticipated. For all intents and purposes, the 23rd Fleet had ceased to exist.

  At dawn that morning, the 23rd Fleet strength consisted of one heavy cruiser, the Swampscott, two light cruisers, some thirteen destroyers, fifty-six assorted obsolete patrol-craft, minelayer/sweepers, Sten's TacDiv, one hospital ship, and the usual gaggle of supply and maintenance craft.

  The status readout showed one light cruiser destroyed, and one heavily damaged. Six destroyers were out of action, as were about half of the light combat ships and support elements.

  The oddness was that the Swampscott was untouched. It had survived because of Sten's attack on the Forez. The Swampscott had been one of Atago's self-assigned targets.

  Sten's orders were simple—to keep his tacships in space. Van Doorman would provide any support necessary until the situation straightened itself out. Sten was given complete freedom of command. Any assistance Intelligence or Operations could provide was his for the asking—one madman, and corpses.

  Just wonderful, Sten thought.

  Yessir, Admiral.

  His snappy salute was returned with equal fervor. He saw the blankness in van Doorman's eyes and wondered.

  In the corridor, Brijit was in his arms and explaining. Her mother had died in the attack. There was nothing left. Nothing at all.

  Probably Sten should have stayed with her that night. But the coldness that was Sten's sheath, the coldness that had come from the death of his parents years before on Vulcan, the coldness that had seen too many drinking friends die, stopped him. Instead there was a hug, and he was hurrying toward the com center. He wanted the Gamble in for a pickup.

  As the Gamble flared in, settling in the middle of the boulevard outside the Carlton, Sten found time to be amazed at van Doorman's ability to control himself.

  That was another cipher. But one to watch very carefully, Sten thought, as the Gamble's port yawned and he ran toward it.

  He had already forgotten van Doorman, Brijit, and the likelihood that he and his people would die in the Caltor System.

  His mind was hearing only “independent command..."

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  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THE ETERNAL EMPEROR spotted something and waddled, bulky in his radiation suit, through the nuclear ruin that had been one of his rose gardens. Behind him, willyguns ready, moved two suited Gurkkhas—Captain Limbu and a naik. Above and to their rear floated a combat car, guns sweeping the grounds.

  Limbu had been successful in shoving the Emperor into the McLean-controlled slide tube that led 2,000 meters into the underground sanctuary and control center under the castle, then had dived after him. Radiation-proof air locks had slammed closed as they fell.

  Very few others aboveground had lived—there were only a handful of Gurkkhas, less than one platoon of the newly reformed Praetorian guard, and fewer than a dozen members of the Imperial household staff. Arundel and its immediate grounds were leveled. The outer layer of the bailey walls had been peeled, but there had been little damage to the administrative offices inside them.

  The only structure still standing inside the palace grounds was the Imperial Parliament building, some ten kilometers from ground zero. This was ironic, because its survival was owed to the fact that the Emperor, not wishing to look at his politicians’ headquarters, had built a kilometer-high mountain between the palace and the Parliament building, a mountain that successfully diverted the blast from the twinned bombs.

  Civilian casualties on the planet were very slight, most of the destruction having been restricted to the Emperor's own fifty-five-kilometer palace grounds.

  The Emperor bent, awkwardly picked something up from the ground, and held it out for the Gurkkas’ admiration. Somehow, one solitary rose had been burnt to instant ash yet had held together. The Gurkkas looked at the rose, faces expressionless through their face shields, then spun, hearing the whine of a McLean generator. Their guns were up—aiming.

  "No!” the Emperor exclaimed, and the guns were lowered.

  Floating toward the Emperor was a teardrop. Through its transparent nose, the Emperor recognized the black and tinted-red body of a Manabi. Given the circumstances, it could only be Sr. Ecu.

  The teardrop hovered a diplomatic three meters away.

  "You live.” The observation was made calmly.

  "I live,” the Emperor agreed.

  "My sorrows. Arundel was very beautiful."

  "Palaces are easy to rebuild,” the Emperor said flatly.

  The teardrop shifted slightly in a breeze.

  "Are you speaking for the Tahn?” the Emperor asked.

  "That would have been their desire. I declined. They wished me to deliver an ultimatum—but without allowing me sufficient time to travel from Heath to Prime."

  "That sounds like their style."

  "I now speak both for the Manabi. And for myself."

  Most interesting, the Emperor thought. The Manabi almost never spoke as a single culture. “May I ask some questions first?"

  "You may ask. I may decline to answer."

  "Of course."

  Ecu shifted his suit so that he appeared to be looking at the Gurkkas.

  "Never mind,” the Emperor assured him. “They won't talk any more than you will."

  That was most true—neither a Gurkkas nor a Manabi would release any information unless specifically ordered. And both races were impervious to torture, drugs, or psychological interrogation.

  "I have just arrived on Prime. What are your estimates of the situation?"

  "Lousy,” the Emperor said frankly. “I've lost at least half a dozen fleet elements; forty systems, minimum, have either fallen to the Tahn or are going to; my Guard divisions are being decimated; and it's going to get a lot worse."

  Ecu considered. “And your allies?"
<
br />   "They are,” the Emperor said dryly, “still conferring about the situation. My estimates are that less than half of my supposed friends will declare war on the Tahn. The rest'll wait to see how things shake out."

  "What are your ultimate predictions?"

  The Emperor considered the ashen rose for long moments. “That question I shall not answer."

  "I see. I now speak,” Ecu said formally, “for my grand-sires, my fellows, and for those generations yet to be conceived and hatched."

  The Emperor blinked. Ecu was indeed speaking for the entire Manabi.

  "We are not a warlike species. However, in this struggle, we declare our support for the forces of the Empire. We shall strive to maintain an appearance of neutrality, but you shall be permitted access to any information we have gathered or shall gather."

  The Emperor almost smiled. This was the only good news in an otherwise tragic universe.

  "Why?” he asked. “It looks like the Tahn will win."

  "Impossible,” Ecu said flatly. “May we speak under the rose?"

  "I already said—"

  "I repeat my request."

  The Emperor nodded. A metalloid rod slid from Sr. Ecu's suit—the Emperor again motioned down the Gurkkhas’ weapons—and touched the Emperor's helmet.

  "I think,” Ecu's voice echoed, “that even your most faithful should not hear the following.

  "Would you agree that the Tahn believe that Anti-Matter Two can be duplicated or that, given a Than victory, they could learn the location of its source?"

  Again there was long silence. Where and how AM2 had come into being was the most closely held secret of the Empire, since only AM2 held the Empire together, no matter how tenuously.

  "That may be what they're thinking,” the Emperor finally admitted.

  "They are wrong. Do not bother responding. We believe that the only—and I mean only—source of AM2 is yourself. We have no knowledge or intelligence how this occurs, but this is our synthesis.

  "For this reason, we predict there can only be two results from this war: either you shall be victorious, or the Tahn shall win. And their victory will mean the total destruction of what low level of civilization exists."

  The probe collapsed, and its tip brushed the edge of the rose.

  Dry, powdery ash dusted the Emperor's gauntlet.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  "HOW COMPLETELY ARE you willing to interpret Admiral van Doorman's orders, Commander?"

  Sten waited for Sutton to elaborate. The four tacship skippers, plus Sutton and Kilgour, were attempting to plot their tactics for the weeks to come, although none of them believed the Tahn had any intentions of letting the ruins of the 23rd Fleet survive that long.

  They were gathered in the crammed supply warehouse that Sutton had cozened for storing the division's supplies.

  "I am ... humph ... growing most fond of these ships of ours,” the spindar continued. “They remind me all too much of my species’ own offspring. Even after they are no longer biologically connected to the pouch, they must remain within close range of it, or perish."

  Sten caught the analogy. His tacships, due to their cramped quarters and limited ammunition/food/air supplies, were most short-ranged.

  "The Tahn'll be hitting Cavite again,” Sh'aarl't said. “Maybe just carpet bombing, maybe invasion. I'd rather not have our supplies just sitting here waiting."

  "Not to mention,” Sekka added, looking around at the mad assemblage of explosives, munitions, rations, and spare parts, “what would happen if one mite of a bomb happened to come through the roof."

  "Quite exactly my point,” the spindar chuffed. “Cavite Base is not my idea of a burrow/haven."

  "First problem,” Sten said. “No way will van Doorman approve us moving the boats, the supplies, and your support people offworld."

  "Do you plan on telling him?"

  "I don't think he'd even notice,” Estill put in.

  "Agreed. Second problem—how can we move all this drakh? We don't have enough cargo area as it is on the boats."

  "I foresaw our dilemma,” Sutton said. “It would seem that there is a certain civilian who owes me a favor.

  A very enormous favor."

  "Of course he has a ship."

  "Of course."

  "How,” Sh'aarl't asked skeptically, “has he been able to keep it from being requisitioned?"

  "The ship in question is, harrumph, used to transport waste."

  "A garbage scow?"

  "Somewhat worse than that. Human waste."

  Sten whistled tunelessly. “The swabbies are gonna love it when they find out they're traveling via crapper."

  "Tha'll dinna mind, Skipper,” Kilgour said. “Considerin't tha believ't tha're in't already."

  "Very funny, Mr. Kilgour. I'll let you pass the word down."

  "No problem, lad. One wee point. Does any hae an idea where we'll be hiein’ twa?"

  "Poor being,” Sh'aarl't sympathized, patting Alex on the shoulder with a pedipalp. The heavy-worlder was so used to her by now that he didn't even flinch. “Where else would we go but among common thieves?"

  "Ah'll be cursit! Y'r right, Sh'aarl't. M’ mind's gon't."

  "Romney!” Sten exclaimed.

  "Exactly,” Sh'aarl't said. “If anybody's able to stay invisible to the Tahn, it'll be the smugglers."

  * * * *

  "Wild must've zigged when zaggin’ wae th’ answer,” Alex said soberly.

  Sten didn't answer. He was bringing the Gamble closer to Romney's shattered dome. The other threeships and the transporter waited a planetary diameter out."Negative elint, sir,” Foss reported. If the Tahn were waiting in ambush, Foss's instruments would have picked something up. Sten reduced Yukawa drive power, and the Gamble dropped slowly through the tear in the dome. Romney was a graveyard. Sten counted six—no, seven—smashed ships around the landing field. Where Wild's headquarters had been was only a crater. The other buildings—com, living quarters, hangars, and the enormous storage warehouses—were blasted ruins.

  "Bring the other ships in,” he ordered. “I want them dispersed around the field. I want all hands suited up and in front of that first hangar in one hour."

  * * * *

  "Gather around, people,” Sten said.

  The formation broke and formed a ragged semicircle around their CO.

  "Foss ... Kilgour. What'd you find?"

  "It looks,” the electronics tech said cautiously, “like Wild and his smugglers did get hit by surprise."

  "An’ by th’ Tahn,” Alex added. “W’ found’ it three unblown't project'les."

  "Bodies?"

  "Na, there'd be th’ weirdness. Noo a one. An th’ warehouses be't emptied flat."

  "Couldn't the Tahn have landed and looted the place?"

  "Wi'oot takin't Wild's weaponry wi’ ‘em?” Kilgour pointed to where a seemingly untouched SA missile battery sat abandoned.

  Sten nodded. Foss's electronics analysis and Kilgour's Mantis-trained estimate agreed with his own."Fine. Troops, this is going to be our home away from home. Mr. Sutton, I want that transport unloaded ASAP. All hands. Second, full power back to Cavite. You'll have the Richards for escort. I want you to scrounge all the bubbleshelters you can find.

  "Foss, let Mr. Sutton know what you'll need to set up a detection station from Cavite, and how much of Wild's electronics you can salvage.

  "Here's the plan, friends. This is still going to be our forward base. We'll move bubbles inside the hangars and warehouses. We'll move some of those smaller buildings around, wreck ‘em up a bit, and use them for overhead cover. Even if the Tahn decide to recheck Romney, they're still going to find a dead world."

  Assuming, Sten continued mentally as he dismissed his unit, they go by visuals and self-confidence only. If they put sniffers or heat sensors inside the dome—that'll be all she scrolled.

  But it was still better odds than they had on Cavite.

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able of Contents]

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THE BIGGEST QUESTION the beings of the 23rd Fleet kept asking themselves was why the Tahn hadn't hit Cavite again.

  The damage done by Sten's tacships—the destruction of two cruisers and assorted in-atmosphere ships, plus the damage to the Forez and an assault ship—was hardly enough to discourage the Tahn. Probably only complete obliteration of Lady Atago's entire fleet would have done that.

  Certainly the 23rd was no longer a threat. With the exception of Sten's tacdivision, van Doorman's shattered force was mainly impotent.

  The same question was being asked by Atago's crew members as well.

  The outsystem landings had been very successful. Atago and Admiral Deska had been restructuring their invasion plans for Cavite when orders arrived. Lady Atago was to report to the Tahn Council at once for further instructions. Her fleet was ordered to consolidate existing gains but to make no major attacks on Imperial forces.

  Admiral Deska spent the time waiting for Atago's return driving the repair crews working on the Forez even harder and staring at a wallscreen that showed the extent of the Tahn victories—at least, those either the Empire or the Tahn had chosen to report.

  On the screen Deska had assigned orange to the Tahn galaxies, blue to the Empire, and red for the Tahn conquests. On a time-sweep, it was most impressive, as the Tahn spread red tentacles out and out, sweeping deeply into Imperial space. Only a handful of systems still showed cerulean, and those at the base of Deska's screen—worlds yet to be attacked.

  The blue glimmer that represented the Caltor System was shameful to Deska. He had failed. And the Tahn did not welcome failure of any sort.

  A cursory examination of their language was adequate proof, as well as being an illustration of the problems that any nonmilitaristic culture faced in trying to deal with the Tahn. Since the Tahn “race” or “culture” was an assemblage of various warrior societies, their language was equally an assemblage of soldierly jargon and buzzwords.

  Still worse—the first Tahn Council had decided that their race needed a properly martial manner of communication. So skilled linguists had created what was known as a semivance tongue, in which the same word had multiple definitions. In this manner, an emotional connation was automatically given.