Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  The Tahn were more pragmatic. Their units, once committed to battle, were never withdrawn until they were victorious. Otherwise, they continued in the front lines until taking at least seventy percent casualties. The few survivors would be used to reinforce other formations; the unit itself was retired and completely reformed from scratch.

  That had been the fate of the spearhead landing force.

  The second landing force had been ordered to attack through the survivors. They, too, had been destroyed.

  The Tahn had fought too many battles against the unprepared or the unskilled.

  The First Guards Division were neither. They fortified every advantageous position. When they were hit, they held until the last minute. Then they fell back—into previously prepared locations. The Tahn, thinking they had won the objective, set about consolidating. And then the Guard assault elements counterattacked.

  At the very least, they caused another ten percent casualties. But mostly they retook the position. It was expensive for the Guards, of course. But far more expensive for the Tahn.

  Still worse were the battles in towns. The Guard had every position defended, with supporting cross fire.

  Battle into one house—and the Guard would retreat. The house would be taken under cross fire from two other linking positions.

  There was never a moment when a Tahn commander could say that his position was secure.

  Night was the worst time.

  Ian Mahoney had trained his troops to double-think. They held and fought every position that the Tahn wanted. But they never considered a fixed position vital. At night, they sent company-size patrols beyond the front, patrols that hit every target of opportunity.

  Night attacks by the Tahn were a perplexity. Recon patrols would report that the Imperial lines were lightly held. An attack would be made—and be destroyed.

  Contrary to conventional military thought, the First Guards held their lines very lightly. There was no attempt to completely garrison the front. Tahn patrols could probe and reprobe, finding nothing. Once the Tahn soldiers had broken through, they would be hit from all sides by carefully husbanded reserves, striking from hidden strongpoints.

  But the Tahn, by sheer strength of numbers, were winning. Lady Atago was very sure of that—so sure that, sitting in the privacy of her compartment, she was planning the surrender of the Guards.

  A livie team had already been requested from Heath and was standing by. She had full-dress uniforms ready for herself and for the Tahn guard of honor that would escort her.

  Admiral van Doorman—if he was still alive—would not be worthy to grant the surrender. But this Mahoney might.

  Yes, she decided. It would be a very picturesque ceremony—perfect propaganda for the Tahn war machine. The surrender would be made on the main field at Cavite Base. The livie crews would show the wrecks and damage of that field.

  Drawn up would be the ragged remnants of the Imperial Forces. On cue, General Mahoney would advance to meet Lady Atago.

  Did he possess a sword? It did not matter, Lady Atago decided. He would have some sort of sidearm. Lady Atago would accept the sidearm and promise graceful treatment to those surrendered soldiers.

  Of course that would not be granted—Lady Atago knew that none of those soldiers would appreciate such treatment. Death could be the only award for anyone who was unfortunate enough not to die in battle. But they would be killed in an honorable manner. By the sword.

  That also would be recorded by the livie crews. Perhaps, after the Tahn victory over the Empire, those records would be beneficial to future soldiers of the Tahn.

  Lady Atago's future was fully planned.

  And after the fall of Cavite, she would attack the heart of the Empire itself.

  Her mentor, Lord Fehrle, would be pleased.

  Or possibly not, she thought, smiling slightly. She had not been impressed with Fehrle of late. Perhaps he would not be the man who would lead the Tahn to final victory.

  Perhaps someone else might be more qualified. Someone who had herself seen the heart of combat.

  Lady Atago allowed herself to chuckle. The future at that moment reached very bright and very bloody to her...

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  CHAPTER SIXTY

  SAILORS AND AIRMEN have at least one commonality: they think that somewhere in their Universal Rights they're guaranteed No Walking. Sten's people bitched thoroughly enough for a full company of grunts on being told they were going to Hike Out.

  The bitching lasted only about seven kilometers. By then no one had enough stamina left for anything beyond lifting foot from snow, pushing leg forward, putting foot down, lifting other foot from snow ... and, every half an hour, relieving one of the sailors carrying the bubblepak stretchers.

  The spacesuits were even more useless than Sten had originally estimated. Never intended for use on a planetary surface, their pseudo-musculature compensated for less than half of the suit's weight. So walking was a herculean chore.

  Sten wished they had powered bunnysuits. Or fur coats. If you are wishing, he thought, why not a new tacship?

  If the suits had been less heavy or the weight could have been compensated for with McLean generators, they could have floated over the drifts. Or else improvised snowshoes from tree branches. Instead, they waded doggedly onward.

  As night dropped down, Sten looked for a bivvy site. At the edge of the valley they were following, there was a huge tree with snow banked up to its lower limbs. Sten remembered a bit of trivia from a Mantis survival course and ordered his people to burrow toward the tree's trunk. The snow had not completely filled the area around the trunk, and there was a small, circular cave. By rolling about, they compressed the snow, enlarging the cave.

  Kilgour checked the wounded. Sten was most grateful for Mantis cross-training, since his TO didn't include a medic. Alex was most competent—Mantis emergency med school would have qualified him as a civilian surgeon very easily. Not that there was much that could be done—their medpak was limited. Kilgour changed burn and stasis dressings and narcoed the injured. One of the wounded would die during the next few hours.

  They settled in for the night. None of the sailors believed Tapia or Sten when they were told that they wouldn't need the suit heaters at all, until they saw the exhaled heat from their bodies melt the snow around them to water, which quickly became ice. The temperature in the cave made the space almost livable. Sten widened the hole around the tree's trunk for an air passage.

  And so the night crawled into day. The mortally wounded soldier had died during the night. They found a rocky cleft, interred the corpse in its bubblepak, and used three willygun rounds to seal the crevice. Then they started out again.

  The next day was a constant trade. Walking with faceplate shut made one warm—warm, and rapidly drained the suit's air supply. If the faceplate was opened and atmosphere breathed, the suit's heater went full on, depleting the powerpak and increasing the chance of facial frostbite.

  The skies cleared about noon, and Cavite's sun blazed down. That made matters worse—Contreras went temporarily snowblind; she had to close her faceplate and set it for full polarization. And the snow melted.

  There was also the increased chance of being spotted by a Tahn ship, although Sten couldn't figure why any Tahn would bother to patrol this white wasteland.

  The second night was a repetition of the first, except with less shelter. Alex used the last of the cutter's power to burn a trench in the snow that would at least get them out of the direct blast of the wind. That night passed hazily. One sailor was constantly on watch. At first light, they swallowed the last of their suits’ liquid rations and moved out again. Sten was somewhat disgusted at himself. He was starting to wheeze a little around the edges. Feeling exhaustion after only two days on the march? That would have been enough to get him returned to unit immediately back in the Mantis Section days.

  Sten was starting to understand why so many navy types were lardbutted. Kilgour
didn't make it any easier. His home world of Edinburgh was three-gee, and Cavite was E-normal. And somehow, even though he resembled an anthropomorphized beer keg, he had managed to keep in condition. He tanked through the snow as if it weren't there, as if he weren't wearing a shipsuit, and as if he weren't laden down with the front end of a bubblepak and carrying a medpak and two weapons.

  Also, he kept making jokes—or trying to. Sten had to threaten him with close arrest to keep him from telling the awesomely imbecilic spotted snake story—Sten had heard it once back during Mantis training—three times too many. Kilgour had other stories that were almost as bad.

  "Ha’ Ah gie y’ aboot in’ time Ah were tourin't th’ estate,” he began cheerily to Ensign Tapia.

  "What's an estate?” she growled as she almost fell face first into a drift.

  "Ah, wee Sten, pardon, Commander Sten, hae dinnae spoke th’ Ah'm th’ rightful Laird Kilgour ae Kilgour?"

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Ah'm tryin't't’ tell y’ boot th’ pig."

  "Pig?"

  "Aye. A great mound ae swineflesh, ae were. A’ any rate, th’ first Ah e'er saw ae tha’ pig wae when Ah wa’ tourin't th’ estate. An’ Ah seeit thae great porker. An’ it strikit me, for it hae a wooden leg. Three legs an’ aye, a peg."

  "A three-legged pig,” Foss put in suspiciously, having waded up close enough to Tapia to hear the story.

  "Aye. A wonderment. So thae's this wee farmer standin't nigh his fence. An’ I begin't an say, “Tha’ pig, mister.'

  "An’ he speakit, an say, ‘Aye, aye. Thae's a pig ae marvel. Three year ago, m’ wee lad fall't down. Inta th’ pond. Tha’ dinnae be anyone around, an’ m’ heir's a drown't.

  "'Doon plung't th’ pig, an’ pull him out.'

  "An’ Ah'm listen't, an’ Ah say't, ‘Tha's ae marvel. But—'

  "An once't ‘gain he cuts me off. ‘Two year gone, m’ gran's in th’ gravsled, an’ the controls go. An’ the gravsled lifts an’ ‘tis headed for yon viaduct.’”

  "Viaduct?” Tapia asked.

  "Noo, tha's a fair question, lass. Ah'll answer in a bit. T’ continue. I agree wi’ m’ wee tenant. ‘Aye, tha's a pig tha's a wonder. But about’ ... an’ ag'in he chops me.

  "'One year past, ‘tis a deep winter. Y’ c'lect, Laird Kilgour.’ An Ah says, ‘Aye, Ah remember'

  "An he says, ‘M’ croft catches fire. An’ we're all asleep ae’ th’ dead. But this pig, he storm't ae th’ hoose an’ wakit us all. Savin't our lives.'

  "Ae tha’ point, Ah hae enough. ‘Be holdin't tha’ speech, man,’ Ah roars. ‘Ah ‘gree. ‘Tis a marvelous hog. Wha’ Ah want to know is, Why th’ clottin’ wooden leg!?'

  "An th’ crofter look't ae me, an’ say, ‘Why, mon, you dinnae eat ae pig like thae all at once!’”

  Tapia and Foss, both thinking indictable thoughts about premeditated murder, continued wading through the snow. That was Alex on the march.

  But possibly his worst trait was the inveterate cheeriness—the constant chants of “Only five more klicks, Skipper” grew wearisome. Especially since they were now plowing through snow that was turning to slush.

  Slush? Sten looked ahead and realized there weren't any more peaks in front of them. The valley widened out toward foothills. There were now patches of bare rock in the valley center.

  They had made it.

  Now all Sten had to worry about was getting his noninfantry deckwipes through the Tahn front lines, into Cavite City.

  A piece of cake.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  WHEN THE GROUND stayed flat for seventy-five meters and the temperature went above 15 degrees C, they unpeeled. Kilgour choked politely. “Th’ universe smell't mightily a’ feet,” he observed. “Th’ Tahn'll track us by the reek."

  He wasn't exaggerating—they collectively stank like a cesspit. But that lasted only until they ran across the first cattle tank. Kilgour shooed off the three scrawny bovines and charged into the water, tearing off his coveralls as he waded. The others were close behind him.

  Sten gave them an hour to scrape off the worst before continuing the march. Now they needed rations and a secure place to plan just how they were going to return to friendly lines.

  Navigation was easy—they marched toward the columns of smoke on the horizon that marked the battleground around Cavite City. The land was dry, poor grazing country, spotted here and there with ramshackle farms, most of which were deserted. Sten skirted the few that showed signs of occupation—they didn't look to have enough for their owners let alone be able to resupply Sten.

  Then they hit prosperity: green fields and, in the distance, farm buildings. But 2,000 meters from the main building, prosperity showed itself as tragedy. The fields around the farm were deserted.

  Sten spread his people out and advanced very cautiously. At 500 meters, he put his sailors into a defensive line in one of the many now-empty irrigation ditches that had made the land arable.

  He and Alex went forward.

  In the center of the farm was a small artesian pond. Scattered along its banks were fifteen or so bodies.

  Sten and Alex crouched behind a shed and waited.

  A door banged from the main building. Sten thumbed his safety off. The door banged again. And again. It was the wind.

  They leapfrogged forward to the first of the bodies. Kilgour sniffed.

  "Three. P'raps four days now,” he said. “Ah wonder if they had a trial first."

  The people had not been killed in combat—each of the men and women had his hands wired behind him or her.

  Sten rolled a body over. There was a glint of gold visible around the bloated neck of the corpse. Sten used his gun barrel to pry it free. The glint was a neck emblem.

  "They were Tahn,” Sten identified. “Settlers, by the way they're dressed."

  "Wonder who butchered them?"

  Sten shrugged. “Imperial vigilantes. Tahn troops. Does it matter?"

  "M’ morbid curiosity, Commander. Let's tumble the house."

  They brought the others into the farmyard. A couple of sailors saw the bodies and threw up. Get used to it, people, Sten thought. From here on out, we won't be fighting a long-distance war.

  He, Tapia, and Kilgour went through the main house. It looked as if the building had been picked up, turned upside down, shaken, and then replaced on its foundations. Everything that could be broken was. Anything that could be spoiled was befouled.

  "Ah hae a theory. ‘Twas no Imperials did this—four days ago, they'd be scuffin’ toward Cavite. Tahn soldiers whidny hae taken th’ time to be't ae thorough."

  As he spoke, he was stuffing unbroken rationpaks into a plas sack. “My theory,” he went on, “says tha’ these wee folk were tryin't't’ walk the fence before th’ war. Which dinnae set well wi’ other Tahn. When th’ Tahn landed, their bro’ farmers settled accounts, an—"

  Kilgour stopped and picked up a tiny bottle from where it had rolled next to a sideboard. He tossed the bottle to Sten.

  Sten read the label: “Mahoney Cider & Fertilizer Works. Fine Fruit and Poop for 130 Years."

  "We'll be walkin't in th’ path ae th’ master,” Alex said in mock solemnity. Tapia couldn't understand why, in the middle of this death, her two superiors suddenly started laughing.

  * * * *

  From then on, they moved only by night.

  And they moved very slowly, not only from caution but because of the sailors’ inexperience. Sten had a permanent set of toothmarks in his tongue, trying to keep from exploding in anger.

  These people were not Mantis. They weren't Guards. Clot, they weren't even infantry recruits. Shut up, Commander, and quit expecting supersoldiers. But at this rate, the war might be over before they reached Cavite City. So? Are you in some special hurry to get back under siege and get killed, Commander? Shut up and keep moving.

  On the fourth night, Contreras stumbled onto Frehda's farm—literally, going sprawling acro
ss a concertinaed stretch of razor wire. Fortunately, her coveralls kept the wire from inflicting severe cuts. The others unwound her, pulled back to the shelter of a clump of brush, and considered.

  Once again Sten and Alex went forward, going through the layers of wire and sensors without being discovered. They lay atop the hill looking down onto the rows of barracks and discussed the matter, using the sign language that Mantis had developed for situations like this. It was a very simple one. Spread hands, for instance, meant “What is this?"

  Mime T—Tahn. Fingers on collar tabs—military? Shake the head. It was obvious—Tahn soldiers would have had far more elaborate security, and probably wouldn't be showing lights.

  Sten pointed toward the floodlit barracks and signed a complete question: “Then what're all those clots with guns and gravsleds doing?” He realized he knew the answer—this was a Tahn revolutionary settlement.

  Almost certainly there would be a few Tahn troops down there. He figured that the Tahn would be using those revolutionaries for behind-the-lines security, police duties, and so forth. The “so forth” probably included dealing with any of the settlers, either Imperial or Tahn, who weren't firmly committed to the cause.

  Sten felt that he had a fairly good idea of who had murdered that Tahn family—and also how to get back to Cavite City.

  Kilgour had the same plan. By the time Sten looked back at him, Alex had his two hands held, palms together, next to his cheek and his head slumped against them.

  Right. Now they needed a sentry.

  They found one about seventy-five meters farther along the wire. He was walking his post and staying out of the floodlight glare, his eyes sweeping the darkness behind. They modified their plan slightly.

  Kilgour crept forward until he was within four meters of the sentry.

  Sten, also snake flat, went around inside of the man, toward the barracks, then crept back. His fingers curled, and the knife slid into his hand.