by John Ringo
"Breach in conn," the CO said into the comm. "Damage parties to the bridge."
He looked over at the blasted remnants of the XO and worked his jaw.
"Now I gotta train a new one."
* * *
"Eat maulk and die!" Pearson screamed. The CO's RTO carried the extra burden of the long-range communicators and thus less ammo. So his counter was dropping fast as the Demons came on in seemingly unending waves. "I am so gonna—"
Despite the fire of the Marines, the Demons were breaking through, and one managed to get its teeth in the Wyvern's leg, ripping it out from under the Marine.
"Behanchod!" Pearson shouted as the Wyvern toppled. There were Royal Guardsmen on either side and one cut down, killing one of the Demons that swarmed the armor, but they could barely keep the Demons off themselves.
"Die you mothergrappers!" Pearson screamed, waving his Gatling back and forth as the Demons ripped into his armor. As a Demon face appeared in the opening, he spit at it. "I'll eat your soul and—"
* * *
"Oh," Lady Che-chee said as they stepped through the anomaly.
The far side was a small room, almost bare except for a pile of the blue moss. And the skeleton lying on it.
"We need to move her," Miriam said, picking up a bone. "Quickly. Then you have to lie down there."
"How do you know this?" Lady Che-chee said, reaching onto the dais and sweeping most of the bones away with one broad motion.
"I don't know," Miriam said. "I just have a knack. Please. Hurry. More than Cheerick could depend on this."
* * *
"Pearson's down," the first sergeant said to Chief Miller. "Can you fill the gap?"
Miller had lifted his board up and was carefully engaging the approaching beetles with his sniper rifle while occasionally providing supporting fire with his Gatling. He looked over at the gap, where a Royal Guardsman was being ripped apart, and dropped down.
"Got it," he said, sliding forward, then casually stepping off the board. Two bursts cleared the Demons in the hole and he strode into it, firing his Gatling into the mass of Demons, then switching to the rifle to fire at an approaching dragon. "Gotta love a target rich environment."
* * *
"One minute to warp," the pilot said. He wished he could wipe his face. Even through his space suit the compartment was hot as hell.
"Come on, baby," the CO said, patting the hull. "Hold together . . ."
"I just lost power!" the pilot shouted. "We're drifting. Drifting fast, but drifting!"
"Burn through in engineering! Drive down!"
"That is not holding together!"
* * *
"EEK!" Lady Che-chee squeaked.
"What is going on?" Miriam asked.
"I have a hard time telling," Lady Che-chee said. "I can see . . . everything."
"Can you see how to control the Demons?" Miriam asked. "Especially, are there any in space, near the planet?"
"I . . . yes!" Lady Che-chee said. "I think . . . yes . . ."
* * *
"Couldn't we wait to patch these until after the battle?" Sub Dude asked, slapping a sheet of heavy steel down on a hole in the hull.
"I wish," Red said, just as the steel blasted backwards, melting even as it moved.
"Maulk!" Gants shouted trying to jump back just as the gravity cut out. "Blow this for a game of soldiers!" he continued, floating in midair.
"Grapp," Red said, his hand on his arm. "I think one of those melted pieces hit my suit." Air and red could be seen escaping between his clutched fingers.
"Hang on, Red," Gants said desperately, trying to reach anything that he could bounce off of to get to the injured teammate. "Just hang on."
* * *
"HOLD YOUR GROUND!" First Sergeant Powell shouted as Captain MacDonald was picked up by a dragon and killed with a single crunch. "HOLD!"
The perimeter had shrunk to a tiny handful with their backs practically to the anomaly. The Demons were up on the dais and they'd been joined by their bigger brethren.
"Die you grapptard!" Berg shouted, firing both pistols and his Gatling into a beetle's mouth. Even the .50 caliber rounds were sparking off of the beetle's mouthparts. And when it opened its mouth, it was going to close on his armor. "GRAPPING DIE!"
As he screamed that the beetle suddenly stopped, then backed away.
"Okay," Berg said, lifting up on his bite-trigger. "Running away works."
All of the beasts were backing away, retreating to the edge of the room even as the Marines continued to fire.
"Cease fire!" Top shouted, looking around.
Lieutenant Patrick West was dead, his armor ripped open by Demons then crushed in the jaws of a dragon. Staff Sergeant Sutherland lay on the dais surrounded by a wall of Demon bodies. Holland was just . . . in pieces.
Top, Berg, Seeley and Corwin were the only Marines left standing. Besides the Marines there were two Royal Guardsmen, one with a ripped up leg, Commander Weaver and Chief Miller.
The latter's smoking Gatling tracked from side to side as the Demons settled in a distant ring around the Marine contingent.
"That's right, you'd better run," Miller said, holding his rifle over his head. "SEALS RULE!"
"Actually, I think the Cheerick rule," Miriam said, stepping out of the anomaly. "Right now, I'm trying to figure out how we explain to the captain that the dragonflies are going to tow him home."
36
This One Time
Off Cygnus Alpha . . .
"It's a planetary defense system," Weaver said, looking at the plans.
The "anomaly room" had contained more than just the control dais. There were metal plates with complex formulas, schematics and a strange language.
The entire assembly had been packed back out by the remaining Marines and Royal Guardsmen. The dead Marines from the battle were carried out on the backs of dragons. Remarkably tame dragons that followed the orders of Lady Che-chee like so many dogs. The whole procession had ended up in the palace along with the officers from the ship.
"It might even be a system designed to fight the Dreen," he continued. "The big chamber is where the weapons are forged. But why do they track in on electrical signals?"
"Want a guess?" Miller asked. "Somebody gained control of it during a war between Cheerick. Or maybe the last guardian of it set it to the simplest thing she could imagine, knowing that any enemy would use electricity."
"But now we know what it is truly designed for," Lady Che-chee said, looking at the plans. "Yes, I saw all of this on the bed. Also I could see how to stop the Demons attacking."
"And towing back the ship," Chief Miller said, looking over at Captain Blankemeier and grinning. "That was a hell of a sight."
"You should have seen it from my perspective, Chief Warrant," the CO said bitterly. "There we were, dead in space. All of a sudden, the flies stopped firing. Great. Then they grab onto the ship and start towing it back to the planet. Ever seen a wasp pick up a spider it's taking home to feed to its young?"
"Hmmm . . ." Bill said. "Lady Che-chee?"
"Commander Beel?"
"Is there a way you could get one of those guys to fly over to your estate? While the ship's being worked on I think we need to take a look at it."
"Ahem," the CO said. "Might I point out to you, XO, that the duty of getting this ship functional is yours?"
"Understood, sir," Bill replied, straightening up. "There are others that can take a look at it. Permission to have a brief discussion with First Sergeant Powell and Chief Miller before I get into reconstructing a half-destroyed ship sufficiently to make it spaceworthy back to earth?"
"Permission granted," the CO said. "But make it short."
* * *
"It actually does look like a dragonfly, doesn't it?" First Sergeant Powell said, walking around the grounded . . . thing.
The "dragonfly" was about twelve meters long from what looked like a feeding tube to the end of its abdomen. However, it had no segmentation and
no antennae, its legs were extremely stubby and instead of having a head, thorax and abdomen it had three sections not nearly as well delineated. The junctures were thick, unlike an insect. The two sets of wings were also separated by a short, indented, section where the thorax would be.
"More like a solfugid that's evolved to fly," Dr. Robertson said, circling in the other direction. "But the similarity is interesting."
Three of the beasts had been directed to Lady Che-Chee's estate and now rested on the front lawn. In deference to the Mother, who had done the directing, the group had waited until she returned to begin their examination. But she had just arrived and now stepped off her gravboard.
"Solfugid?" Berg asked.
"About the only kind you might know about is a camel spider," Dr. Robertson replied. "But they're found in various places."
Lady Che-chee looked at it and flipped her hands a few times, chittering something.
"She thinks it's pretty but she's not sure of its use," Miriam said. "Neither am I."
"Well, for them, ground support," Powell replied. "Fire those lasers down on enemy troops and you're going to win about any battle."
When that was translated Cha-chai spat out a sentence and wrinkled his nose, at which point his mother apparently dressed him down with a few pungent squeals.
"Cha-chai thinks that's an unsporting way to fight," Miriam said unhappily. "Lady Che-chee pointed out that all war is unsporting or it's not war. But she's still unhappy about the idea."
"The system was created to defend your planet," First Sergeant Powell said, nodding. "Apparently by long gone Cheerick. Using it against other Cheerick would be . . . Unethical. However, there's another reason we're finding out what we can do with it." He walked over to the thorax area and laid his hand on the indented part.
"I was looking at that," Dr. Robertson said. "That looks very much like . . ."
"A saddle," Powell replied. "I think this probably won't work, but . . . Berg."
"Top?"
"Up on the saddle, Two-Gun."
"Thought you were about to volunteer me," Berg said, but he strode over and hopped up on the dragonfly. "Gee-yap," he said, kicking his feet. "Nada, Top."
"Think up or fly or something, like a board."
Berg got a look of concentration on his face, then shook his head.
"Nada."
"Okay, Miss Moon, could you ask Lady Che-chee if she would be willing to volunteer her son for the same exercise?"
"Okay," Miriam said, then started talking. It took a bit to get across but finally Cha-chai walked over and climbed on the seat. Almost immediately, the dragonfly took off.
"How high did you tell him to go?" Powell asked as the dragonfly climbed upwards.
"I just asked if he could try to fly it," Miriam said desperately. She chittered at Lady Che-chee for a moment, then shrugged. "Lady Che-chee says that when you go high on the boards, it is noticeable that you get thinner air. He should stop then . . ."
"Let's hope," Powell said, picking up the mike of the long-range radio. "Blade, Blade, Marine Seven."
"Go, Marine Seven."
"Do we have any radars left?"
"Hold one." There was a pause. "Tactical is maintaining a watch using the weather set. They've jimmied it up for tactical but it's not great. They said a bogey just went up from your location."
"Roger. Can we get a read on its altitude, please?"
"Stand by."
"Marine Seven, Tactical. Bogey is at angels thirty and ascending. What is the situation, over?"
"Shit," Powell muttered, then keyed the mike. "Tac, be aware that a local is riding the bogey. Apparently it is now an out of control fly since he's got to be out of air."
"Roger, will advise. Bogey is maintaining rate of climb and attitude. Passing angels forty. Velocity is Mach One Dot Three and increasing. Passing Fifty. Passing Sixty. Marine Seven, be advised this looks a lot like an extra-atmospheric mission, over."
"Roger."
"Passing ninety. Bogey One is now officially extra-atmospheric at Angels One Zero Five. Speed decreasing. Leveling off at Angels One One Six or close. This is the wrong radar for this, Marine Seven, but that looks to be it. Bogey sure appears to be under positive control. Bogey is beginning reentry. Looks to be headed to your location."
"Thank you, Tac," Powell said. "If there's any major change, let me know."
"Glad to help. You said somebody was riding this thing?"
"Roger."
"Then they just took a ride into space."
* * *
Cha-chai was hooting fit to die as he landed the dragonfly and hopped off. He ran around squeaking for quite some time before his mother could get him calmed down.
"What's he saying?" Powell asked.
"Most of it's incoherent," Miriam replied, smiling. "The one part I'm getting is 'The World Is Round!' "
* * *
"We're sure about this?" the CO asked.
"The dragonflies are controllable by a pilot, much like the boards," Bill replied tiredly. He'd been working nonstop trying to get the ship spaceworthy. Having this on his plate as well was a bit much. But he knew it was, arguably, as important. "They maintain not only a defensive screen but one that traps a bubble of air. And, somehow, they process it as well. At least as long as they'll fly. Lady Che-chee sent one out as far as she could. It eventually died. We're not sure how far out that was since we couldn't track it. But they do eventually give up. But the good news is, this trip, all the casualties, they just got worth it."
"You've lost me," Spectre said. "I like the Cheerick and all, but I'm still dreading the board of inquiry on this one."
"Don't, sir," Bill said. "I'm surprised that you, of all people on this boat, can't see the implications, sir. A vehicle with an onboard weapons system controllable by a pilot that has extra-atmospheric capability and a range of at least two super-Jovian diameters, probably farther. Think about it, sir!"
"Can you say 'space fighter?' " the CO said, finally grinning. "Holy maulk, Astro!"
"Exactly, sir," Bill replied. "My first thought was about the future. A space navy with dragonflies for fighters flying off of carriers. But they're even useful for us. Think about a group of flies, if we can figure out how to 'feed' them, attached to the Blade. We can use them to recon planets, sure. But even more important, if we get into a fight we can use their shields. Just have them fly between us and fire."
Spectre suddenly snorted and shook his head.
"Oh, I'm in agreement, Commander Weaver," the CO said, still shaking his head. "But have you thought about the picture?"
"Excuse me, sir?" Bill said, a bit befuddled.
"Giant, laser-beam-shooting-out-of-their-eyes dragonflies flown by space hamsters," the CO pointed out. "Can you imagine the manual on that one?"
"Chinchillas, sir," Bill said with a sigh. He could, indeed, imagine the manuals, and the meetings and the reports and the meetings, and oh, my, GOD the meetings on that one. "Space chinchillas."
"Well, I'm sure the chief of boat's seen something weirder," the CO said with a grin. "But not much."
EPILOGUE
Heart of a Dragon
"Sergeant Bergstresser, by order of the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States, I hereby award you the Navy Cross for valor above and beyond the call of duty during classified missions of the highest importance . . ."
Berg kept his eyes on the flag as the secretary of the Navy pinned the cross to the front of his dress blues. A cold front had swept through the Norfolk area, bringing slashing rains followed by cold, clear skies and winds that rippled the stars and stripes like a whip. The secretary had already read off a list of posthumous awards that had taken nearly an hour, one by one handing them out to grieving women who, for now, could not be told how their sons, brothers, spouses had died. All Berg could do was flex his jaw as the list went on and on.
Less than a mile away in a covered dry dock a shattered submarine was being crawled over by technic
ians. The Blade was damaged but not done. Already the planning was in the works for the next mission. To go where no sub had gone before, into wonders and terrors untold.
Finally, the interminable ceremony was over. The group broke up and Berg wandered towards where he'd parked his Jeep.
"Hey, Two-Gun," Gants said. "Where to?"
"Leave," Berg said. "Headed home. How's Red?"
"They're fitting a prosthetic today," Gants said, dropping in to step beside the much taller Marine. "He's talking about trying to get back on duty."
"Hell, with as much damage as the sub took, he could be ready for duty before we go back out," Berg said.
"You're going?" Gants asked, sucking his teeth.
Berg stopped and looked up at the sky. It was midday so not a star could be seen, not even the "evening star" of Venus. He hadn't even thought about his response. He had been asked to "volunteer" again and had given an equivocating reply. But looking up at the cold blue skies of Virginia, he had no question in his mind.
"I'm a Marine," Berg answered. "I go wherever the Corps sends me."
"Hey, Two-Gun!" Miriam said, walking up and putting her arm through his.
"Hello, Miss Moon," Berg said, looking down at the slight linguist. She'd changed again, back to the whimsical creature they'd all come to know and love. "How are you doing?"
"Cold," Miriam said, despite being bundled up in a heavy jacket. "Where you going?"
"On leave," Berg repeated. "Home, I guess."
"Right now?" Miriam asked.
"Doesn't have to be," Berg said.
"Shiny. You. Me. Dance club. Now."
"Works," Berg said, grinning. "See, ya, Sub Dude."
"Take care," Gants said, walking over to a busty redhead and a couple of kids. "See ya when I see ya."
"Where is home, by the way?" Miriam asked as they walked off.
"West Virginia. Hey, you were talking about a country and western club, right?"
"Do I look like I was talking about a country and western club . . . ?"
* * *
Too Hot. Always too Hot now. But surely, someday, it would be Cold again. And then it could Be.
* * *
"Okay," Bill said. "Good news."
