Guardian of Night

by Tony Daniel

  “Sir, I’m not questioning that. But when the sceeve return—and have no doubt about that, they’re coming—we’re going to lose. Like the Incas lost to the Spaniards. Like the Hapsburgs lost to the Prussians. We are getting creamed out there, Admiral. You know this. I’ve written you as much in my letters. The sceeve didn’t withdraw because we beat them. They withdrew because of internal dissent. They’ve spent the past few years containing their own separatist rebellion. Now they’re done with that, and they can turn their attention back to us.”

  Tillich shook his head. “That’s why we must withdraw, cease to provoke. If we are to have any chance at all.”

  Now it was Coalbridge who visibly became angry. He crossed his arms sharply, stood straight.

  “The hell with that!” Coalbridge glanced at the president. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Frost, amused, nodded that it was all right.

  “I’ve been from Altair to Vega to Alpha Drac. Built a crew from the ground up after my people got wiped out in the engagement in the Hyades I mentioned. I’m hoping and praying to take most of my present crew with me on my new command, if I actually ever get the craft delivered. She’s been at Walt Whitman taking on final fittings for over two months! Two months when I could’ve been out there with her killing those evil fu—” Coalbridge caught himself before he delivered the obscenity, although Frost seemed amused, not offended. “Those creatures,” he said.

  Tillich tried to cut in. “Son, the inherent risks in that technology, the servants—”

  “I didn’t transfer to the Extry so I could live forever!” Coalbridge said. “And of course we installed a servant crew to hold the bottles together.”

  Tillich stiffened. This was his real objection.

  “You shit,” he said. “You disobedient little shit. I issued a fleet-wide order regarding that silliness. If you think you’re going to get a command after this . . .”

  Coalbridge bristled, hunched his shoulders up. “I am a captain in the United States Extry,” he said. “I am a big shit, sir.”

  Tillich charged forward, glaring fire into Coalbridge’s eyes. Coalbridge, who was a good eight inches taller, stared down at the admiral with just as much resolve.

  CXO Chen, who’d been silent to this point, saw that Tillich was in danger of physically attacking her captain, and she stepped between the two men. She eyed Tillich and spoke to him in her soft, dry, and precise manner—Leher had once heard an aide compare her voice to what a mechanical pencil might sound like if it spoke.

  “You are not being fired, Admiral Tillich,” said Chen. “This is a transition in duties. It is really my hope and that of the secretary that you will be able to serve the country and the administration in another capacity.”

  “Aw, cut the crap!” said Tillich. “Madame President, I was told this would be a meeting between you and me this morning. I’d like to speak to you alone.”

  Leher glanced around. KWAME was flickering furiously, obviously about to pounce into situation-control mode. The Secretary of Defense was biting down hard on his lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood.

  Now is the time to kill him with kindness, the former lawyer in Leher thought. Fat chance of that in this hothouse, I guess.

  But to Leher’s surprise, that was exactly what Frost did. She smiled. She nodded to the rest of the assembled. “Ladies and gentlemen, could you give the admiral and me a few minutes.”

  KWAME started to object, citing scheduling, but the president held up a hand. “Now, KWAME, this is a matter of importance to me.” The servant contained himself, nodded. The door swung open, and he motioned everyone else in the room to follow him out. Leher was the last to leave. He turned before the door closed behind him and saw Tillich leaning over the president’s desk, attempting yet again to stress his point.

  The remainder of the war council, at least twenty members strong, retreated to the reception area. No one said anything. Ten minutes later, KWAME disappeared. Moments later, he emerged from the president’s office with Tillich.

  The admiral marched by the reception room entrance with his head held high, but there was a tremble in his step. His eyes were glistening and fixed forward.

  Frost had done it. She’d actually fired Tillich.

  In comparison, staving off the sceeve invasion and winning the war should be a piece of cake.

  Leher felt a hand on his shoulder. “So, guess that intelligence of yours got to the right people,” said Coalbridge.

  “Maybe so,” Leher replied, “maybe so.” He faced Coalbridge, smiled and shook his head. “But that was also a hell of a performance in there, Captain. Turned it around.”

  Coalbridge shrugged. “Just telling the truth. What I came home to do.”

  “Can you believe that the fate of the damned planet turned on whether that old man got fired or not?”

  “We might’ve muddled through with Argosy.”

  Leher snorted. “You of all people should know better.”

  “Yeah,” said Coalbridge. “I guess you’re right. But I feel like we lost something. Something fine.”

  “And deluded.”

  “Okay,” Coalbridge said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “He’s gone. Cut it out.”

  Sam sidled up next to the men and handed Leher a cup of coffee in the White House china. Leher scanned the cup quickly. No crack.

  “I checked it, of course,” she said to him quietly.

  “Sorry. Habit.” Leher took a sip. Light and three-sugars sweet, the way he’d liked it since he was six and had sneaked cups of joe at his grandparents’ house in Big Bear.

  “Thanks, Sam, I needed that,” he said.

  “You look a little tepid.” Sam turned to Coalbridge. “Samantha Guptha.” She held out a hand.

  Coalbridge didn’t smile. Instead, he looked completely, instantly smitten.

  Sparks, Leher thought. Shit.

  He checked again.

  The handshake, a half-second too long. Yep. Double shit.

  “Coalbridge,” the starcraft captain said. “I’m not in Extry acquisitions, ma’am, in case you were wondering. Couldn’t do you a lick of good to know me.”

  “And I’m not a lobbyist or a whore, Captain, so I guess we’ll have to leave it at that.”

  Coalbridge nodded. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  “I doubt you’re sorry about much that you say, but any friend of Griff’s is a friend of mine.”

  Leher considered. “Know what, Coalbridge? You can make up for insulting my ex-fiancé and lifelong friend by doing something for me.”

  Coalbridge stiffened, then relaxed and smiled. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “I want Sam to get listened to in the war council today.” Leher took another sip of coffee to let Coalbridge process the request a moment, then said, “I believe your stock just shot up sky high with the SECEX this morning, so maybe you can put in a word.”

  “Considering the man didn’t know who I was thirty minutes ago, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Don’t be so sure. He had you in that room for a reason.”

  “That was the CXO’s doing,” Coalbridge replied. “She was a prof of mine at IAS. Funny thing was, she nearly flunked me back then. Made me do a report on Mahan’s Influence of Sea Power Upon History for extra credit just to pass her course. Me, at twenty-eight, having to slog through that thing.”

  “You ever heard of a PW66?”

  “You kidding? PE commander’s favorite sceeve killer!” Coalbridge exclaimed. “We call it the Wocket. It’s the Extry weapon of choice for Sporata-fucking. Excuse my French.”

  Leher nodded at Sam. “Sam here proposed and designed the PW66.”

  Coalbridge regarded Sam, took a step back.

  Almost in reverence, Leher thought.

  “Then, ma’am, it is the greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Coalbridge, “and it would be a travesty if you are not front and center in this session.”

  Leher raised his coffee cup in salut
e to the three of them.

  “To the Extry,” he said. “We’re all we’ve got to—”

  WAAAAAAAAA! A continuing wail reverberating through the corridors of the Capitol.

  Raid sirens.

  One second.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Before Coalbridge could complete his toast, the room began to shake as if struck by an earthquake. The chandelier hanging overhead from a concrete ceiling tinkled like a Christmas bell wreath and began to sway back and forth wildly. Paint chips fell upon the assembled group like a light snow. Where there was flaking paint, there were—

  Leher glanced up at the ceiling.

  Cracks. Shit.

  Boom! Something struck the earth above with tremendous force. It sounded like someone had dropped a locomotive engine onto their heads.

  Boom! Another. The room shook. Not just paint, but plaster fell from the ceiling this time.

  “Drop-rod attack,” said Sam. “Softening us up for the reinvasion.”

  “Yeah,” Coalbridge replied. “Downtown’s getting whacked, I’m afraid.” Coalbridge smiled grimly, but Leher saw that he was clenching his fists. “Poor fucking Peepsies,” he said. “They’ll have taken the hard end of it.”

  He was correct, Leher thought. Wrong cause. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong planet.

  “Goddamn it,” said Coalbridge. “Nobody deserves to go out like that.”

  Leher’s hand strayed to his suit pocket, fingered the squared edge of a postcard.

  No. Get a continuance. Stay calm. Go up and help bury the dead. Again.

  BOOM! A low crackle, as if the ground itself were being rent asunder. Something very large was falling high above them.

  Another skyscraper, Leher thought.

  The city would once again bury its own dead.

  He felt sorrow at the thought, yes. But within Leher the old anger arose. He was beyond despair now. Maybe he was a little crazy. He recognized as much but didn’t care.

  He knew his enemy. He knew them better than anyone. They were no longer nameless terrors.

  He was going to find a way to beat them.

  EIGHT

  22 December 2075

  Vicinity of 82 Eridani

  A.S.C. Powers of Heaven

  Receptor Transel wasn’t worried about his decision to immediately execute Second Lieutenant Gitaclaber. He knew he could back up the judgment if it was challenged. He already had recordings of the Poet’s previous broadcasts, and they would be plenty to incriminate Gitaclaber and validate whatever action Transel chose to take in the moment of apprehension. He reached over and opened the door with a touch of his palm. He was keyed to open any portal on the vessel.

  And the Poet charged him.

  A head held down, butting into Transel’s chest.

  Shock of what, to a human, would be a punch to the face.

  Transel stumbled back, slammed into a bulkhead behind him. The needle-gun painter fell from his grasp. Gitaclaber didn’t let up and didn’t fight fair. He punched and kicked Transel, swinging his arms in a wide arc to keep Transel from reaching down to scoop the painter back up.

  Poked at his eyes. Transel spewed a prune-like shout of surprise, raised his hands to fend off the blow.

  Received another sock to the torso for his troubles.

  With ancestral ferocity, Transel managed to grab Gitaclaber’s shoulders, push him violently back. The Poet stumbled, righted himself.

  For a vitia, they stood face-to-face, staring into one another’s eyes. Transel felt the tickling of fear in his gid.

  Protect us, called the ancestral voices. Do what is necessary to win.

  Gitaclaber was rather large in stature. But then Transel reflected on just who and what he was dealing with. A word-shaper, a poet. A junior officer in charge of minor communications who did not have Transel’s training in the martial arts. Who was really no warrior at all.

  Transel’s muzzle widened into a smile.

  He feinted right, then slammed a bent elbow into the Poet’s face. Milky-white blood erupted from Gitaclaber’s muzzle. The Poet staggered back. Transel kicked his knees. With a squirt of anguish, Gitaclaber crumpled on the ground before Transel. And then the Poet made a last desperate move. He squeezed his face to Transel’s leg and sprayed pure nitric acid from his muzzle membranes.

  Curse it!

  Transel tried to scrape him off with his other foot, but the Poet clung tight. Finally he brought his fists down time and again on the Poet’s head, his back. Yet Gitaclaber did not release, and the nitric acid was working its way deep—

  Aaaah! Someone’s carbolic scream. No. Not someone.

  The ancestor’s scream.

  Transel’s scream.

  He hadn’t thought he could screech like that. Disappointment in his fortitude. Aaaah!

  —through muscle—

  Stop him. Stop this filth! Destroy him!

  —nearing the cartilaginous support structure that lay under the musculature. A Guardian’s leg had no internal bone, of course. The Poet could, literally, burn Transel’s leg off if he kept going.

  The thought gave his arms new strength, and he beat the Poet all the harder. Finally his raining blows began to have an effect. He felt Gitaclaber’s grip loosen.

  This was all he needed.

  Transel reached down and with a deft hook of his hand, thrust his palm gripping gills into Gitaclaber’s muzzle. He pushed deeper. Deeper. Curled his hand inward, into the Poet’s fleshy membranes.

  Gitaclaber whiffed out a scream of pain, and Transel responded with a laugh. He raised the Poet slowly to his feet, always maintaining his grip.

  “P-please,” Gitaclaber whimpered. Transel’s in-thrust fingers muffled, but did not cut off, the Poet’s reply. “Hurts.”

  “You should have thought of that before making those beta broadcasts,” Transel said.

  “W-what broadcasts? Don’t know w-what you’re talking about.”

  Transel tugged on Gitaclabber’s inner muzzle. The pain would be excruciating. Gitaclabber made a feeble attempt to strike out, which Transel batted away with his other arm.

  Backing up, Transel slowly pulled Gitaclabber, stumbling along after, down the accessway. “Tell me, who put you up to this?”

  “Nobody. I did not do anything. Let me go! Please!”

  Transel dug his gripping gills deeper. All that work. His careful deduction and detection. And now the Poet was denying who he was?

  We’ll see about that. We’ll just see about that, Poet.

  They came to an emergency airlock. An airlock that would never open to the touch of crew or officer—even the captain—without special authorization. But it opened to Transel’s touch.

  Destroy him! Protect us!

  He dragged Gitaclaber inside.

  Finally, Transel let go of the Poet’s muzzle and, with a massive shove, pushed him backward against the far wall.

  “No, please, don’t . . .” Gitaclaber’s response was louder now, no longer damped by having a hand shoved into his muzzle.

  “Admit it,” said Transel. “Admit you are the Poet.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”

  “Admit it!”

  Gitaclaber continued to stare at Transel dumbfounded. But then his muzzle stretched into a leer. It looked like it hurt to do so. More blood leaked down the poet’s face, his neck.

  “You are right, you cursed slop of mung,” Gitaclaber said. “I am the Poet. And my work is done. What can you do? Deliver me to the dismemberment knives? Well, it’s too late! You are nothing. You are without power. Without—”

  Transel stepped back and signaled the door closed even as Gitaclaber threw himself against it.

  Too late for me? No, too late for you, Poet.

  He threatens all we hold dear. Destroy him! The voices of the ancestors were singing inside him.

  Yes.

  Transel pressed his hand against the bulkhead and ordered the airlock cycled.


  Faint hiss of exiting atmosphere.

  Transel watched through the viewport as the Poet was pulled along the floor. Gitaclaber’s gripping gills found purchase on the smallest declivities. But the exiting atmosphere was too strong. His hands were peeled away.

  A sickening moment when he snagged the exterior frame of the airlock, pulled himself back in.

  He was going to cling to his wretched life to the last, the gutworm.

  But then the Poet let go. Dropped through the door.

  Within moments, his subatomic structure would disentangle from that of the vessel. He’d drop into N-space. Floating without momentum. Aimless drifting in the depths of interstellar space. Alone forever. A poet without words.

  It was Transel’s turn to smile.

  But then Transel saw something out the viewport. Something that perhaps Gitaclaber had noticed before, but that he, Transel, had not. Sharing his vessel’s Q-space, far away—a light. Transel squinted hard, squeezed his corneal lens to greater magnification. Yes, there. A bluish light, no bigger than Transel’s outstretched palm. But he knew what it was. He’d seen enough of such lights before to know.

  A craft. Likely a human craft, given their location within the limit imposed on Sol system inhabitants.

  As he looked on, the human vessel dropped out of Q-space and disappeared.

  What? Where?

  Realization dawned.

  The humans were going after the Poet.

  It was possible, barely possible, that the human vessel would succeed. Transel’s species was extremely resilient to vacuum, having descended from entirely vacuum-friendly ancestors. Gitaclaber would stay alive for quite a while out there.

  He surely could not be found, though. The Poet was but a speck of nothing floating in nothingness. But on the off chance . . .

  Transel knew his captain would not wish to destroy this human vessel. Of course, Malako would not hesitate to annihilate any human vessel if doing so served his purpose. But Malako was also one who could be too smart for his own good. He might rather bide his time, pick up a clue from the human vessel’s behavior as to the location of his real quarry—at least the quarry he personally enjoyed fighting. Human warcraft.

  And this human vessel was merely a scouting vessel, with minimum offensive capability.