by Dave Freer
The third thing had been a thought that had come to Keilin in one of the quiet lulls while the guitarist had played one of those slow instrumental pieces. How had Leyla been able to produce a black opal so like the missing piece from Amphir to even fool what must be an experienced Jewel Recovery Unit officer? It was with this in mind that he had excused himself from the cheerful crowd at the table. He'd heard that Cap was already long abed and, when stowing their gear, had been shown which room Cap was occupying.
It was child's play second-story work. He knew where Cap kept the sections, and the man was deep asleep. It took him only moments to locate the soft leather bag. His fingers slipped into it. He touched a familiar chain. Yes, Cap always used that one. To taunt him perhaps. The cold stone seemed to welcome his touch. But his fingers went on. Other settings. Other stones.
All as lifeless as the moon.
There was only one core section in this bag. All the others were substituted stones. Keilin knew that only one person in their party had the background and skill to have done that. As he slipped away out of the window, and back to the party, he wondered for which piper Leyla really danced . . . and who paid that piper.
He was rather thoughtful and silent for the rest of that evening. Which was not something you could say about the quarrel between Beywulf and his son the next day. At breakfast, Cap had mentioned the coming attack and the need to call up an army.
Wolfgang had been waiting at their table—and volunteered.
"You are not going, and that's bloody final!" raged Bey.
Of course, it wasn't.
* * *
Dublin Moss was boiling over. There weren't going to be many able-bodied men or women left on the whole Moss Peninsula in three days' time. In the meantime the citizens were frantically organizing, and frenetically partying. They seemed convinced that there wasn't a single decent thing to eat in the rest of the world. By the time they'd stocked up to survive the terrible rigors of an army life, they'd each need about four pack ponies. Yet, underlying it all, there was a dreadful seriousness. They were going to fulfill an oath of allegiance. And few of them expected to come back.
The Gene-spliced had had weapons training from the cradle. They drilled weekly. Mock battles were the peninsula's abiding passion. Cap told the assembled eleven thousand that they were about as military as a bunch of dung beetles.
Each little battle team on the peninsula had its own strategy, drills, and weapons of choice. Cap set to organizing a more conventional force. And was stopped in his tracks by S'kith, who never questioned an order, who never took one step out of line. He walked to the front of the lecture that Cap was delivering on standard battle tactics. "No." There was a stunned silence.
Before anyone could recover he pointed to the diagram on the easel Cap was using. "That I learned when I was ten. Also the counter. When I saw the drills these men showed to you, I did not know how to counter their attack. Morkth fight by instinct, but mostly you will fight Morkth-men. They fight by training. They learn every attack. They practice every defense and every counterattack. Over and over again, until they can respond without thinking. These men . . . I have never been trained to deal with their methods. I could not respond, because I do not know how."
Cap did not like being interrupted. But he was also no fool. Now that S'kith had stated it, it was too obvious to deny. "Very good, Morkth-man. So I want to know every tactic you do recognize. Those we cut. See what weapons you know. We'll try to use only the ones you don't have defenses against. I'm going to work your butt off."
* * *
They advanced steadily through the state of Rampar. Once the locals had realized that the well-disciplined army took nothing and killed no one, every evening camp brought streams of local traders, entertainers and whores. The latter were generally disappointed by an army where females actually slightly outnumbered the men. Fishing for news of Shael's father, Keilin trolled among local folk. Rumor abounded, but no solid facts.
The local Duke sent an envoy to discover what they were doing on his territory. Cap sent back an official crew-stamped letter, demanding his levy of troops, and the Duke himself to lead them against the Morkth. Not surprisingly, that was the last they heard of him.
They marched out of Rampar and into Morkth-occupied lands. Now the scouts and vanguard probed warily ahead. Tension built as they attempted to sneak an army past EastHive. People snapped easily, arguments flared, and it was mostly foursomes of legs under the blankets in the nervous nights . . . and they wove their way unopposed past Morkth farms and outposts, just as S'kith had said they would. "A wild human would think of striking deep into enemy territory. Morkth would attack the outside and cut their way in. They would never leave live enemies behind them. As long as you do not touch the farms, or go too close to their way-stations they will ignore you."
By dusk on the fifth day they stood just at the crest of the rise before FirstHive. The scouts had dispatched the watchmen in the guard towers. Below them the hive and its wide plowed lands stood, unaware.
Beywulf stood surveying the low-walled hexagon from behind a high rock, his professional mercenary instincts surfacing. "Pity they've nothing worth looting. We'll go through there like stewed prunes."
Beside him S'kith shook his head. "They have stutter-burst energy weapons on all the towers. The walls have embedded proximity-triggered microwave devices. The gulleys leading to the gates are kill zones for centrally-timed pre-ranged explosive projectile fire. There is a zethwide, that is . . . about three-quarters of a mile wide, infrared detection zone, linked to the energy weapons in the towers. And what you see is only a tiny part. A hive goes down thirty levels and spreads across several square miles. We are standing above part of it now. There are half a million Morkth-men, with eighty thousand warriors trained at various levels. There are about six thousand Morkth warriors. Most of the Morkth workers have died, but there used to be twenty thousand of those." He turned to the encampment behind them, hidden below the ridge. "This is a flea-bite army."
"Does Cap know all this?" asked Beywulf, his voice dangerously quiet.
S'kith shrugged. "He is not a very good listener. I tried. He told me the Beta-Morkth have all the technology. That is not true. They just have far more."
"Hell's teeth! Come with me. We've got a lot of officers to talk to." Bey grabbed him roughly by the arm.
S'kith shook his head. "They will listen. But they are loyal. When Cap gives the order they will obey. No. I will fix it. I have one last request. I have bought many fine ingredients. Gather our companions. Reconcile with your son. Tonight may be your last chance. Together you must prepare us a great meal."
"Cap's put a ban on all campfires."
S'kith, the most obedient of men, turned and said, "To hell with him."
It was a strange meal. Hidden in a high dell, where the wind would not carry the scents of the cooking food to the keen noses of those below, they sat and ate. There was a kind of forced gaiety about it. S'kith however smiled his clumsy smile often, taking joy not only in the food, but at being the host. His pièce de résistance was a small bowl with a red goo in it. "For the great chef and his son, I have this delicacy. You are always seeking new tastes. Here is something rare. It is a Morkth dessert, only served on holidays. It doesn't smell very good . . . but the taste! Please try it."
They cautiously put spoons into it. Tasted. And looked into their host's face trying to compose suitable expressions and comments. The Morkth-man was sitting on a treestump, pursing his lips, rocking slightly.
It was Wolfgang who ventured first. "Er, rather earthy . . ."
At which point S'kith fell off the stump, making odd little gurgling and snorting noises.
"I . . . didn't mean to insult it . . . I . . . I'm sure . . ."
"We've been set up," grated Bey. A smile began to evolve. "This is just a dish of mud. I should have smelled a rat. Morkth don't have bloody holidays or, I'll bet, bloody dessert. That bald-headed coot is laughing. He's never d
one it before, so he's not doing it very well. Well, I'll be dipped . . ." He began to laugh, too.
It was fifteen minutes before any real kind of sanity began to return to the small gathering. Then S'kith set them all off again by explaining that he hadn't really lied: this was the taste of a Morkth-man meal, first course, main and dessert on all days. Beywulf and son still sat with an arm around each other's shoulders struggling with aching sides. S'kith sat on his stump. He was smiling. And now it no longer seemed clumsy or forced. It was natural and supremely happy. "I understand jokes now. They are good, too, like wild-human food. Teach them to my children, too, honorable man." Then he stood up, walked around the circle and hugged each in turn. Then, taking Leyla by the hand, he walked off into the darkness with her.
A small sniff came from Shael. Keilin, sitting beside her, turned. "What's wrong?" he asked.
A tear ran down her cheek. "Don't you see? He thinks he is going to die tomorrow. He believes it so much he probably will. And . . . it's as if he just learned to be a person. I . . . used to hate him. I was horrible to him. Now, he's going to get killed just when I've learned to like him."
Bey replied somberly, "No use crying over spilt milk, lass. I did the same. I reckon that's one hell of a human, especially when you think about where he came from."
CHAPTER 17
The strike was set for dawn. The waking call was an hour before. Keilin was hurrying towards his preassigned position, well out of the fighting—now he had other troops, Cap was taking no chances with any of his telepaths being hurt—when a worried Beywulf came up. "S'kith. You seen him?"
Keilin shook his head.
"Hell. He said he had some plan in mind. I'd better get Cap." Bey hurried away.
Minutes later that worthy came up, grim and angry. "Your bloody Morkth friend. Has he run, or has he betrayed us?" He shook Keilin violently.
"He'd never go back to the Morkth. It's his worst fear, sir."
Cap was slightly mollified. "Let the bastard run then. He won't get far."
"Sir? I've an idea, sir."
"Talk, boy. Make it good. I haven't time."
"He may be trying to reach the core sections, by himself. Let me touch a core section . . ."
Cap's eyes narrowed. "He's run. But we might as well make sure the things are still here. Might get some more leads now." He took out Keilin's pendant.
Touching the cool surface, Keilin felt a wave of joy. Putting it in his mouth he knew S'kith had not only tried to reach the core sections, but had also succeeded.
"He's in the hive."
"Bloody traitor."
Keilin shook his head.
He knew now what S'kith had done. In the predawn he had slipped from the camp, his head new-shaven, dressed in the black Morkth-man warrior uniform he had had a nimble-fingered tailor make for him. He'd joined the night field crew by the simple expedient of killing one of their guards and replacing him. He had marched past the sophisticated detectors and into the hive. The human cockroach had come home. He'd slipped off into the familiar venting ducts and gone down. Down, down into the lavender and badger smelly heart of the hive. There he knew exactly where he was heading: the most secure and most guarded section of the deep hive. The queen section.
Only killing and speed could get him into this part of the hive. There were no other possibilities. He had used the skills picked up and honed in his time among wild-humans. He used swordsmanship against which the Morkth-man guards had no defense, after he had shot down the two Morkth warriors. That had given him entry into the queen section. But not without the alarm having been given.
The queen section was the holy of holies. Its passages were defended by Morkth warriors. No human ever came here. So S'kith had used the poison Keilin had discovered to tip his arrows. And the fire that Morkth instinctively feared. S'kith's smoke bombs had stirred chaos.
He had reached the core sections where they lay in an unguarded laboratory. He had taken them. But there were now at least a thousand Morkth warrior-primes between him and the way he had come in. He could not have gone back that way. However, he was not planning on retreat. He went on instead . . . to the power and comms nexus.
Here S'kith had been wounded. But not before chopping the comms control boards into electronic spaghetti-trash. He had broken through to the generator room. It had an armored door, which he had managed to close and barricade. The standby emergency generator he'd managed to render unworkable. But the huge main generator was not so easy to incapacitate. Even the output cable was too shielded to be damaged in the time or with the tools that he had to hand. And S'kith had known this before he went in. He had wrapped his body around the cable. And now he waited. He was glad his friend had contacted him. He must tell Cap to wait—at all costs to wait.
Keilin took the wet core section out of his mouth. "He has the core sections. He's destroyed their communications system. He says to wait. He is in the generator room."
"The hell with him. He's dead soon anyway. Beywulf. Sound the advance." He snatched the core section from Keilin's hand.
The minute Cap left, Keilin reached for the ring in his ankle pouch. By the way that Shael was reaching into her bag she too had a similar idea. They huddled together in the guardpost they'd been sent to, and reached out with their minds across the distance.
The happiness greeted them again. They were using heavy energy weapons on the door. It could not last much longer. He was so glad to feel . . . friends. He did not want to die alone.
Keilin realized the strange and lightheaded feelings he was experiencing were S'kith's. The pain of the wounds was seeping past his bioblocks. Death was indeed close.
S'kith knew it would be soon too. He just hoped the bomb would be powerful enough . . .
With shock Keilin understood. The bomb in S'kith's belly. He was planning to use that explosive force to cut the power cable.
Keilin could actually see the heavy armored door through S'kith's pain blurred eyes. He saw the coils of greasy smoke and the sudden arc light. The door was being physically cut away . . . any moment now . . .
Then there was a terrible searing brightness . . . and a last image of Beywulf and his son putting their spoons into the bowl . . . laughter beat away the pain, and then even that disappeared like morning mist into the clear white light.
Keilin huddled in his corner with the tears streaming down his face.
* * *
The vanguard wings had crept into the fields as silently as mice. All had been well until they'd come within three-quarters of a mile of the low walls. Suddenly the ripping sear of concentrated laser bursts tore into them.
"Shit!" Cap swore as he saw the secrecy of his attack shattered. "Fire the Brunhildes."
From the ridge came the wump of the catapults, flinging their cargoes of black powder kegs. Seven of them were blown apart in flight, but the eighth, by pure luck, exploded on the edge of the tower from which they'd drawn fire. And the Gene-spliced charged forward again.
Into withering fire. The alpha-Morkth engineering and ordnance were designed to survive a Beta attack, with far more serious threats than a hundredweight of black powder. It would have been infinitely worse if the comms network had been functioning. "Hell and damnation! Sound the retreat. They're not even going to make the walls!" Cap said disgustedly.
But, as he said that, the lasers fell silent. If he'd gone to check on his two psis he would have found them stunned and sobbing.
Down on the battlefield Beywulf raised his head in the sudden silence. He understood. The man had kept his word. Bey stood up and turned to face his fellows.
His voice cut through the newly won quiet. "S'kith, the Morkth-man, promised to silence their guns. He has done it. Come on! Forward!"
He turned, and with a cry of "S'kith!" began to lumber toward the hive. In a wave the Gene-spliced joined him, the Morkth-man's name echoing across the plain. And not as much as an arrow cut at them, as they poured forward up scaling ladders, and onto the walls.
> Here they did meet what could vaguely be called resistance. It was more of a case of the death threshings of a dangerous but now headless beast. For there were no Morkth officers, no communications, and no orders. But there was a grumbling, and then a thunderous rumble from deep within the hive. As if some great monster was stirring. It caused momentary panic among the invaders.
Then Cap was there, shouting. "Into the hive. They're trying to flee."
Keilin and Shael, with no memory of how their fingers had so twisted together, saw the Morkth lander, a huge craft, vintage of the original Alpha-Beta split, erupt from what had been the plowed fields of FirstHive, rise on a column of steam and smoke . . . and run north.
They stood in silence for a minute. Then Keilin spoke up quietly. "We've got to go down. S'kith expected us to come and fetch the core sections."
"Won't the explosion have destroyed them too?" Shael surveyed the disturbed ants' nest below with trepidation.
Keilin shook his head. "Diamond won't scratch them. And no furnace will melt them. That much I've gathered. Besides, I could still feel them calling. It will take the Gene-spliced time to find their way through the queen maze. But if we go the way S'kith went we can avoid trouble."
They went down to the fortress. There they saw Beywulf directing operations, organizing torches, as well as a shield path that led the endless stream of confused, unresisting Morkth-men out onto the plain. "They won't attack unless they are attacked," he said grimly. "And most of them seem to be these brainless field-workers. Like human sheep."
"I need a torch or three, Bey. We're going to follow S'kith's route down," said Keilin.
