Into the Light

by David Weber

  * * *

  CAPTAIN LLOYD SNIDERMAN smiled as he looked through the targeting reticle onboard the Starfire assault shuttle.

  “Looks like you got their attention,” his pilot, Captain Darlene Giannetti, said as the Sarthians began to run towards the one door visible in the tower. “Going to let them get away?”

  “Nope,” Sniderman replied. “Just wanted to let the bastards know it was coming.” He squeezed the launch trigger, the Cunningham H-1 heavy attack drone’s remaining two missiles roared off the wings, and the airport’s tower facility was suddenly an expanding ball of flame.

  * * *

  “OUR TURN.”

  Double Fist Sodyr TamSoFly’s voice crackled in Fist Stelyk SylStelRam’s crestphones, and she grunted, standing higher in the hatch to wave to the other units of her platoon. Engines snorted to life, belching black exhaust clouds, and she settled back down into the turret.

  The orders to move from the Kwyzo nar Qwern cantonment area had come in early that morning, and tanks had been deploying for the last several hours. Stelyk hadn’t been told what had happened, only that she needed to get her tanks to the Palace ASAP to help defend the Clan Ruler from the Earthians. Although she’d heard they had armored suits, she couldn’t see how that would stop a shell from her heavy tank. Nearly a seqran in diameter, the shell was sure to obliterate any Earthian stupid enough to try to take her on one-on-one.

  “Rolling,” Double Fist Sodyr announced over the radio, and Stelyk shook her head in satisfaction as her driver put the massive Myosark in gear. They moved forward, following Sodyr towards the gate as he led the way out of the cantonment area. His tank had just reached the gate when it exploded.

  Stelyk’s tank slid to a halt as the flaming wreckage of Sodyr’s Myosark blocked the exit and she gawked at the roaring furnace which had once been her company commander and his crew. What the—?

  Stelyk SylStelRam saw a blur out of the corner of her right eye. Her head started to turn in that direction, but then the missile hit her tank and it—and she—disintegrated.

  * * *

  “WELL, THAT’S CERTAINLY impressive,” Master of Lances Antryl AnHenKel noted as ou looked through the farseers from the top of the castle complex. Ou didn’t need the vision enhancers to see the enormous Earthian spacecraft that had come down from the heavens to float over the river that ran through Kwyzo nar Qwern. A large ramp had deployed from the back of the craft and vehicles moved down it while individual troopers floated to the riverbank from openings in its side.

  “I think that’s an understatement,” Flythyr MuzTolFlyth replied as she watched the vehicles float down the ramp and over the small beach area scrupulously reserved for the well-to-do. The Earthians didn’t seem to care that they were trespassing, though, she thought with bitter humor.

  The vehicles themselves were obviously tanks, but they didn’t appear to actually touch the ground—they seemed to float above it, the same way the Earthian APCs did. She’d hoped their tanks might be too heavy for whatever magic supported the smaller vehicles and become mired in the soft sand, but it hadn’t presented even a minor obstacle.

  “We’ve made a big mistake,” she added. “I told them not to do this, and now the krats have come home to roost.”

  “At least we were able to get some of our tanks out of cantonment before they began blowing them up,” Antryl said. “Perhaps they’ll make a difference.”

  Flythyr shrugged.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “We still don’t know how the Earthians destroyed the rest of them, nor how they destroyed all of our aircraft. If they could do that, though, it suggests they don’t have to come down to take us on on our own ground. That means they’re here because they want to be here, so I strongly suspect they have the capability to destroy the tanks that made it out of cantonment, too.”

  The initial Earthian tank cleared the beach area and drove onto the main street, where it was engaged by two of the massive Myosarks. Both fired, and the armor-piercing shells slammed into the front of their Earthian opponent.

  They bounced. Like a child’s ball, they bounced, ricocheting wildly before their delayed action fuses detonated them.

  The Earthian tank continued towards the Myosarks without slowing. If it had been damaged, it didn’t give any indication. Then it fired, and one Myosark’s turret blew straight up on a roaring column of exploding ammunition. The Earthian fired again—far more quickly, Flythyr knew, than any Qwernian tank could have gotten off a second shot—and she actually saw the round go all the way through the second Myosark! The round—or spalling from it—set off something inside the tank, and it blew up, as well.

  “You appear to be correct,” Antryl said. “What are we going to do?”

  Flythyr squared her shoulders. “We’re going to do our duty. We’re going to protect the Clan Ruler. We’re going to fight the Earthians to the best of our abilities.”

  “And if that isn’t good enough?”

  “Then we’ll die.” Flythyr shrugged. “Come on; let’s get to the command center.”

  * * *

  CAPTAIN ANIKA PRADHAN, call sign “Blue One,” scanned her surroundings as her Sanders tank drove along the main thoroughfare towards the castle. A swarm of drones orbited overhead, their operators praying for a Qwernian stupid enough to try to take a potshot at the column from a window or rooftop. Several apparently had, so far, and she’d seen missiles destroy several buildings. She wasn’t aware that any of the Qwernians had gotten a shot off at her since the landing, aside from the two tanks that had hit her just as she climbed off the beachhead.

  The second shell had scuffed the smart skin “paint” in front of the driver, pissing him off, but that was the extent of their injuries.

  Since then, she’d engaged every tank before they’d been able to shoot at her—not only were the drones killing off anyone stupid enough to snipe at them, they also provided advance reconnaissance of the area in front of the column. She knew where every Qwernian tank was before it ever came into sight, and over twenty pillars of smoke from burning Qwernian tanks marked Blue One’s progress.

  “Blue One, Eagle One sees three hostiles, directly ahead,” the person tasked with reconnaissance called as they came within one intersection of the Palace.

  “Blue One sees them,” Pradhan replied, looking at the imagery on her corneas. “Looks like three main battle tanks in revetments in front of the Palace?” The three tanks were “hiding” behind some concrete objects that looked like the old Jersey walls that had functioned as dividers on highways back on Earth. They would not stop one of her rounds.

  “That’s affirmative, Blue One. Cleared to engage.”

  Pradhan snorted. As if she hadn’t had that thought, all by herself.

  “Roger, cleared to engage,” she replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, then switched to her company command net. “Blue Section, we’re cleared to advance and engage. Blue Two, you’ve got the one on the left, Three, you’ve got the one on the right,” she said, designating targets for the tanks spread to her sides and slightly behind her in a wedge formation. It wouldn’t be fair for her to have all the fun.

  Acknowledgments came back from the rest of the section.

  “We’ve got the center one?” her own gunner asked.

  “Yes,” Pradhan replied.

  “Cool,” the gunner said.

  “Blue Section, let’s go,” Pradhan said over the net, and the three Sanders slid smoothly forward.

  “Stand by to fire!” she transmitted as her tanks flowed around the final corner, clearing the range to their targets. And then—

  “Fire!”

  The tank rocked a little as its main gun fired, and all three tanks in front of the Palace became burning, exploding junk heaps. Not only that …

  “Did you just open the Palace’s main doors with that shot?” Pradhan asked.

  “Yeah,” the gunner replied, pride in his voice. “I was trying to skip it through the tank and into the
doors to make it easier for the Crunchies to get in.”

  “Nice shooting,” Pradhan said. She looked back in front of her only to find a flood of infantry pouring out of the open doors to take positions around the revetments and destroyed tanks. She switched to the radio.

  “Eagle One, Blue One. Interrogative, are you seeing the activity at the Palace?”

  “Yeah, we are, Blue One. Stand by.”

  “Want me to light them up?” the gunner asked.

  “No,” Pradhan said. “We’ll kill them if we have to, but nothing they have can touch us. It was fun blowing up the tanks, but massacring these guys if we don’t have to would be a little too much like murder for me. Hopefully, our demonstration so far will be enough to get them to surrender.”

  “Blue One, Eagle One. Maintain your position there. We’re going to try something else.”

  “Copy, Eagle One. Maintaining our position.”

  “What do you suppose that’s all about?” the driver asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pradhan said. “But I expect we’ll find out.”

  * * *

  “WHAT ARE THEY doing?” Master of Lances Antryl asked as ou watched the monitor that showed the area in front of the Palace.

  “Looks like they’ve stopped,” Flythyr replied.

  “For what, though? Are they afraid to approach?”

  “I don’t know,” Flythyr admitted. “I doubt it. They could easily kill all the troopers with their main guns. They took care of our tanks easily enough,” she pointed out bitterly. Then she paused as she saw specks moving in the background and muttered, “What’s that…”

  “Are you seeing this, Flock Lord Consort?” the lance in front of the Palace asked over the command center’s speakers.

  “I am … but I can’t tell what’s going on.”

  “All of their infantry just … launched into the air. They’re flying!”

  That, Flythyr realized, watching the monitor, wasn’t exactly accurate. Not that she blamed the lance for his description … or that it made much difference. The armored Earthians were actually advancing in prodigious leaps, bouncing as high as a cheran and covering as much as a full tyran between touchdowns. And they could clearly alter trajectory once they’d left the ground, as well. They might as well be flying, and they came slashing forward at a preposterous speed.

  “They’re flying over us,” the lance continued. “They … they’re not even trying to attack us—they’re just going past. We’re trying to shoot them down, but they’re moving too fast and dodging so much we—Wait … they’re going for the courtyard! Stop them!”

  “The courtyard?” Antryl asked. “If they get into the courtyard, they can breach the Palace and get clear down here into the War Palace.”

  Flythyr nodded in disagreement.

  “There’s no way they can do that.” She motioned to the starth running the camera system. “Bring up the camera on the access portal.”

  The female nodded, and the main monitor changed to show the hatch that covered the access leading to the War Palace.

  It was open, and Earthians could be seen landing in the courtyard on the far side of the plate glass doors near the hatch.

  “I ordered that sealed!” Flythyr exclaimed. “You!” she said, motioning to a nearby starth. “Call down to the security station and tell them to shut the hatch, now!” She looked back to the starth at the camera system. “Bring up the view of the security station.”

  The starth did as she’d been ordered, and Flythyr swallowed in shock.

  The monitoring station was a charnel house. At least five of her troops could be seen in the monitor; all of them were very obviously dead, most with body parts ripped off, lying in pools of their own blood. Aside from the missing limbs, none of them seemed to have been shot … or knifed … or anything. They were just obviously, violently, dead. One human sat at the main control station, and he looked over to the camera and smiled in the Earthian way. Flythyr wasn’t that well versed in human emotions, but the smile the dark-skinned female gave the camera didn’t appear to indicate happiness; instead, it was predatory, and she involuntarily backed away from the monitor a couple of steps.

  “How did she get there?” Antryl asked.

  “No idea,” Flythyr replied. A glance at the other monitors showed the Earthians pouring through the access hatch into the War Palace. It was too late to seal it. “Everyone grab a rifle!” she ordered. “We have to protect the Clan Ruler!”

  * * *

  BERKE HAD NO way of knowing how long he’d been in the cell—it seemed like at least a half-day—when a group of eight Qwernian troopers came, pulled him out, and marched him to a huge room somewhere in the War Palace. To say the room was in chaos would have been an understatement. There were at least thirty troops trying to set up fighting positions, a number of the ministers were yelling at each other, and, on the other side of the room, the clan ruler was trying to get answers to questions it seemed no one was prepared to discuss. The soldiers slammed the door after they entered and brought him forward to where Myrcal, Flythyr, and the clan ruler argued.

  “This is why the Earthians are coming?” the clan ruler asked. “To get him?”

  “I told Minister Myrcal this would never work,” Flythyr said. “The Earthians value their people more than we do; I had a feeling this would drive them to action.”

  “Yes, he’s the only Earthian we have here,” Myrcal said, ignoring Flythyr. “Since they’re here, I expect they’re here for him. When they get here, we’ll use him as a bargaining chip.”

  Juzhyr motioned to one of the nearby soldiers. “Give me your pistol,” ou said. When the trooper did, Juzhyr leveled it between Berke’s eyes. “I only want to know one thing,” ou said. “What will it take to make your forces withdraw?”

  Berke strained to control his bladder as he looked into the enormous maw of the pistol.

  “I don’t … I don’t know,” he replied, realizing they might be his final words. “I doubt they’re here for just me. If they’re here, they’re probably—”

  The door exploded. The soldiers closest to it flew through the air and the sudden, savage overpressure knocked Berke to his knees. Before he could recover, Juzhyr leapt forward, wrapped an arm around his throat, and shoved the cold muzzle of the pistol against his temple as troops in Heinlein armor strode into the room.

  “Don’t move,” Juzhyr said, “or I’ll kill him.”

  “Drop the pistol, Clan Ruler,” one of the Earthians said over his armor’s external speakers.

  “I’ll kill him!” Juzhyr snapped. The pistol against Berke’s head pressed hard enough to force it to one side, and the diplomat closed his eyes.

  “No, you won’t,” the Earthian said flatly. “And if you don’t drop that pistol—now—it will be the last mistake you ever make.”

  “And who are you to think you can order me—the Clan Ruler of the entire Qwernian Empire—about?”

  “I’m Captain Malachi Dvorak, Planetary Union Space Marines. And I’m also David Dvorak’s son.” The Earthian’s voice was icy cold. “Personally, I’d like nothing more than for the person standing behind you to shoot you in the back of the head. Please, give him an excuse.”

  “If you kill me, my men will kill you and all of your troops,” Juzhyr grated. “Your armor can’t be that good. And don’t try to bluff me! There’s no one behind me but my own soldiers.”

  “My armor is that good,” Malachi said, “and there is someone behind you.” Berke’s eyes popped back open, and he managed to turn his head just far enough to see Brigadier Torino suddenly materialize in the very corner of his vision and put the barrel of his own pistol against Juzhyr’s head.

  The entire war room froze, and the quiet hiss as the visor of Malachi Dvorak’s helmet cycled upward was shockingly loud in the sudden, absolute silence. His eyes were hard as ice, his voice was even colder than they were, and the translating software projected its icy menace with perfect fidelity.

  “Yo
ur choice, Clan Ruler,” he said. “You may think you can kill Mister Berke before Brigadier Torino kills you. Personally, I don’t think you have a chance in hell.” He smiled. “I guess it depends on how lucky you feel. So tell me, do you feel lucky, Punk?”

  . XXI .

  PUNS VANGUARD,

  SARTH ORBIT

  Dave Dvorak opened his eyes.

  He didn’t recognize the overhead. He was obviously back aboard Vanguard, but he’d never seen that particular pastel shade before, and he had no idea how he’d gotten here. In fact, he didn’t seem to remember very much at all.

  A corner of his brain thought that should worry him, but he felt too tranquil and too luxuriously comfortable for anything as crass as worrying. He felt … he felt like a man waking up from ten solid hours of good, deep sleep, he thought. Maybe even twelve hours.

  He smiled faintly at the thought and raised his arms and stretched hard, luxuriating in that pure sense of good feeling. Then he froze as he realized where he was. Sick bay. What the hell was he doing in sick bay? He’d been healthy as a horse for the last twenty-odd years, courtesy of modern medicine, so what—?

  “Hello, Papi,” a soft voice said, and his head snapped over to the right as two slender hands lifted his hand to a tear-slick cheek.

  “Morgana?” The hoarseness of his own voice surprised him. It sounded like something that hadn’t been used in a long time, and he cleared his throat. “What … what the hell happened, Honey?”

  “That’s going to be a long story, Dad,” she told him, smiling through her tears. “I’m just happy you’re here to hear it!”

  “But—” He broke off, his confusion evident, and she squeezed his hand again.

  “You’re going to need a little while to get up to speed, Dad. And right this minute, you’re still pretty heavily tranked.”

  “I am?” He blinked at her.

  “Yes. You had … Papi, you had a lot of neural damage. You were in the regen tank for weeks.” She smiled mistily at him. “The docs weren’t taking you out until the nannies fixed everything they could fix.”