by John Ringo
"But this race," the Darhel said in a tone of desperation. "It has taken not only colonies and Indowy worlds. It threatens the most important worlds in the Federation. It threatens Earth itself! Have you no care for the threat to humanity? To the damage this will do to the Galactic economy?"
"The only threat to humanity I see is you," Wesley snapped, pointing his finger at the screen. "I see you, you alien prick! You extraterrestrial monstrosity. You lawyerous, slanderous, villainous asshole! You want to point fingers, I'm pointing them right at you, you cancerous boil on the face of the galaxy. After you've fucked the situation up beyond redemption, what in the FUCK do you expect ME to do about it? I can't even control my own troops because of you, you, fucking YOU!"
"I see," the Tir said, sitting back and interlacing his taloned fingers. "Then what must we do?"
"Well," Wesley said, sighing, "first and foremost we have to find someone to lead this charade that the troops actually will trust. Sure as shit isn't me. Go figure. I can only think of one guy. And right now, I don't see him being amenable to reason. Even if we can find him."
"So, Kyle," Mike said. "Got a question for you."
Mike had, over the last few days, determined that he had four handlers. Kyle, Sean, Pat and Roger. He assumed all of them were false names, but he was also polite enough to not ask. But there was something bothering him.
"Whatcha got, sir?" Kyle asked, laying down a four of hearts.
"Something's been bugging the shit out of me," Mike said, laying a jack of hearts on the four. Playing two-handed spades sucked but it was the only game in town. "I could swear I've met you somewhere. Ditto the rest of the guys. I can tell you're not rejuvs, so it wasn't from that many decades ago. You're, what, twenty-four?"
"Twenty-two," Kyle said, laying a queen of hearts down. "Close, though."
"My memory's kinda full, but I'm pretty sure I'd remember a guy as big as you," Mike said laying down an eight. "Only guy I can think of is dead. Big as you, same sort of build, black hair though. Same fucking eyes, too. But I'm pretty sure Tommy never had any kids and that would be . . . well, that would be a hell of a coincidence."
"Couldn't say, sir," Kyle said, laying down the five of spades.
"Interesting way of putting it, Kyle," Mike said, dropping another jack.
"Rest of them are mine, sir," Kyle said, laying down a handful of spades.
"Bastard," Mike said, chuckling. He realized that was the first time he'd actually laughed in a long time. "You're still a point behind."
"Cards are turning my way," Kyle said, shuffling. He looked up, though, as Sean entered the room. "You're not on for a couple of hours."
"There's a situation," Sean said.
"And he's another one," Mike said, looking at his other handler. "Swear to fucking God I've met you before. What is it?"
"Moonbase is in mutiny," Sean said. "Mutineers have taken all the facilities. They're apparently calling on Fleet Strike command to release the general unharmed."
"Hell, if you guys hadn't grabbed me I'd be dead already," Mike said, frowning. "What do they think they're going to accomplish? All the damned systems are keyed to the AIDs."
"I guess they're just generally pissed, sir," Sean replied. "And there are ways around an AID. I don't know if they know them, though."
"You guys do, though, right?" Mike said.
"It's not easy, sir," Kyle replied. "Clean AIDs are hard to come by. And buckleys aren't the same."
"Keep those things far away from me," Mike said. "I know where the AI came from. And I refuse to have anything to do with the flaky bastard. Besides, I dropped a skyscraper on his head so he hates me. What's the Bane Sidhe doing about it?"
"We don't have a lot of resources on the Moon," Sean said. "I was just told that to tell you. Basically, we'd love to help. But unless we can get some assets from . . . elsewhere there's not much we can do."
"Can you get me in contact with them?" Mike asked.
"That's why I'm here, sir."
* * *
"General?" Colonel Leblanc said, blinking in surprise. "We just captured the Penal Facility and were less than pleased to find you weren't there. According to the guards we interrogated, you'd escaped. Since I didn't believe them I'm afraid some of them didn't survive the interrogation."
"Not going to get any sympathy from me," Mike said, working his dip to the other side of his mouth. "They're not, that is. And, yes, I'm alive."
"With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure I can believe that," the colonel said. "There are too many ways to spoof this system."
"Agreed," Mike said, grimacing. "What's your status, in general?"
"Again, sir . . ." the colonel replied. "Not sure I can give you any information, given that I'm not sure it's you."
"Well, I can't exactly get to your location to verify my identity," Mike said. "But I hope like hell you've got a plan to keep Fleet from bombing the hell out of you."
"I've been thinking about this for a long time, sir," Glennis said, smiling confidently. "You can believe I have that under control."
"Good," Mike said, nodding. "No more said. I've recently come into information about a group that may be able to assist you, though. Right now they're having a hard time getting any support to you, but if Fleet holds off for a bit we may change that. Play for time, Colonel."
"Yes, sir," Leblanc said, frowning in puzzlement.
"Yes, I could be some Fleet officer telling you that," Mike said, grinning. "So put that in your playbook. But if someone comes along offering you some support, consider it carefully."
"It's under interdiction!" Stewart said. "You have got to be kidding me!"
"Unless they get some clean AIDs they can't use the fighters or the space cannons," Cally said reasonably. "Don't tell me that you can't smuggle one damned ship onto the Moon. It's right there!"
"There Is A Fleet Blockading It," Stewart said slowly and distinctly. "No, I cannot get a fucking gnat onto the Moon at present."
"What about using one of the Fleet ships?" Cally asked.
"You think Fleet is just going to let one of their ships land?" Stewart said, grabbing his head in frustration. "Listen to me, Cally. Cannot Get A Ship Onto The Moon. Period. Is that clear enough for you?"
"What if it's invisible?"
"There is insufficient time," the mentat replied.
Michelle had given Cally a method to reestablish contact with whatever mentat had helped them before. Since she couldn't find a Himmit—they never seemed to be around when you needed them—and Stewart was certain there was no way to get a ship to the Moon, the mentat was the only remaining choice.
"That assumes I was willing to help," the mentat continued. "This internal squabble is of no matter to the mentat. It will be resolved when the mutinous forces are reduced."
"We're talking about pretty much all there is left of Fleet Strike," Cally said. "Doesn't that matter?"
"Compared to what is occurring on Daga Nine?" the voice whispered over the radio. "No, it does not matter."
"What's happening on Daga Nine that's so important?" Cally snapped. "We're talking about thousands of lives!"
"The population of Daga Nine was seventeen billion as of the last census," the mentat replied. "As of this morning, relative time, it had reduced by four point two percent with an error of plus or minus one point three percent. And the trend is accelerating."
"What?"
"Report."
General Etugul was a Kotha, one of the elite warriors of the Hedren Tyranny. Scion of an ancient family of generals, he was one of the Chosen, those sent to this new galaxy to bring the power and glory of the Hedren Archons to these new races.
Over seven feet tall, his blueish gray epidermis crossed with colormophs of honors, rank and family standing, the general stood upon eight dual-use tentacles. Any of them could be used as a secondary set of arms or for locomotion. Two additional tentacles were used for fine-motor skills. But any and all of the ten could wield a weapon in a pinc
h. Six eyes, two red and the other four purple, waved above a powerful beak. The beak was used only for eating and occasionally rending a foe limb from limb. The general spoke through two whistling jets mounted below his rapacious maw.
The Marro lying flat on its belly before him would, to a human, appear to be a massive snake or worm. Its body resembled that of a cobra but its skin was scaleless and disturbingly human looking and it had two tentacled "arms" jutting from just below its massive head. The race fought for the Hedren Archons, occupying mostly line infantry positions. However, their premier position was masters of military intelligence and matters of science, for the Marro were always curious.
"The planet is occupied by four sentient species, Lord General," the Marro hissed. "The great majority are the Indowy we have already encountered. However, they are much more numerous on this planet, numbering in the millions. In addition there were a small number of the humans, who appear to be the only warriors. Our great crusade has brushed them aside with laughable ease as is to be expected of the slaves of the Hedren. The third race is a species of arthropods, the Tchpth. This is a species new to us. They do not appear to be a threat, occupying primarily scientific positions and, like the Indowy, presenting a total face of nonviolence. The last is also new to us, the Darhel. These appear to be senior leaders of this political group. They, too, are nonviolent or incapable of violence. They appear to have been genetically modified to be so."
"Like these Posleen we have encountered on the previous worlds?" Etugul questioned.
"The Darhel modifications are very specific, Great Lord General," the Marro said, carefully. "They appear to be a warrior race modified to be incapable of violence."
"Utility?" Etugul asked, turning to his Chief of Domination.
"The utility of all of these races is so minimal, Lord," the Glandri replied. Short, web-footed, crouching, but powerful and brutal, the quill-covered Glandri were the Hedren's best at breaking a race to the service of the Archons. The neuter worked its molar-filled maw for a moment in frustration. "The Indowy methods of manufacture are capable of producing advanced materials but only with enormous being-hour input. And they are so numerous, they simply crowd out other races. The Darhel, unless remodified, may be of use as managers in time. But not in any combat role. The Tchpth are premier scientists but very difficult to manage. They do not seem to respond to either damage or death. The Indowy are the same. They accept death without any response and will not even change their practices when put to great pain. And they are so numerous that it will require some sort of industrial method to eliminate them. The most flexible are the humans. We have put a few of them to work in minor tests. They respond in a reasonable fashion to pain and the threat of death. Some are more resistant than others, however . . ."
"I understand," the general said, clacking his beak. "If there is no utility to a race, there is but one option. Have you communicated this to the leaders of the Indowy and Tchpth?"
"I have been unable to determine anything resembling a leader among the Tchpth," the Glandri admitted. "I have communicated this fact to the leaders of the Indowy. They still refuse normal service."
"Then we must create that industrial process you described," said the Kotha, dismissing the entire race of the Indowy to oblivion.
"Great Lord," the Marro said. "The Indowy have one key utility. Some of them are wielders of kratki."
"Indeed?" Etugul said. "Has this fact been communicated to the Archons?"
"A report was sent to Imeg kratki masters," the Marro replied. "Along with representative specimens. There is also an unconfirmed report that some humans are kratki wielders. None of the others seem to have the Gift."
"We shall hold the termination of this pestiferous race pending reports from the Imeg," Etugul said. "What of the Himmit?"
"There is no sign, Great Lord," the Marro hissed. "They hide and flee as always."
"The Himmit included warriors in their number," the general pointed out in reproof. "That they fell was a tribute to the power of our Archons, not the failure of the Himmit. Make your spies especially watchful of the Himmit. So. These Posleen are modified warriors but recently defeated, scattered and reduced to chipping rock for weapons. The Darhel may learn to be managers under our Archons' Tyranny but are otherwise useless, being neither makers nor warriors nor scientists. The Tchpth are scientists but intractable. Begin elimination of them. The Indowy are makers but inefficient ones. Unless they are determined useful for their kratki ability the Indowy need to be eliminated to make room for useful races. The only sure threat are these humans, who thus far appear as nothing more than gree. On the other hand, they are also the most assimilable. All good news. Which means untrustworthy. Remain alert. There may be threats we have failed to detect. And the Himmit remain. Remember, the Archons judge us always. Eternal are the Archons. Eternal is Their reign."
"Eternal are the Archons."
What are these? Chan thought.
Unknown, Thomas replied. The reports that the Fleet is getting are almost incoherent. Ships appear out of nowhere and destroy fleets. The invaders seem to simply spring up out of the ground. Master Shenti says that in the case of Daga this appears to be literally true. He sensed a great power surge and then a huge army was on the surface of the planet. They overwelmed the few human defenders with ease then began rough interrogation of the Indowy, Tchpth and Darhel of the world. Master Shenti is now beyond my contact.
Dead? Michelle thought. Shenti was Thomas's master. If anyone could contact him it would be Thomas, weak in Sohon though he was.
I feel a faint essence, Thomas thought. But he is beyond contact. As if he is being blocked. And . . . do you feel that?
A powerful essence, Ermintrude replied. She was the finest of them at seeking out potential Sohon among both human and Indowy, attuned to the faintest trace of the Gift. It is almost like the Aldenata. But not on Daga. Farther.
Not yet, Rick thought. But they are coming. They must be coming from the galactic periphery. How did such a powerful polity spring up without note?
Not the periphery, Michelle thought. These must have come from beyond.
Invaders from another galaxy? Koko replied with a note of derision in her sending. Pull the other one, 'Chelle.
Where then, Koko? Michelle thought. Do you not sense that power? Would we or one of the Indowy Sohons not have sensed it long before if it was anywhere in this portion of the galaxy?
Can they sense us? Minnie asked, a note of nervousness in her thought.
There was a moment of uncomfortable mental silence.
We must each contact our masters, Michelle thought. If this new polity uses Sohon as a weapon . . .
The Masters will never use Sohon offensively, Thomas thought definitely.
Agreed, Michelle thought. But it's defense that wins championships. Oh, and we're going to need troops. Thomas, if you would take care of that? We rather need Fleet and Fleet Strike as intact as possible. And let my sister and father know that I am on my way to Earth. The time for hiding seems to be over.
"The good news is that they think they know what they're doing."
Colonel Briana St. James was a boffin. She had spent most of her career in one headquarters or another, generally parked in a basement with pumped-in sunlight. Because she was a boffin. Outside the military, she would be classed as a "nerd," one of those bright people who, alas, seemed to have used so much of their brain power for intellect they didn't have much left over for social skills. The military preferred "boffin."
Briana's uniform generally looked as if she'd slept in it and her hair . . . well, let's just not go there. She didn't know how to use make-up and could have used the class. A touch of powder would have muted the redness of her cheeks which skipped "rouge" and went right to "is that a skin disease?" She occasionally picked her nose in public. But in the end it really didn't matter. Because there was not a human in the galaxy who was better at figuring out how to destroy ships from the ground.
; "Explain," Colonel Leblanc said, looking at the display. She'd had a class in this years ago but realized that the equipment had not just improved, it had changed completely. Maybe taking over as combat commander wasn't the brightest idea.
"All they need to do is get a rock on us," Briana replied, surreptitiously wiping something on the underside of the console. "So their job is really easy. My job is to keep them from getting a rock on us. Looks nearly impossible. But. While the KEWs are tough, they can be destroyed and or deflected if I've got the systems. The closer they are when they launch, the tougher my job. Less time for the computers to react, smaller pod for me to deflect to without damage. Their trajectories indicate a mid-point launch window. Technically, that means they will mostly stay out of our fire."
