Starfist: Kingdom's Fury

by David Sherman

  “A Mandalay-class ship is the same size as a Crowe.”

  “Yes, it is,” Borland agreed. “But it doesn’t have the same armament. What if that Skink ship does? And I don’t have my escort anymore.” They both took for granted that the ships in orbit around Society 362 were probably Skinks.

  “How many ships do the Skinks have in orbit at Society 362?”

  Borland shook his head. The Fundy’s Tide message hadn’t given a number, it only used a plural.

  “What’s the range of your lasers?”

  “They’re defensive weapons, Ted. They can take out planetside missile launchers. They aren’t designed for ship-to-ship combat in interplanetary space.”

  “How about your missiles?”

  Borland shook his head. “Defensive. Not much good for use outside planetary orbit.”

  “You’ve got some sharp engineers on board, Roger. Can they modify the lasers or the missiles?”

  The commodore had to smile. “I’ve got the best engineers in the navy, Ted. But no matter how good they are, Society 362 is so close there isn’t enough time to modify anything.”

  Sturgeon smiled back, but his was a crooked grin. “You’re right, Roger. It’s Marines who do the impossible in a day or two, not the navy. I’m sorry for your losses.” He began to stand.

  “You sit your ass right back down there, Marine!” Borland planted a fist on the table and leaned over it. “Now hear this and hear it well! A Mandalay-class starship isn’t supposed to go in harm’s way without at least a destroyer division in escort,” he said harshly. “That’s graven in stone in NavRegs. I did have one, lone, fast frigate. Now I don’t even have that. If I take the Grandar Bay to Society 362 and we find the reported flotilla, if I survive I won’t need the pension the navy won’t give me because I’ll be spending the rest of my life at hard labor in a maximum security brig! It’s not a matter of what I want to do, or a matter of what my engineers can do. It’s NavRegs.

  “Goddamn!” He sat back and pounded his fist on the table. “I’d love to head for Society 362 and get those bastards. But I can’t, you have to see that!”

  Sturgeon said nothing, merely watched Borland, who was obviously thinking hard about the situation. After a long moment he asked a question to nudge the commodore.

  “Who knows about the contents of that second message?”

  “Me and my XO.” He began drumming his fingers on the tablecloth and drifted back into thought.

  Sturgeon let him think. The Marine might have been in command of operations as long as they were on Kingdom, but he knew that when the two FISTs boarded, command transferred to Borland.

  Borland snapped back to the here and now and pressed a button out of sight on the bottom of the tabletop. A white-coated steward opened the salon door and stepped inside.

  “Get Captain Maugli for me,” Borland said.

  “Aye aye, sir.” The steward quietly closed the door behind him as he left.

  Borland killed some time by putting out another silver setting and refilling the cups.

  Maugli, the Grandar Bay’s executive officer, entered the dining salon almost immediately after Borland resumed his seat. “You called for me, sir?”

  “Yes I did, number one. Sit down, Zsuz. You’ve met Brigadier Sturgeon.”

  “Yessir.” Captain Maugli sat at the third setting but didn’t touch the coffee or cake that waited for him.

  “How’d you like to go after the Skinks?”

  “I’d love to, sir, but NavRegs . . .” He lifted a hand and turned it over.

  “NavRegs say we can’t knowingly go in harm’s way without an escort. You know the regs better than I do. What do they say about finding ourselves in harm’s way?”

  “You mean if we go someplace where we have no reason to expect trouble and find it? That depends on the mood of the court of inquiry,” the ghost of a smile crossed Maugli’s face, “and on the success of the mission.”

  “I believe we received a message from a civilian freighter approaching Society 362, something garbled about high velocity objects coming at them from the plane of the elliptic?”

  “Yessir, I believe we did.” Maugli’s smile became less ghostly. “Terribly garbled, though. The drone that carried it must have run into something in Beamspace that scrambled it.”

  “And that civilian freighter hasn’t been heard from since, has it?”

  Maugli’s smile was now a grin. “Nossir, it hasn’t. And I do believe Communications will verify that.”

  “So it’s possible, even likely, that the civilian freighter was crippled?”

  Maugli nodded.

  “What do NavRegs say about going to the rescue of civilian shipping?”

  “Providing that such a diversion does not interfere with an essential military operation, a rescue is top priority.”

  Borland turned to Sturgeon. “Brigadier, would you say operations planetside have reached a satisfactory conclusion?”

  “Commodore, I would say all that’s left planetside is some minor mopping up that’s best left to local forces.”

  “Well then, Brigadier, I request you embark your Marines. Number one, begin preparations for transit to Society 362. We have a ship to avenge, er, find.”

  Commodore Borland had his engineers working on modifications to the Grandar Bay’s weaponry before Brigadier Sturgeon touched down planetside. Borland wasn’t concerned that this would look suspicious to the court of inquiry he’d face if he survived; most of the advances in modern navy navigation, arms, and other systems were made by starship officers and crews who played with them during their long hauls in Beamspace, when most of them had nothing else to do. He needed lasers that would be effective at ranges far greater than geosynchronous orbit, and he needed missiles that could lock onto and hit targets at one astronomical unit. Without them, the Grandar Bay could be destroyed with all hands before it got close enough to use its weapons, or have to abort the mission before it accomplished anything.

  A Mandalay-class Amphibious Landing Ship, Force, was designed to carry a reinforced FIST, so the Marines of the 34th and 26th FISTs were cramped in the Grandar Bay, but not as cramped as they might have been—both had suffered casualties and were understrength. The Grandar Bay’s deck crew worked round the clock to jury-rig enough racks for all of them. Hot racking—Marines sharing a bunk in shifts—would have worked for a trip inside a planetary system, but everyone needed to be securely strapped in for jumps into and out of Beamspace. The first phase of transit to Society 362 was the three days it took the starship to get far enough out of Kingdom’s gravity well to safely make the jump.

  After a few minutes less than twelve hours in Beamspace, the Grandar Bay made the jump back to Space-3. Navigation had cut it close, maybe too close—they were only two and a half days’ travel above the plane of the elliptical, almost directly due north of Society 362. Minutes later emanations were detected from three ships in orbit around the destination planet. One was the size of a Crowe. The other two were destroyer size. On the face of it, the Grandar Bay was likely outgunned. More worrisome, though, was what the nearby gravity well was doing to the starship.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The pain was a constant companion, like existing permanently in a sheet of white-hot flame.

  He was immobilized, not with straps and chains but by the effects of some drug. He couldn’t move his head, so his field of vision—blurry at best—was restricted to what he could make out just above where he lay. In the few lucid moments when his entire being was not being consumed by pain, he could make out dark shapes looming and flitting about the edges of his vision. He supposed they were images of his tormenters. In those brief moments of relative respite, he could remember who he was and how he’d gotten into that living hell. Then too, he heard screaming that was not his own, so he knew he was not alone. In those few moments of relief, hatred and defiance welled up within him and he thought the most foul curses to hurl against his tormentors. But su
ch thoughts were followed immediately by the all-consuming pain. He realized the monsters who were holding him knew what he was thinking at such times, and they did not like it. And then there were the voices: they whispered insistently, telling him horrible things, asking him disturbing questions, demanding answers, cajoling him to cooperate. They were not couched in language but consisted of thoughts somehow dropped into his brain, wet and slimy like gobs of spittle. They were somebody else’s dirty mental images, from the brain of someone who hated him and who could somehow enter his consciousness, overriding any attempt he made to block the intrusion. He could not remember afterward precisely what was asked or what he answered, but he knew he answered, and that disturbed him greatly. Clearly his interrogators were not satisfied with his answers because the pain continued.

  When the other mind withdrew from his momentarily, giving him back some control over his own thoughts, he concentrated on remembering who he was and how he’d gotten to that place. Through the haze of the pain, he vowed: You will not break me! I will defy you even if it kills me!

  If death was the only way he could get out of there, he’d gladly accept it. But goddammit, he wanted to live!

  Zechariah remained by his son’s grave after he’d given the others orders to resume the march. He had even ordered Consort and Comfort away. He had to be alone for a while. He could catch up when he was ready.

  At length he got to his feet and looked about. They could find this spot again, he thought, when things got back to normal, or even if they didn’t, and remove Samuel’s remains to a more fitting resting place. He stood over the freshly turned earth and listened carefully. He heard no sounds at all above the furtive rustlings of forest creatures and insectlike life-forms. That was very good because it meant that the refugee column was proceeding in almost total silence. Fortunately, there were no infants among them and even the youngest of the children were cooperating in the noise discipline Zechariah had imposed on their movements.

  Nehemiah Sewall was walking point, one of the alien acid rigs strapped to his back. He held the long, flexible, hose apparatus loosely in one hand as he cautiously threaded through the undergrowth, stopping every few meters to check his direction and survey what lay ahead. Ten meters or so behind him and ten meters to the right flank of the column, Comfort Brattle provided flank security, her shot rifle at the ready. On the left flank Amen Judah did the same. Behind them, at the head of the column, two of the younger men, equipped with acid-throwers, watched for Nehemiah’s signals; at the tail end two more, similarly armed, provided security and watched for Zechariah to rejoin them.

  They had tested the devils’ acid-projectors before putting the rigs on. The mechanisms were easy to figure out. The rig was mounted on a packboard with shoulder straps, and consisted of two tanks—one large, painted green, and the other somewhat smaller and painted russet. The colors were muted, to blend in with the foliage native to that hemisphere. The larger of the two containers held the acid, and the smaller held the compressed-air propellant. A single hose ran from a coupling between the tanks, up under the user’s arm and to a nozzle assembly that looked something like the muzzle of the shot rifle Comfort was armed with. The nozzles were about .75 caliber. By depressing a lever behind the nozzle, a thin stream of the stuff could be projected a good fifty meters. The special gloves the devils used to protect themselves against back spray would not fit human hands, but in the equipment bags they’d recovered from the dead devils there were different-size shields that could be fitted behind the nozzles to serve the same purpose. Each acid tank bore writing in characters that were indecipherable, just lines and squiggles, but the analog gauges were easy to read: they indicated all the tanks were full. The units were light, and although the straps were not designed to fit the human body, they fit it well enough even when the refugees moved through heavy undergrowth. The tanks were also durable: several had sustained hits from the shot rifles when their owners had been killed, but none of the bullets had penetrated the metal.

  The refugees had gone from being a frightened and desperate gaggle stumbling through the wilderness to an armed and alert force that had drawn blood in its first encounter with the devils and was ready for battle. Nehemiah held up his hand. Through the foliage about twenty meters ahead of where he crouched, he could see that the trees thinned out, and the forest ended in a vast, hilly plain. His heart jumped. He knew they were about maybe thirty kilometers from New Salem. He motioned the others forward, and soon everyone crouched nearby under the cover of the trees. Without being told to do so, the armed security detail had taken up positions on the group’s flanks. The sun shone brightly on the plain, but they were in deep shade back under the trees.

  Zechariah came up and crouched beside Nehemiah. “Good work,” he said, clapping the young man on his shoulder. He caught Comfort’s eye on the far edge of the group and smiled. “Gather ’round,” he told the others in a low voice. They scrunched in closer, making a rustling sound in the undergrowth. They were like so many furtive animals hiding from larger predators, but now he saw something else in their eyes: determination and alertness. “We can’t cross there in the daylight,” Zechariah said, nodding toward the open plain on the other side of the trees, “so I say we camp right here until nightfall and then start out.” The others murmured their assent.

  “How long will it take us to get home?” Sharon Rowley asked.

  “Let’s take it in easy stages. The Shelomoth River is about ten kilometers from here, if memory serves. We can make it there with plenty of darkness to spare.”

  “That’s right!” Joshua Flood exclaimed. “I’ve fished and hunted there many times. The river bottom is thick with cover. We can hide there until tomorrow night.”

  “Yes,” Samuel Sewall chimed in. “And no more than twelve kilometers beyond the river are the Sacar Hills. When I was a boy, we grazed sheep there. I remember some caves we can use to fort up during the day.”

  “Thank the Lord for the wild cattle,” Susan Maynard said.

  “Amen,” someone replied. They suspected that if the devils had infrared surveillance in operation, they might not be able to distinguish between a group of slowly moving humans and the many herds of grazing cattle that inhabited the plain, the descendants of animals released many generations ago by early settlers in the region.

  “All right, then,” Zechariah summarized, “tonight we head for the Shelomoth; tomorrow the Sacar Hills; and the third night should bring us home.”

  The one thing on everyone’s mind, which needed no discussion, was that sooner or later someone was going to miss the devil patrol they had wiped out.

  “Our casualties have been enormous since Operation Rippling Lava commenced, and you want me to worry about a mere eight Fighters?” the Over Master roared. “Our forces are closing in on the enemy and you are worried about a lost patrol?”

  The Senior Master shuddered and bowed even lower before his commander. The security of the interrogation center was his responsibility, and he had sent the patrol on a reconnaissance of the area, as much to look for more prisoners as to discover any potential threats. It was his duty to inform the Over Master of the overdue patrol.

  “Send another patrol, then, to look for the first,” the Over Master continued.

  “Most respectfully, Lord, I have not the resources to do that and provide security for our operations here,” the Senior Master replied.

  “Then forget about the missing Fighters! Wild beasts must have gotten them.”

  “Most respectfully, Lord, the local wild beasts are herbivores, herd creatures, very stupid, most unlikely to attack anyone.”

  “Enough!” the Over Master bellowed as the Senior Master quivered even more, wishing desperately he could burrow into the floor. “When the eight are found, execute them! I will not have our Fighters dawdling about in the woods. Besides, our work here is almost done. The Great Master has sent word to terminate the interrogations. We are preparing for the final push. Besides, we have go
tten all we are going to get out of these useless Earthmen prisoners. They have been reduced to the level of idiots anyway, if they ever had much intelligence to begin with. Revive those who have survived. They may still be useful to us as laborers. When we evacuate this site, do with them what you please. That is all.”

  The Senior Master respectfully bowed his way out of the Over Master’s presence, the eight missing Fighters completely forgotten. As to the remaining prisoners, they would be left behind to starve in the wilderness because the Senior Master was resolved not to waste a single drop of acid on such pond scum.

  The Brattles huddled together on the riverbank just above the turbulent waters of the Shelomoth, dozing fitfully under their blankets. The other refugees clustered nearby. They had arrived just at first light and spent the daylight hours trying to catch up on their sleep. Since their food supply was running low, several of the men and boys had spent the morning catching edible animals in the river while Joshua Flood explored up the riverbank, looking for a fording spot. He returned at dusk and shook Zechariah from a doze.

  “I have found it, Mr. Brattle. It was just where I remembered. The water flows over a rock outcropping but we can make it across on foot if we’re careful.”

  Zechariah shook himself and awoke Comfort and Consort. They stretched and gathered up their things. The others were likewise stirring. When it got full dark, Zechariah had them all line up in a column, each person holding on to the shirt of the person in front of him, and took a head count. At his command, Joshua led the way, guided by starlight. Crossing the river was difficult but they all eventually scrambled up the opposite side over a low bank. Once everyone was up, Zechariah took another head count and then, each person still holding on to the one in front, they moved over the plain again. The going was very difficult.

  They came in view of the Sacar Hills just as the stars were dimming in the sky. Joshua, in the lead, mounted a small rise and was the first to see them. He froze and instantly ordered everyone down. Zechariah came running up, doubled over to make as small a target as he could. He did not have to ask Joshua what he’d seen once he peered over the ridge. About a kilometer away the hills rose in a low ridge about two hundred meters high.