by Chad Huskins
Let them deny me now.
LYOKH HAD NEVER seen its like. It was as if an invisible forcefield surrounded Prophet as it went through the enemy horde like a battering ram. He also saw the many clawcraft, squids, and wasps become…warped. Malformed. Bulbous growths materialized across their hulls. The wasps became bloated, impregnated with some horrendous species of green worms that burst out of their stomaches and ate their parents.
Suddenly, he was reminded of what he’d seen at the gates of the Dexannonhold, only this was on a much, much larger scale. The three ships had no serious plasma weapons or particle beams, just point-defense cannons shooting three-millimeter incendiary rounds, only meant for maybe serious pirate fleets, but at the moment they did well enough.
“Fuck me,” someone muttered over the radio.
Lyokh shouted, “Hoy up, Knights! Stay focused! Let the High Priestess keep them occupied, we’ve got a destination to make!” A clawcraft came strafing by, dangerously close as Thrallyin banked hard to port. Lyokh held on with one hand and fired with the other, stippling the clawcraft with his fellow brothers, bringing it down. His ammo spent, he spat the magazine out and slapped another one home. “Artemis, ETA?”
“Ten minutes out from the waypoint Ziir sent me.”
“Let’s keep it moving! Knights, pick your targets, but only if they come close! Let the Widdenians do the heavy lifting for now!” He switched channels, and heard the radio chatter going on between the skyrake squadron captains. He was glad to hear that they were already maneuvering to support Task Force Mahl.
Lyokh looked through the thinning cloud of enemies, and saw through the transparent dome at the space battle, now surrounded by four new broodlings, all of them chasing Task Force Two around and around the Watchtower. An Isoshi ship appeared suddenly, dealt a few shots, then vanished, perhaps into the Midway. A Faedyan ship was totally obliterated. The Brotherhood ship Three Goddesses died five seconds later. Which means they were probably hours apart, he thought.
It was hard to imagine what was going on up there, and Lyokh found himself wondering at what point Kalder would call it quits, just cut his losses and leave Taka-Renault to the Brood. But then he realized the truth.
Kalder does not bend.
The old man was nothing if not single-minded in his quest, and however Taka-Renault played into his schemes, it must be awfully important to have come this far. He wouldn’t back down now. The only way it could change is if he was dead.
“Got a fresh swarm headed our way, Actual,” Artemis said. “Bogeys on your HUD now.”
Lyokh looked. His heart sank. Another giant swarm, and Task Force Mahl was still dealing with the first, however masterfully.
“Tsuyoshi, a grid!” he called.
“Done!” said the Knight Companion, just as the new targeting solution map was overlaid on his screen.
Lyokh watched the swarm emerge out of a dense fog up ahead, buzzing like bees. He watched the clawcraft form diamond-shaped squadrons, while other squadrons disappeared behind the ones in front. His suit’s computer networked with all the sensors of his fellow soldiers, as well as the sensors of the Novas, skyrakes, and wyrms, to create HUD ghosts of the clawcraft even as they disappeared behind each other.
“Hoy up, and check those targets!” he yelled. “Don’t let them—”
He never finished the thought, because several things happened at once. The first thing to happen was that the swarm of clawcraft surged forward faster than expected, some of them dipping low and then rising fast, coming up underneath Thrallyin. This forced all the wyrms to evade hard to one side or the other. Simultaneously, Lyokh saw on his HUD a flash-warning. His STACsuit had detected a sharp decline in gravity. Then, before he knew it, the g’s dropped all the way to zero.
The worldship had switched off its artificial gravity.
He felt the buoyancy a second too late, just as the wyrm flock dodged out of the way of the rising clawcraft. The Brood had timed it perfectly, forcing the wyrms to evade in dynamic new ways, just as gravity vanished.
Lyokh was one of the unlucky ones, being caught off-guard, both hands on his rifle and none on an anchor point. He was already inches off of Thrallyin, floating away, before he reacted, momentum carrying him still in the direction Thrallyin had been going. But since the wyrm had banked hard, there was nothing to grab. Half a dozen men came free of Thrallyin, shooting forward along with Lyokh, twirling in the air as clawcraft streaked through them, the soldiers spinning out of control.
All the human craft went into strange spirals—their thrusters, previously working against gravity, now had no gravity to fight against, and so all starships and fighters surged upwards, fishtailing or rising unexpectedly, trying to adapt.
The worldship might have switched off its gravity to throw them off, but it still produced a pull of .13 g of its own, due to its mass. They fell slowly, slowly, slowly through the raging battlefield.
Lyokh didn’t hesitate to adapt. With the ground some twenty miles below them, he used a technique they had rehearsed a hundred times in zero-g. He found the battle brother nearest him, and spun himself in midair to bring his torso around, slamming into Tsuyoshi and hooking his feet under his Knight Companion’s armpits. Without thinking, Tsuyoshi did the same for the soldier behind him, and that soldier repeated the maneuver. They were now a four-segmented serpent, falling slowly in the worldship’s microgravity, making themselves a larger anchor for others to reach out to.
All around them, others were doing the same, forming groups of five or six, dialing up the strength of their STACsuits to whip one another around, dodging incoming clawcraft and attaching to other groups.
The groups swung each other around, maneuvering as they had trained, like chains interlocking with other chains. Groups gathered into larger congolomerates. Eight became eighteen, bcame thirty, became fifty. Soon this huge chain of armored killers formed a spinning circle, a snake chasing its own tail.
As they fell, resistance-less as feathers, they chose targets and fired. The snake’s segments had needles, dozens of Fell rifles firing in all directions.
Clawcraft passing through them were etched with rounds, usually coming apart in the barrage. Other clawcraft tried to slice into the armored snake, but were cut down by Novas that were swooping down to try and gather the falling soldiers. Lyokh used his natural-user interface to pinpoint the HVTs—high-value targets—and directed his men to concentrate their fire, bringing down whole squadrons with the assistance of the ’rakes.
When Lyokh’s group encountered another, smaller human chain, he spotted the leader, the “head” of the serpent. The soldier’s name popped up on his HUD. “Hoy up, Anderson! We need to make ourselves an easier target for rescue! Merging maneuver Theta! Execute!”
Anderson ceased firing at a clawcraft zipping by him, gave a command, and dialed his STACsuit’s strength to max as he whipped his feet. The motion was repeated down the twenty-man structure, the silvery serpent undulating and twisting in a way to make itself receptive to newcomers.
The sun rose higher over the world as Lyokh’s human chain came near. The soldiers all loosened up, some segments separated where they needed to, and received the other freefallers, merging as one.
Lyokh was the head of the massive serpent, numbering well over a hundred soldiers now. He was still firing, pausing only to toss his spent mag away and slap his last one home. When he saw the opportunity, he snatched a piece of clawcraft debris falling with them, latched on to it, jerking his legs around and slowly bringing the human chain back into a circle. Each soldier’s STACsuit’s spinal column braced them for the hard turn, and the deadly ring of humans was brought perpendicular to the ground, through smog and clouds of enemies.
Now their segmented compristeel serpent was over a hundred strong, their circle twisting at times in concentric waves like clay in a god-child’s hand, each segement firing in a different direction. Their tracer fire wafted and waved through the massive enclosed sky, slashing targe
ts and harassing enemies long enough for a wyrm or ’rake to finish them off.
“Artemis!” Lyokh shouted. “We need a pickup! ASAP!”
“On our way, we’re being held up—” The transmission was lost in a hail of screaming static.
“Artemis? Artemis!”
A Nova exploded overhead, and they saw a flaming warhulk fall from its rear and disappear amid a cloud of clawcraft and smog.
Targets were being highlighted all around them, too many HUD ghosts to count. While spinning and firing, Lyokh saw a flash of light from outside the dome—Ramlock had been destroyed. He received an update about it from Lord Ishimoto, but even though he seemed to have received it instantly, the transmission was an hour old.
The worldship was apparently canting farther, for the sun rose higher. Veronica’s light through the smog was actually beautiful, and for a moment Lyokh’s mind was elsewhere. What is it you think you’ll see out there that’s so great? The words of his father, soaked in disappointment.
I thought I’d seen wonder, but I’ve seen so much more, he thought, targeting the next clawcraft without even thinking about it, and slashing through it until his Fell rifle was spent.
Novas looped tightly around their ring and wove through it, defending them. The spinning of their great circle was now fast enough that it created g’s. Not bad, but enough to feel slightly sloshed, even dizzy. When Lyokh spied a ring of men heading towards them on a collision, he saw an opportunity to form a more powerful structure, and screamed, “Helix!”
Another undulating whipping motion spun the group into a twirling helix, with Lyokh at the top of it. He reached out with one hand and snagged the foot of the man at the bottom of the new chain, pulled him down. The soldier tucked his ankles under Lyokh’s armpits, merging their two chains.
“Artemis! ETA?” Lyokh shouted, even as he opened fire on a squadron of clawcraft with his fellows. “Artemis!”
They continued falling and firing. Occasionally, pieces of their helix would be sheared away by streaking clawcraft, but always the ones from the lower fragment splayed their bodies out, catching more wind resistance, and reattached themselves to the rest of the helix. Lyokh looked down at the ground, and saw it rising faster than expected. He felt a mounting tug at his chest.
The worldship was quickly reasserting arti-grav. Throwing them off again.
“Artemis—”
When a Nova swooped in below them, it went into a freefall with them, applying its reverse thrusters to slow down, letting the first group of soldiers land atop its hull. Another Nova soon swooped in to rescue the middle section. Lyokh was left with a group of fifty or more men, stranded in midair, watching the ground come rushing up at them…
…when Thrallyin, Rabastiik, and Torfindel came swimming out of a smog cloud ahead of them, mouths opened.
“Brace!” Lyokh screamed, as the three wyrms snagged groups of the men in their jaws, and the others clung, trailing from the wyrms’ mouths like noodles being slurped.
Lyokh had been snagged by Rabastiik, the 150-foot-long coil, and clung to its side, his body straddling its squamous armor, around the starburst emblem of the Knights of Sol that was etched across its side. Now they just hung on for dear life, as the worldship played with gravity, continually trying to throw them off. Thankfully, Task Force Mahl was still drawing most of their fire, and now the Novas and wyrm flocks were pushing hard in the clear.
Lyokh was clinging near one of Rabastiik’s mid-dorsal wings, and so he was bouncing up and down with each flap, and felt every hard bank in his organs.
“Sol Actual to Tamer Command! Give me ETA on waypoint?”
“Five minutes out, dead ahead, doyen,” Artemis said with a strained calmness that said he was focusing intently on his controls.
Lyokh turned his head, looking forward at their destination. Thirty miles ahead lay a massive sphere, miles high, hovering maybe a mile off the ground. The sphere was red, and rippled like liquid that had a million small pebbles tossed into it.
“Ziir, you still with me?”
“I’m here, doyen.”
“Is that our spot? Confirm.”
A few seconds past while more flashes came from the battle happening outside the dome. Lyokh looked up, and saw an Isoshi ship blown to slag, the Faedyans and Task Force Three racing to haul the larger pieces away with tractor beams or else blast them into smaller pieces, presumably to spare Deirdra their impact.
Then, all at once, there came a dozen new ships. All human, all Republican. Looks like Kalder finally called in the cavalry.
“Doyen,” came Ziir’s voice. “That’s our locale, all right. EyeSpys have raced ahead, and found an entry point on the backside. A bridge of some kind, a growth…looks like a sideways beanstalk—”
“Feed the info to Artemis, and confer with our demolition guys to start looking for structural weaknesses. If that is a part of the worldship’s reactor, we need to bring it down.”
“Copy that.”
A clawcraft chased them down, and Lyokh clung to a compristeel scale for dear life. Nine of his brothers brought it down with Fellfire, but not before its own fire had ripped through Thrallyin, killing three soldiers and wounding the hatchling. The explosion of the clawcraft sent debris into him, a shard smashing his visor. Atmosphere started leaking from somewhere. His suit’s neodymium seams tried to close it, but only managed a partial seal.
He heard the faint hiss in his ear. Saw the alarm showing atmo was leaking from his suit. He had limited air supply, maybe only a couple hours. Probably less. He might be able to breathe the atmosphere inside the worldship, but not for long, and not if they shut it off like they had the arti-grav.
Grinding his teeth in renewed determination, Lyokh looked at the spent ammo counter on his Fell, then did a one-handed transition from it to the field sword on his back. Activating the plasmetic edge, he shouted, “The wall!” and was joined by a chorus of others.
THE BELEAGUERED CAPTAINS sat around the conference table, their ten ships safely parked 1.2 AU away from all the fighting. Kalder cast around, observing their faces. They were as shaken today as they had been the month before when the remaining pieces of Ninth Fleet had appeared. A smattering of captains, executive officers, and political officers were arrayed around the room, some looking at forlorn as they would at a funeral.
“It’s the only way,” Kalder told them. “I’ve spoken with the Chief Presider extensively about this, and he will only continue in this vein as long as I remain lead coordinator of war operations.”
The rest of the captains looked between one another. Finally, General Hyatt said, “We of Ninth Fleet have a more formal Visquain, one better suited for these types of prolonged engagements, and with experience in fighting the Brood. We’ll take it from here.”
“Pardon me, but you don’t get to come in here, into this sacred War Room where we have assembled this coalition, and assert your installation into ultimate power as fait accompli.” Kalder shook his head. “You have experience, and we do need men such as you, but you haven’t the experience to deal with what’s been happening in Taka-Renault. I have my own captain for that,” he said. “And his advice has been most valuable.”
Hyatt snorted. “You cannot be serious. This man has not—”
“Hasn’t what?” said Desh from the back of the room. “You speak as if I’m not here. But since I am here, let me ask you, General, for all your ‘experience’ fighting the Brood…how many broodlings have you ever destroyed?”
Hyatt rose slowly to his feet. “You dare lessen the sacrifices of the many people that have died fighting these monsters under my command? Victories aren’t just who destroyed which ship, sometimes a victory is just laying down enough interference to evacuate a planet. You and I both know full-well that war is more complex than this ship defeating that ship—”
“Is it?”
Hyatt’s face turned a terrible shade of puce. “You insolent shit! If we are going to compare victories and defeats,
fine, let’s do that. How many battles had you won before you came here, riling this war up, and counting the victories of the Isoshi and Faedyans as your own?”
In that moment, Desh shot to his feet. Kalder watched, as everyone else did, as he rounded the table slowly. Kalder expected Desh to deck the older man, or head-butt him, or something. But instead, Desh stood inches away from Hyatt, then leaned in slowly, stared at him…and licked his face. Hyatt jumped backwards, faster than he would have if he’d been slapped, probably. He just stared at Desh.
“There,” Desh said. “You see? I’m not being thrown in the brig. I’m not being punished for insubordination, for humiliating a superior officer. And why? Because power comes from those who imbue others with it, and right now I am imbued with the power of the faith of this fleet’s crew. And you know it, too, or else you’d have already brought in the MPs to guide me below. You know we’re in charge here,” he said, gesticulating at Kalder, “not you.”
“You…you are the most hideous example of a naval officer I have ever seen. I can see now why you have the reputation you have.”
General Hyatt turned to face Kalder.
“I’m not asking you, Kalder, I’m telling you. Both the Senate, the Committee, and the Two Consuls have authorized myself and my Visquain to take over from here.”
No one moved. The War Room was quiet and gloomy, with lights flickering on and off indecisively. The vents were sputtering, cutting on and off, ready to declare defeat before the assembled captains were. The Sigil of the Republic was still stained with the blood of a steward who had been killed in here five days ago when a stray round from one of their own ships had torn through Lord Ishimoto’s redundant hulls. Thankfully, no one else had been inside, and the Rescue Foam had resealed everything seconds after the steward’s body had been sucked into the void.
At last, Kalder stood up, his long, fluffy beard entangling itself around the sash of his robe, and he took just a moment to undo it. This elicited a few scornful laughs from around the room at his expense, but he was a Zeroist, trained in how to endure the mockery of others. It fazed him not.
