Yellow Eyes lota-8

by John Ringo

  “Freeze and stand to!” Digna shouted, when the rocket battery announced “Up.” Immediately, every gunner pulled back from their sights and — joined by the rest of the crew — stood at attention by their systems. She clicked the stopwatch in her left hand when the last of them had frozen. She looked down at the watch. Not too bad. Not too bad, that is if they’re reasonably on target.

  Determinedly, Digna began to walk toward the center launcher, or base launcher, of the battery. “Tomas, see that none of them play with their sights.”

  “Si, doña,” Herrera answered.

  Digna didn’t really give the order for Herrera’s benefit. He’d been through the drill so many times he didn’t need to be told. Instead it was for the benefit of the crews. Those girls didn’t need to be tempted into the ass-whipping they would get for cheating; bad enough the ass-whipping they would receive if their launchers were not reasonably close to the target data.

  But the launchers were. They were actually better laid than Digna had expected. Perhaps the constant drilling in the fire plan, plus a few contingency fire missions, had done the trick after all.

  Patting the base launcher crew chief — another of her almost innumerable great-granddaughters — affectionately on the shoulder, Digna said, “Well done, child.” Then she climbed down from the launcher and proceeded to walk to the next, the eagle-eyed Herrera keeping watch still that no gunner played with her sight.

  In walking to the next, Digna also had to cross the hard-surfaced road that led further into the valley north of Santa Fe. She looked up the road and wondered just what the devil was there, still hidden and still under guard by gringo military police. The gringo mechanized regiment she knew about, of course. But it was the other things, the things that had come in covered and kept under guard, which really excited her interest.

  The “goo” of the suit kept him comfortable and free of sores. The automatic food processors converted his waste into edible mush, still. Some of it even tasted half decent, though there was no joy to be found in the almost textureless gruel. Even so, Snyder wondered if he were losing his mind. His AID had warned him that might happen.

  He’d lost track of time long since. Ever since he’d felt that last jarring, and felt it only slightly because of the goo and the suit’s normal dampening, there had been nothing. N.O.T.H.I.N.G. Sometimes, in those weeks, he had been able to track the battle. But this was rare. Without his suit to translate the Spanish into English even the radio calls were meaningless. They were meaningless, that is, except when they were frightening. He had heard too many young Spanish voices end in screams, pain and panic.

  In between those times of dimly or not at all understood radio calls, he had slept a lot. At least his dreams had given him some escape from the silvery-goo-blahness.

  Nothing to do. Not a book to read. No music. Not even a fucking projection of a fucking map to study. Please, God, not too much longer. I can’t stand it much longer. Win or lose, God, GET ME OUT OF THIS SHIT!

  Snyder wondered if the battle was over, if it had passed him by. He thought of his battalion, lying asleep and helpless in their suits as the Posleen took them and, one by one, hacked the suits open to get at the meat inside. He imagined his men, thus abruptly awakened, giving one final scream of horror each before…

  Shaken, Snyder forced himself to calm. At least, it was a semblance of calm. His AID, had it been awake, would not have been fooled.

  Darien Province, Republic of Panama

  The sniper had made a guess, based on his experience in the Army and in the jungle, that this particular tree would be likely to rise a few meters above the surrounding canopy. Sergeant First Class Heimeyer, short, stout and incredibly strong, had spent more than an hour ascending this tree and working his way into the topmost branches. Once there, he had spent even more time in hauling up his weapon, a .510 Whisper manufactured by SSK industries in Wintersville, Ohio. The .510 was a special purchase, Army Special Operations Command having its own ways about such things. Built on a Finnish Sako TRS-G action, it was in every way a marvel of human engineering and manufacture.

  The rifle and the cartridge it fired were called “Whispers” because the bullet was subsonic, making no audible crack in its flight. With a suppressor attached, the thing was capable of minute of angle accuracy at six hundred meters. In the hands of a first class sniper, and the sergeant had been honor graduate from his sniper course and a national level competitor for years, this meant a reasonable probability of a killing hit on a target the size of a Posleen at nearly a kilometer, this despite the low velocity and it high angle it required. The likelihood of a kill at six hundred meters or less approached unity.

  Having spent hours in ascending, and more in hauling up his rifle and other equipment, the sergeant spent the better part of a day in preparing a firing position worthy of his weapon, himself and his enemy.

  The tree swayed a bit in the breeze. There was nothing much to be done about that; he’d just have to factor it in to his shooting. Moreover, the leaves were thick up here, where the tropical sun fed them directly. This severely limited the sergeant’s field of view. Even so, ever practical, the sergeant instead concentrated on doing what he could. He crawled out far on a stout limb and sliced away no more leaves than required to give him a fair arc while still providing concealment. He’d also tied in a crosspiece, in the fork of two branches, to give him stability. Additionally, he taped and tied a part of a sleeping mat directly to the main branch to give a more comfortable firing position.

  Below, the team that had accompanied the sergeant filled sandbags which they piled into a small basket a few at a time. These Heimeyer hauled up a few at a time to reinforce his position. Several deep, the sandbags tended to explode individually but harmlessly when struck by the aliens’ railguns, absorbing most of the energy in the process. By morning, the position was ready.

  Then the sergeant settled down to wait.

  Rodriguez Home, Via Argentina, Panama City, Panama

  “It’s the waiting I hate most, Alma,” Marielena sniffled. “Not knowing if he’s dead or alive or even on this planet. Not knowing what’s to become of me, or the baby or… or any of us.” Her hands went automatically to cover her still unswollen stomach. The thought of the aliens slicing her open to get at the delicacy of her unborn child was too much. Nausea rising, in tears, she ran for the bathroom.

  Posleen Territory, West of the Nata Line, Republic of Panama

  Hungry, hungry… and I, at least, am eating. The same cannot be said of the host.

  Binastarion looked down from his tenar at the long dun-colored columns marching below. There was something in their shambling gate that told of weakness of body and spirit. He’d already had to give the order to his underlings to kill and butcher one in twenty of the normals to keep the remaining nineteen going. One in twenty, though, at what the normals ate, was not enough. He knew he must call for a rest before trying to assault this next threshkreen line and that, when he did so, another one in twenty of the host must be given to feed the rest. Otherwise, they would not have the strength to fight through the human defenses.

  It would all be worth it, though, if the People could only win through. Ahead, past the humans’ lines, were literally millions of thresh and more millions of food animals.

  And there was a new thought, too. Though he didn’t know where it had come from, the Net had what appeared to be an open offer from the thresh of the continent of Europe. Perhaps the offer had been uploaded by a Darhel AID. Binastarion put nothing past the Elves.

  In any case, the thresh of Europe or their Darhel patrons seemed to be suggesting that, should Binastarion and his clan succeed in taking control of the broad ditch that connected the two major bodies of water on this miserable world, trade — a human and Darhel form of mutual edas — might be possible, if the ditch could be kept functioning to allow European water vessels through.

  Could he count on the thresh to so succor him? Binastarion didn’t know. He did
know that he didn’t care an abat’s hindquarters for what happened to the clans of the People fighting to conquer this Europe. Why should the Europeans care any more for the fate of the humans of these two continents?

  It was a new notion, this idea of trade with an alien species, and one that required careful thinking through. Perhaps such an arrangement could be beneficial enough for Binastarion to raise his clan to mighty heights before this world was plunged into orna’adar. Perhaps…

  Ah, never mind all that for now. I am counting snack-nestlings before they are gutted. For now, I must get to this next line. I must feed my host. Then I must break through the tough shell to further feed upon the soft meat of these thresh. In any case, I have my doubts about enough of my clan being trainable enough to operate this waterway. Perhaps if my son, Riinistarka, had lived. The clan chief felt a great stab of pain at the loss. That one had been something special to his God King father.

  Assembly Area Pedrarias, East of the Nata Line,

  Republic of Panama

  Suarez stood on a little knoll, surrounded by the troops and tracks of the 1st Mechanized Infantry Division. He had walked here from his headquarters near the Inter-American Highway, neatly spaced between both divisions of the heavy corps.

  The vehicles lay under nets, though the proper term was “screens.” These had two important functions. One was to shield them from view should the Posleen attempt either a raid in their flying sleds or a more significant attack with one of their landers. They hadn’t done so, yet, but Suarez had to consider the possibility. The other reason was simple shade. This was no jungle area, though it had trees, but rather was mostly open savannah. Without some cover from the glaring sun the soldiers would have roasted.

  Suarez wiped a coating of sweat from his brow. It’s hot enough to roast even with the camouflage nets. How much worse would it be without them?

  Normally, the maneuvering troops would have been entitled, doctrinally, to their choice of ground, pushing the artillery, etc., out to more unfavorable terrain. This had not been possible. With twenty-six hundred guns and mortars lined up within a few miles of Nata Line, there had simply been no room for the mechanized forces.

  Suarez tried to envision what it would be like when those guns released a deluge of steel onto the Posleen massed in the attack. The mind just boggled; nothing like it had been seen on Earth since the great battles of annihilation fought between the Germans and the Russians from 1941 to 1945.

  There were more artillery weapons, too, nestled north and south among the hills of Chitre and the mountains of the Cordillera Central. These were mostly rocket launcher regiments, each with a battalion of cannon artillery as much for self defense as for any other reason.

  And then, too, there were the two gringo warships that would lend their fires. Suarez and Boyd had boarded each of them a few weeks previously to help weld awards to their turrets.

  Suarez thought of Daisy Mae’s avatar with a smile. Whoever thought a ship’s chest could swell at all, never mind that it could swell so much. Odd, too, that the ship should have asked for a smaller version, suitable for wearing around a neck. She’s a hologram; she can’t support anything material. Ah well, who knows? And the whys of the thing don’t matter anyway. For the good she had done us, and especially me, a little medal that she can’t even wear around her neck is a small thing.

  Funny, though, that that little bat-faced, green alien should have taken the medal so readily when it was delivered.

  USS Des Moines, Southwest of the Nata Line, Bay of Panama

  “Your two favorite colors are ‘ooh’ and ‘shiny,’ Ship Daisy,” the Indowy said with an alien smile.

  The actual medal was tucked away in a case, deep in the hold where Daisy’s “inauspicious cloning” project was coming near fruition. On the wall the Indowy had carefully hung the framed glass case containing her award citation. (A larger one hung near the officers’ mess.)

  Around her neck, however, she had projected onto and with her avatar the high award for valor given the ship, individually, and the crew, as a unit award. It was a simple cross, in gold, about the size of the United States’ Distinguished Service Cross. Unlike with that medal, however, all four arms of this one were even. A small ring was affixed to the top and a ribbon ran through that to hold the medal in front of and at the base of the neck.

  Daisy shot Sintarleen a dirty look, then, seeing he had spoken in jest, she answered, “It isn’t the ‘ooh’ and it isn’t the shiny, Sinbad. It’s just… well… the part of me that is the hull of this ship is a warship, has the soul of a warship. For decades, it yearned for the honor of battling for her builders. Now, it has the recognition of that honor, and — even more — of battling heroically. Though we are the same being now, still, I wear this representation for the part of me that was the original USS Des Moines.”

  Changing the subject, but only slightly, Daisy asked, “The skipper has seen me wearing the medal. Do you think he minds?”

  The Indowy snorted. “If he minds, it is only that he is embarrassed not to have thought of it himself.”

  “The crew?” she asked uncertainly.

  “About that I can say definitely, Ship Daisy, the men are proud of you and pleased that your avatar wears the award for all of them.” The Indowy hesitated, then said shyly, “I am proud of you as well.”

  “Thank you, Sintarleen. That means a lot to me.” Without another word, the avatar bent over and made a motion that, had she been flesh and blood, would have landed a kiss on the alien’s furry forehead.

  Interlude

  Guanamarioch and Zira, both, scratched unconsciously, almost uncontrollably, at the jungle fungus that had taken hold of their crests, their spaces between their claws, and — worst, by far, of all — their crotches.

  “I hate this place,” Guano said without emotion as he dug with a roughened stick at a particularly obnoxious patch of the crud that had taken hold of his left front claw. He hobbled unsteadily on three legs while doing this.

  Zira, ever calm, just nodded.

  “Whatever possessed us to come to this horrible world, Zira? It is nothing like home. It is nothing like any place I have ever even read of.” The God King’s voice lowered. “Well, it’s nothing like anything I’ve read of except the demon pits where — ”

  “Hold up, Guano. You’ve got some of those things on you again.”

  “What? Where? Get’emoff, get’emoff, get’emoff!”

  “I will. Calm down.”

  Pulling out a short blade, Zira bent over to examine more carefully the half dozen black, ugly and frankly (though a Posleen would not normally use the word) icky creatures that had attached themselves to Guano’s torso, perhaps at the last river crossing.

  “What are these called?” Zira asked Guano’s AS as he prodded at one of the little monsters with the point of his knife.

  “Leeches, Kenstain Ziramoth. They are not dangerous in themselves, but once they have finished feeding and drop off they leave oozing wounds that refuse to heal. These then get infected. In a place like this…”

  “Infected? Well… that is not so much of a problem for us; the Aldenata did a few things right. But the loss of bodily fluids and nutrients; this we can’t take much more of, not with the little flying horrors draining us daily.” The Kenstain looked at Guanamarioch’s torso where ribs were beginning to show. “No, they’ll have to go.”

  While Zira worked at removing the leeches, the pair heard overheard the muffled whine of several, perhaps as many as half a dozen, tenar.

  “Upper caste bastards,” Guano muttered. Zira, still working at the leeches, ignored it.

  Above the jungle-muffled whine, Zira and Guano heard sudden shouts of alarm. The alarm quickly transferred to them as they heard the sound of something crashing through the jungle canopy. The crashing grew ever closer for a few moments, then stopped. A few seconds later the body of a Kessentai thudded to the muddy jungle floor perhaps thirty meters away. The God King was obviously very dea
d, though without closer examination there was no way of telling what had killed him.

  Much louder than the tenar and the crashing body, the upper caste God Kings above apparently opened fire at something. Originating almost directly above, the sound of railgun and plasma cannon fire impacting the jungle trees soon came from all around. It was so loud that it completely covered the falling of yet another God King body, which hit the ground closer to Zira and Guano. A minute or so later, but farther off, yet another body struck dirt, a small deluge of leaves and broken branches coming down on top of and all around it. The firing from above redoubled and continued for long minutes.

  The jungle went silent then. “They must have gotten whatever it was,” Zira observed.

  Which Guano would surely have agreed with, except that even several minutes after the firing had stopped, another God King body, apparently flung from its tenar, crashed down almost on top of them. There was no firing after this, only the rapidly retreating whine of tenar heading generally east. On examination, this body proved to have a hole of about one half of an inch on the forward quarter of its torso on the left side… and a massive hole, oozing yellow blood and dangling intestines, on the right.

  Guano probed around the edges of the exit wound with his claws. He raised his crest, the crest beginning to tear as well as bleed from the constant scratching and said, “I hate this fucking place.”

  Chapter 31

  There are no atheists on battling tenar.

  — From the Scroll of Stinghal, the Knower

  Nata Line, Republic of Panama

  Properly for a clan chief, Binastarion kept well back, using his AS to project in front of his tenar a magnified image of the fighting ahead.