Eye of the Storm lota-11

by John Ringo

  So he had delved into the record of remaining officers on Earth and the nearby stars. An AID O’Neal said he could ‘probably trust’ ran the search, sifting for any former Fleet officers that weren’t corrupted by the Darhel. But there were so few. Most of the competent and honorable officers that survived the war had been forced out into retirement. More than a few of those, including every senior officer who had participated in the ‘reconnaissance in force’ that had relieved the Siege of Earth, had sustained mortal ‘accidents’ after retirement.

  The Darhel were nothing if not vindictive.

  Given the number of ships he had and administrative positions, currently, he needed six thousand officer that were trustworthy and about a similar number of NCOs.

  He had been able to find two hundred and thirteen officers and about seven hundred NCOs. Some of them weren’t what he’d call competent but they all had their hearts in the right place. They still weren’t a drop in the bucket and every day, in part because they were now looking at the real condition of the Fleet, there was another report of some critical failure.

  So he really had better things to be doing right now. But if he had to look at one more negative report he was going to commit seppuku.

  The target was a small nickel-iron asteroid, one of the Apollo asteroids that roamed the empty space between Earth orbit and that of Mars. It was conveniently close and since such asteroids were considered a potential threat it had long before been mapped.

  It also was about the size of a Hedren destroyer.

  “So we gonna do this or what?” Daisy Mae asked, arching. “I am ready to fire, Captain.”

  “Permission to open fire, Admiral?” Jeff asked.

  “Permission granted, Captain,” Takagi replied.

  “XO, engage target with QT guns,” Captain McNair said.

  The dreadnought was pointed more-or-less directly at the asteroid at a range of just over a million and a half kilometers. According to the mentat, the system should be able to lock within twenty degrees of forward and at a range of up to seven light seconds. They were right at the edge of range because Captain McNair did not want to be near something that was having ‘random energy conversion events’ going on.

  “Gunnery, lock target with QTs One and Two,” the XO said.

  “Locking,” the gunnery NCO said.

  On the screen it looked as if blue beams of fire lanced out to the distant asteroid. The long-range viewer showed that the asteroid was bathed by them in lambent turquoise.

  “Locked on target with QT One and Two, aye.”

  “Fire QT One and Two.”

  The beams now had started to shift sinuously as the ship and the distant asteroid moved at slightly divergent course. However, when the weapons fired, blue balls of chain lightning followed the bent beams like a pig sliding down the gullet of an anaconda. But much quicker.

  “Time to impact two seconds,” Gunnery said. “One… ”

  The long range viewers darkened as the asteroid was engulfed in white fire. When the ejected gases cleared, though, the asteroid was still there.

  “Looks… different,” Bill said. “But it didn’t blow apart.”

  “Target has lost fifteen percent of its mass,” Tactical reported.

  “Ouch,” McNair said.

  “The question, of course, is what that would do to an actual hull,” Admiral Takagi said. “Keep blowing up asteroids. I will find an appropriate hull to blow up. There is much that is not more than scrap in this system.”

  * * *

  “This is… a pretty good set-up,” Bill Boyd said, looking around the facility.

  “It is anything but,” the apparently young man standing by him replied. “However, it is the best we could do rapidly.”

  The warehouse was constructed of patched together I beams and patched together corrugated steel. Curved like a Quonset hut it was, nonetheless, nearly seventy meters across at the base and a hundred meters long. The whole facility was set on a much larger stand of concrete near the top of a small hill. Given the wear, Boyd figured the foundation probably dated from before the Posleen War and was the remnant of either a factory or warehouse. There were several more pads in the area, which Boyd found unusual. Generally, in former Posleen areas the ground was either pocked with craters or stripped to the soil and rock.

  The facility was at the edge of a burgeoning city. Called Freiburg, it was growing up around the former Koblenz Regional Defence Center. The center had been built around Fort Ehrenbreitstein, a massive stone structure dating to well before the First World War which perched over the town like a leopard. During the war it had been hammered by Posleen orbital strikes to the point that most of its structure was stripped off the mountain. However, when the SS colony returned to Germany they had centered around the natural defense point and only slowly spread out.

  When the Posleen took an area, assuming they had the time, they stripped most of the original facilities off, right down to tearing up the roads. Then they built their own civilization on top. So when the SS returned it was to a combination of wilderness, where the Posleen had removed all traces of the former habitations, and large craters from the Fleet forces that hammered every trace of Posleen habitations into the ground.

  The Mainz River joined the Rhine at Koblenz with hills flanking both sides of both rivers, narrowing down to cliffs upriver in both directions. On the flats, where the city had once stood, there were broad stretches of open area. Defense positions now lined the hills, maintaining a perimeter to keep the ferals out, while fields lined the east bank and the growing city formed on the west. To the north were more defense positions and in the distance could be seen a line of scrub where the wilderness terminated.

  “There’s plenty of room,” Boyd said, looking out over the city. “The roads could use work.”

  The latter were graded dirt and gravel and wound up the hill in a serpentine. They were well constructed, though, with regularly spaced run-offs and the center domed for drainage.

  “We still have little in the way of construction equipment and materials,” the man said with a shrug. “The road will do until we can get it paved properly.”

  Boyd didn’t know much about the “Herr Oberstleutnant.” The locals used their military rank in everyday conversation so the only way Boyd even knew the guy was the equivalent of a lieutenant colonel was by the way people referred to him. He’d introduced himself as simply Dieter Schultz. Boyd assumed the rank came from back in the War. The guy was clearly a rejuv.

  The oddest thing about Schultz was that he carried an old “Fritz” helmet with some flowers in it. Growing flowers, the bottom being filled with dirt. Boyd figured there was a story there, but he wasn’t going to inquire.

  “Mr. Boyd, shuttles are inbound,” Boyd’s AID interjected. “ETA five minutes.”

  “Better get started,” Boyd said, looking around. There were two groups and an individual, standing on the open area in front of the warehouse. And they were distinctly separated.

  The first were the locals. Dressed in patched jeans and homespun wool shirts, their rough boots showing evidence of hard use, they were otherwise a mixed lot. There were more than a few that had the very Germanic look to them, medium to tall, heavy of body, tending to light brown hair with a few true blonds. Mixed into the group were other looks. More than a few hooked Semitic noses, black hair, Mediterranean features, yamukas which were a bit of a shock. There were even a smattering of blacks, African from the look, not US derivative. A few of the group were clearly mixes of the different inputs, green or blue eyes, dark skin, hair every shade of brown. Male and female, most of them appeared truly young as opposed to rejuvs. They all looked as if they worked at manual labor quite a bit. However, Boyd could spot soldiers from a mile away and they all had the “soldier” look to them, even the women. They even tended to align in ranks.

  The second group were a collection of truly miserable looking Indowy. Boyd had spoken to their leader, briefly, and knew that they wer
e less miserable from being in the presence of humans, who Indowy were getting used to after decades, than the individual standing at the very edge of the concrete.

  The latter was something one rarely saw except as a sight picture or, in last instants, a blur of teeth: A Posleen God-king. About the size and general shape of an Arabian horse, arms that ended in talons jutting from a complex double shoulder, clawed feet instead of hooves, crocodilian face, smooth yellow and brown mottled skin.

  Unlike most Posleen, however, this one wore a smattering of clothing, a cowled rain shawl over his head, horse-like neck and shoulders. He was even wearing jewelry, an earring and two large gold chains around his neck. He looked fairly prosperous but almost as nervous as the Indowy. And he kept constantly scratching himself.

  He was the sinosure of all eyes. The Indowy kept giving him furtive looks as if they expected him to whip out a hidden knife and slaughter them all. The locals, who normally spent a good bit of their time hunting his kind for the still available bounties, absolutely refused to acknowledge his presence. He was neither a target nor a threat. Nor was he worth speaking to. He was, after all, a Posleen.

  “Reverend Guanamarioch,” Boyd said, waving to him. “We need to clear the pad. Shuttles incoming.”

  “Yes, Mr. Boyd,” the Posleen said, having trouble with several of the consonants. Posleen mouths did not have the same range as human.

  “Indowy Etari,” Boyd said, calling to the Indowy leader.

  The Indowy simply nodded his head, waving his group in the opposite direction from the Posleen.

  Schultz didn’t even have to call, he simply looked at the second in command who was with the group and then all stepped back into the scrub.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Schultz?” Guanamarioch asked, nervously.

  “Yes, Posleen,” the local said without looking at the being.

  “Is any of this vegetation hazardous? Do you have snakes in this area?”

  “No,” Schultz said, finally looking over at the Posleen and clearly puzzled. “It will do no more than get you wet.”

  “No thorns?” the Posleen asked. “No poisonous frogs? No poison-injecting ants? Nothing?”

  “No,” Schultz said, a touch angrily. “It is not hazardous!”

  “Thank you,” Guanamarioch said, stepping delicately off the concrete and into the scrub. He still looked around nervously and his scratching became intense.

  Schultz looked at Boyd with a raised eyebrow and the industrialist snorted.

  “Long story,” Boyd said. “The short story is that Guano is the sole survivor of a Posleen attack on Panama that thought the best route was through the Darien.”

  “I am unfamiliar with that reference,” Schultz said. He picked up the helmet and gestured for the Panamanian to step off the pad.

  “The Darien is a vast tropical swamp in the northern part of Colombia and stretching into Panama,” Boyd explained. “Nasty place. About the only people who can go through it and survive are the local Indians. We were in the middle of a battle when we got the intel that another force was coming up from the south. Nothing to hold the line except a short gringo… errr, American regiment, my old regiment, as a matter of fact. For a defensive line miles and miles long. No way they could hold off a Posleen attack.”

  “And?” Schultz asked.

  “The ‘attack’ ended up being just Guano,” Boyd said. “All the rest, we believe several million, were killed by the swamp and Indian militia. And he was in such horrible shape that all he wanted to do was surrender. However, since he never officially threw his staff, lost it, yes, threw it, no, he is still considered by the Posleen network to be a God-king. Terrified of the jungle and these days that extends to about anything resembling vegetation.”

  “And he works for you?” Schultz asked as the first of the shuttles started to descend.

  “I bought him from the Indian scout that captured him,” Boyd said. “Since he does count as a God-king he can turn on all sorts of little mechanisms. I’d have cornered the market on forges if the Darhel hadn’t jacked the price up. And now… ”

  “He can turn these on,” Schultz said, raising his voice over the hurricane of wind from the shuttles.

  “Precisely.”

  * * *

  “Arbeit macht frei,” Hagai whispered. “And here we are at work again when we should be having a day off.”

  “One of these days you’ll say that around the wrong person,” Frederick whispered back.

  The work group was not from just the Bruederschaft Michael Wittmann. They had been gathered as what the Ami called a ‘hey-you’ detail. Thus it was mostly the junior personnel. Until the next induction series, that meant Frederick and Hagai’s group.

  “What did I tell you,” Hagai continued, ignoring the jibe. “We are to be Star Troopers now, eh?”

  “I will recommend you for an intelligence post,” Frederick replied. “You’ll fit right in.”

  It was not true that all the intel spots in the Freiland brotherhoods were filled by Jews. It was just mostly true.

  “No, it is the life of a Panzergrenadier for me,” Hagai replied. “That’s where you get all the wine and women.”

  “You get drunk on one sip,” Frederick replied. “And the last woman you were with was a wet dream. So, since you are clearly going to be in intelligence, what is going on? All I know is what was on the distribution.”

  “We are going to Barwhon,” a French accented voice said from behind them.

  “Claude,” Frederick said without turning around. “And how are things these days in the Charlesmagne?”

  “Wine and song I think the little Jew said,” the French private replied.

  “You’re not exactly tall, Claude,” Hagai replied. “What position did you get?”

  “He’s in charge of picking the Oberfeldwebel’s ass,” Frederick said.

  He and Hagai had gone to gymnasium with Claude De Gaullejac but it proved the old dictum: Germans and Jews might patch it up but the Germans and French were going to hate forever.

  “I am the sergeant major’s driver,” Claude snapped. “I do not pick his ass.”

  “Okay, wipe it, then,” Frederick said, still not turning around.

  “Cut it out, Ox,” Hagai said. “And we’re not going to Barwhon. There are three planets threatened but the obvious assault vector is Gratoola. And, yes, the Hedren are smart so they might not pick that one. But the other two choices are very marginal. Barwhon is one, but it not only leads effectively no-where, it’s a nasty place to fight for either us or the Hedren.”

  “Well, my sergeant major says that we’re going to Barwhon,” De Gaullejac said as if that settled it.

  “Fine, when you French are on Barwhon, lost, we’ll be on… what was that planet, Jaeger?”

  “Gratoola, Frederick,” the Jew said with a sigh. “Do try to keep up… ”

  “On Gratoola fighting the enemy,” Frederick said. “We’ll be sure to send you any white flags we find.”

  “Listen you Aryan donkey’s hoof… ”

  “Quiet back there.” Oberfeldwebel Shonauger didn’t even turn around. He didn’t have to.

  “You know what they say about blonds… ” Claude muttered.

  “Yes, they have more fun,” Frederick said, even more quietly. “I’ll be having fun on Gratoola while you are lost in a swamp trying to explain to your sergeant major how you got there. And explaining to your Grandmother why you have run from the fight.”

  He was pretty sure that the little Frog didn’t hear him since the shuttles were closing.

  * * *

  The shuttles were cargo vessels, their bodies bigger around than a C-5 but half the length with stubby wings and noses that glowed with the heat of reentry.

  But nobody cared about the noses. It was the items revealed by their lowering ramps that all eyes were fixed on.

  Posleen forges were curved mountains of metal the size of two tanks stacked on top of each other. Their surfaces were dull, pebbled an
d almost featureless metal with a small control surface on one side. Each shuttle carried one and there was a rank of them stacked up and waiting to drop.

  The Indowy scurried to the first shuttle, bringing out grav-lifters and attaching them to the forge. Four of the computer-sized devices whined with the strain of lifting the mass of metal but managed it. As soon as the forge had been walked off the deck the shuttle lifted up to make way for another.

  Bill followed as the four Indowy walked the forge to its position and gently lowered it inside a chalk-marked outline. When they cut their grav-lifters there was a faint crunch as the forge settled into the concrete.

  “Now what?” Schultz asked as another was brought in.

  “Reverend Guanamarioch,” Boyd said, raising his voice. “Indowy Etari, I need power.”

  “Coming,” the Posleen replied, hurrying down the length of the facility. The four Indowy carrying the next forge flinched as he passed, nearly dropping the multi-ton device, but managed to recover.

  “We are stringing the cables now, Mr. Boyd,” the Indowy said from the south end of the facility. A group of Indowy were pulling heavy-duty power cables into the facility and preparing to attach them to the forges. “The fusion plant should be able to supply power for all the units.”

  Boyd waited until the cables were plugged in and the breakers engaged then turned to Guanamarioch.

  “You can turn it on, right?” Boyd said.

  “Yes, yes,” Guanamarioch said, pulling an Artificial Sentience out from under the poncho. He placed the device on the control board and cleared his throat. A string of Posleen came out, the language a harsh series of gutturals. “There. It is keyed for unrestricted access. The computer is quite intelligent as such things go. A wireless connection will work. But I have uploaded the designs you gave me. All that someone needs do is load in materials and choose what they want made.”