by Neal Asher
"Move back from the door!" bellowed an amplified voice.
From her knapsack Yishna removed a box and a coil of cable, plugged one end of the cable into the box and the other end into something behind the panel. After a moment she cursed, then scrabbled in her knapsack for something else. A fusillade of disc-gun missiles crackled against the bulkhead to our right and left, scarring metal and hitting us with splinters that hurt like the grit flung from a shattered grindstone.
"This is your last warning!" the voice bellowed again. "Move back from the door!"
"I've got it!" said Yishna, in triumph.
As the door began opening, it seemed the marksmen could hold off no longer. The racket was horrible, vicious. Sparks and coils of metal zinged through the air all around us. I saw Yishna spin to one side, clutching her shoulder. Orduval jerked forward as if someone had just placed ice against his back. I felt a violent tugging at my clothing. Glancing down I saw a great splash of blood across my middle, spatters of blood elsewhere, some of them spreading.
"Oh," said Orduval, sounding both surprised and somehow disappointed. He made a glutinous coughing sound. Then, turning slowly, he released his hold and drifted, head bowing and breath exhaling in a long sigh. There was a hole in his back nearly the size of someone's head, and blood pumping from severed arteries was beading in the air.
"Orduval!" Yishna's cry was anguished.
I guess the cage cut down on the number of projectiles that got through, but not enough. In one brief moment Uskaron had become just a legend that would live on here. I felt sickened and unutterably sad. Yishna's grief echoed all around me, as the suited figures descended around us. The door was fully open now, but I knew that other security precautions lay within, and that without her expertise I would be going no further. I didn't even know how much of the blood spattered on me was my own, but in any case I shut down my heart and lungs and allowed myself to go limp. I lapsed immediately into the apparent death that only Rhodane knew to be illusory, I don't know why.
Harald
Ironfist shuddered under multiple impacts delivered by the weapons on Platform Three, but its shields were still holding well and those impacts grew less intense as, with a roar reaching a crescendo, the great vessel entered upper atmosphere. On one of his screens Harald observed some detonations in the mid-section of Desert Wind, which then slewed aside from a growing debris cloud. He waited for a few minutes, to watch the same ship straighten up. Then, checking a tactical feed, he swung his view to one side to see a Combine assault vessel bucking under the multiple impacts of coil-gun missiles, before spinning down out of sight, burning as it went.
"Franorl, status?" he barked.
The other Captain did not answer immediately so Harald pulled up a view of Desert Wind's Bridge.
Franorl looked harried as he stood, arms akimbo, over one of his crew.
"The fire suppressant isn't working," said the subordinate. "And I can't shut down the line."
"Then close the section down and vent it."
"But, Captain, we're in atmosphere."
"Very thin atmosphere," Franorl observed.
Switching to another camera, Harald felt his gut tighten as he observed, from inside the ship, a hole ripped through the hull, glowing wreckage and two charred corpses stuck to the deck. Almost in sympathy with this horrible image, his head began to throb violently, and he automatically reached into his pocket for his painkilling capsules, taking two of them at a time now.
Pulling his view back behind closed bulkhead doors, Harald saw crew clad in survival suits battling an oxygen fire, which was fed by a broken line and maintained by the partially molten remains of a white-hot shield generator. Metal was burning. He heard the order given to evacuate that entire section and watched them run for safety, some not making it in time through the rapidly closing bulkhead doors. Another set of doors near the impact site then opened, and the air pressure inside exploded into the meagre atmosphere outside, sucking with it both fire and remaining people. Some crew members managed to hold on, others became fuel to the flames and burned a greasy yellow as they screamed out into the gulf. The inferno diminished but, still fed by the line, did not go out until a brave engineer in a heat-resistant suit finally tracked down the line's source and closed it manually.
"Franorl, status?" Harald demanded tightly when this was all over.
Captain Franorl appeared on Harald's eye-screen. "We took a hit, sir, but we have it under control now. Minimal casualties."
About thirty, by Harald's count.
The roar reached a climax, as if Ironfist had now entered the peak winds of some hurricane—which in essence it had. The firing upon them had become intermittent, but it seemed Combine personnel were now using steering thrusters, trying to tilt Platform Three so as to bring its big guns back on target.
"Increase to one-quarter drive," Harald ordered. "We need to get—"
Tactical alert.
Harald tracked down the source and called up the relevant views. Resilience, poised out from Corisanthe III, had taken a major pounding. There were three definite hits upon the hilldigger which had rather neatly taken it out of action. He felt a surge of uncharacteristic panic upon seeing this so soon after the enemy's successful strike against Franorl's Desert Wind. Were Combine forces employing some new type of weapon? His panic slowly receded as he carefully analysed the three strikes made upon the ship, and realised how conveniently placed they were. A now familiar anger flooded in to replace the panic and he found himself up on his feet, pacing back and forth before his array of screens.
"Orvram Davidson," he said, addressing the mutinous Captain of Resilience. "Perhaps you did not learn anything from Tlaster Cobe?" He would now put Davidson's hilldigger on a course to ram Corisanthe III. Those aboard the station would then have to destroy the approaching ship or themselves be destroyed. However, even as he opened up the channels to seize control, there were further explosions aboard Resilience: fuel lines, generators, a whole network of systems. The sabotage put the steering controls of that hilldigger beyond Harald's reach.
Orvram Davidson now appeared on one of Harald's large screens. "Oh I did learn, Admiral Harald," replied the Captain. "I think we've all now learned that our overall commander is quite insane, and was so even before some sensible soul managed to put a bullet in his head."
This reply was delivered on uncoded general address, so could be picked up by anyone, even though Harald had supposedly shut down the young Captain's ability to broadcast. The voice coming from the screen speaker also seemed excessively loud. Harald paused in his pacing and glanced about the Bridge, noting how crew were turning to look over towards him, though hurriedly returning attention to their tasks upon catching his glance. The ache in his head still growing, despite the painkillers, Harald began tracking Resilience's systems, trying to find out how Davidson had managed this communication. Abruptly, vividly, he remembered Cheanil, wounded aboard Defence Platform One, and then apologising for her stupidity in getting herself shot because she could not resist grandstanding. Harald cursed himself for his idiocy in contacting Davidson to indulge in similar grandstanding, before trying to seize control. Yet he also felt a gratitude to Davidson as other memories began to surface clearly in his mind's sea.
"You know, Harald," continued Davidson, "I almost made the mistake of respecting you, and I really wish you could have been my Admiral. I would have followed you readily into battle, confident in the soundness of your tactics and knowing we had every chance of winning. But not into battle against my own kind, Harald. Never against my own kind."
There it is. Somehow Davidson had managed to do a bit of reprogramming of his own—the ship's computers were telling Harald's programs that there was one less broadcasting array than there actually was, so they were ignoring it, ignoring the one Davidson was using. Harald began to cut and paste some of his control programs to get around this problem, meanwhile wondering how much help Davidson might have received from other supposedly l
oyal officers.
The Captain continued, "We see it revealed in Uskaron's history, when he asks why it is that some of the worst monsters seem to be the most capable of men, when the—"
With tired contempt Harald shut down Davidson's ability to communicate. What a puerile question, and certainly not the one Uskaron—who had Harald's utmost respect—actually did ask. As Harald recollected, the question was rhetorical: Why do people follow capable monsters into war? And the answer to this provided a whole chapter on fear, manipulation and the powerlessness of the individual.
Abruptly weary, Harald slumped back in the Admiral's chair.
It didn't seem so comfortable now.
Director Gneiss
Upon observing Harald's failure with Resilience, Gneiss allowed himself a tight little smile, which faded as soon as he brought his attention back to the other rebel hilldigger, Stormfollower. Within a few hours it would hit atmosphere like Ironfist and Desert Wind, but without the benefit of engines to keep its million-ton weight in the sky. Making some calculations, Gneiss assessed that the ship would remain pretty much intact on its way down, though by the time it hit the Brak sea it would be burning inside, and any of the 4,000 or so aboard who survived the descent would probably be glad to finally die. Perhaps because of a strange kind of excitement he felt at the prospect of finally meeting the Consul Assessor, Gneiss also felt impelled to take an action that was rather out of character. He abruptly opened communications with the Station Director of Corisanthe III.
"Roubert, how are you holding up there?" he asked.
Glass gazed at him suspiciously. "That depends almost entirely on what you are going to request of me, and how much it is going to cost this station in wealth and lives."
"Do I seem so transparent to you?" enquired Gneiss.
"On the few occasions when you want your intentions to be read, you are utterly transparent; the rest of the time you are as opaque as the Worm itself."
Gneiss just stared at him, not quite sure what to make of that.
"What is it you want, Gneiss?" Roubert Glass asked impatiently.
The question seemed to knock Gneiss's mind back into motion, as if for a while it had simply stalled. "You have now only to defend your station against the attacks from hilldigger Wildfire, and I see that you've been able to launch some supply ships to service Defence Platforms Three and Four."
"Yes, we sent eight ships, and lost one of them. What's your point?"
"My point is that there, within Corisanthe III, you have two space liners near to completion—ships capable of taking thousands of passengers…tourists…on cruises beyond Sudoria."
"Those lumbering giants won't be able to help us."
"I don't intend for them to help us. I am thinking about 4,000 or so Fleet personnel."
"Why would I want to risk my own people to save them? In fact, it's distinctly possible that if I order my men to do so, they'll mutiny."
"I'm talking about Stormfollower," said Gneiss.
"I know precisely what you're talking about, Gneiss, and I think this is one for the Oversight Committee. You've been given powers to conduct our defence, but I'm not entirely sure this is a defence matter."
Gneiss sat back, thinking how easy it was to forget the limitations of his powers. After a moment he put out a call on the conferencing channel reserved for Oversight. His screen immediately divided into six. One of the frames remained blank, his own; Glass occupied another frame, then over the next few minutes other members of the committee began to appear. Only one frame did not fill, that of the Director of Corisanthe II, who probably had enough problems already to deal with. However, a number in the corner of that frame showed that Rishinda Gleer had been made his proxy. Once assembled. Gneiss explained his plan to them all.
"It all seems very altruistic," said Rishinda, "and I am wondering if at present we can actually afford altruism."
"Then try to look at it from a completely selfish perspective," said Gneiss. "Very shortly we'll be receiving evidence that exonerates us in the current crisis and confirms Fleet's aggression as the cause. Once this fight is over, such evidence will put us in a very good position, as far as planetary politics is concerned. However, many in Fleet and many supporters of Fleet will still be strongly against us. A life-saving rescue such as this will likely put over 4,000 Fleet personnel in our debt, and may go a long way to change the attitude of the rest."
"Gratitude is very much overrated," observed Glass, "and can quickly sour."
"That is all a matter of degree," said another committee member, "and something that can be debated endlessly."
"We do not have time for debate," added Rishinda.
"Then let's consider the possible cost," said Glass. "Our liners are unarmed, so if we send one out it will have to remain, where possible, under our shields, and where that is not possible would have to be defended by war-craft. This could not only cost us lives, it could well cost us the liner itself."
"Why would Harald want to attack an unarmed liner heading away from where he is conducting his attack?" asked Gneiss.
"It would be nice to think the man is operating with utter logic," said Glass. "But remember it was he who sent Stormfollower on its way down anyway. What purpose does that serve?"
"Maybe an object lesson to the crews of the other ships whose control he has usurped?"
"We have no time for all this," interjected Rishinda, peering at something off-screen. "I suggest we put it to the vote now."
"Seconded," said Gneiss. "Those against sending the liner?" Two vote icons clicked up. "Those for sending it?" Four, including Gneiss's own, now clicked up. Assuming that Glass voted against the rescue mission, that meant Rishinda and her proxy vote must have voted for it, since if she had not there would have been three votes against. The frames then began to wink out until only Glass remained, his image brought forward to fill the entire screen.
"How long will it take you to prepare a liner for launch?" asked Gneiss.
Glass peered at him carefully, his expression amused. "Very little time at all. Guessing that this idea might be mooted, I started fuelling the liner and warming up its reactors some while ago." He checked something to one side. "In fact a small command crew is boarding right now."
Gneiss found himself annoyed at his own assumptions. Of course there was no way he could tell if Glass really had voted against rescue. Maybe Rishinda's votes had been the two opposing ones. He shut down the connection with Glass and leaned back. Then, observing that Dalepan was trying to contact him, he opened that connection next.
"We've had a problem with our visitors," announced the OCT.
"Problem?"
Dalepan was looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Internal security has been very tight. We could not afford any attempts at sabotage."
"What are you trying to tell me, Dalepan?"
In a flat monotone, Dalepan imparted the bad news.
18
After Fleet's hilldiggers had finished pounding Brumal, ground forces were landed and hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Fleet marines and GDS troops had already fought their enemy in this way aboard ships and stations, often when the objective had been to obtain intelligence, capturing prisoners to interrogate or technology to study. Initially the groundside fighting was savage, especially against the surviving units of the quofarl, but the Brumallians had been demoralised by the blows struck against them, and that firm consensus that had maintained them for a century was breaking down. Gradually they just abandoned their effort, and the Sudorian forces, still fiercely keen to exact vengeance for a century of war, ceased to be units of soldiers and instead became extermination squads. I have no doubt that the intention of many serving in Fleet was genocide, but luckily the Admiral and a majority of his Captains became appalled by the atrocities committed on the planet below them, and were also sensitive to the growing revulsion felt by those back at home to what the media managed to broadcast of their 'Sudorian Victory'. The killing then ceased, fortunately before
the discovery of three surviving Brumallian cities. We won the War, it was finally over, but few felt the inclination to celebrate victory, seeing it rather as a timely ending to something sordid and demeaning.
— Uskaron
Harald
Wildfire's bombardment was not sufficient to keep Corisanthe III nailed down, but then his original plan had been for more than just one hilldigger to deal with that major station. He rubbed at the line of hardened glue on his head. The ache seemed to have now travelled down to seat itself in his eye-socket, which was making him increasingly irritable, so those abrupt surges of anger were occurring more often. He guessed this was as much due to the pressure he was under as his injuries. How much easier it would have been if he could depend totally on those around him.
As his own ship Ironfist, accompanied by Desert Wind, now approached the next Defence Platform, Harald studied Corisanthe III on one of his screens. He instantly noted a deal of activity to one side of the point where the resupply ships had been departing. Combine assault ships were now gathering there, and he wondered if this was the beginning of some attack planned on Wildfire. Then he observed a line cutting down the surface of the nearest section of station. This line grew wider and wider and after a moment he realised he was watching a massive set of space doors opening. They finally slid back to their limit, then something huge began to nose out. In shape it was like the bow of an ocean-going ship, the glint of wide inset windows along its sides.
Some new weapon, perhaps?
