by Ivan Ertlov
They were spacetime manifolds, hundreds of times more powerful than the models undoubtedly scattered throughout the star forge, which maintained the interference field.
No, these silent giants here had a very different purpose. They could not only bend space-time but fold it four-dimensionally, negate reality and impose new laws of physics on the universe.
Each one of them was fifty times bigger and stronger than Yrsha's main weapon, and that in turn had once been powerful enough to destroy entire planets. The Alliance had threatened to wage all-out war to the death of the last symbiont bearer for that alone, and yet it was only a toy compared to what Frank saw before him here.
Even at minimum power, this thing could destroy an entire fleet in the blink of an eye, but fully powered up, it would completely negate distances and masses, the barrier of the speed of light and all the limits of conventional physics. Thus, whoever controlled this weapon could wipe out any world, any sun, any system within hundreds, perhaps even thousands of light-years at any time.
No one should have that much power! This was exactly what the Council peoples had understood more than two thousand years ago; this was precisely the technology that had driven them to destroy the Terran system, to almost wipe out humanity in their act of desperation.
And with what?
With all the right in the world to do so!
History repeats itself, and we do not deserve a third chance.
The thought was as grim as it was frightening.
No matter how noble the goals and ideals of Mariella's father had been, no matter how fervently the people of New Earth longed for peaceful coexistence, the nature of their species made such an outcome impossible.
Of your species?
His species.
Frank swallowed and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He was crying?
Indeed, if only very reservedly. But it was sadness that took possession of him, sadness for what this new home could have become, what it meant for children like Lin and idealists like Mariella, for the families of those pilots who had laid down their lives for Frank and his friends today.
Home.
Family.
Friends.
The realisation hit Frank out of the blue, answering in a split second all the questions he had been asking himself over the past few days.
No more hesitation, no more doubting, no more thinking. He knew where he stood and what he felt, knew what he had to do.
With a grim, scary clarity, he strode to the foot of one of the arrays and set off in search of something very specific.
He found it, opened the flap, loosened connections, carefully cut through shrink sleeves and covers with the laser before reaching into his left thigh pocket, which was bulging wide.
*
Ice-cold determination turned into exuberant, even childlike joy when, after far too many corridors, far too much lost time, and the odd soldier shot, he finally saw his friends.
All of them and alive, though clearly battered. Not Dilara or Florbsh, but Troshk and Bettsy looked anything but healthy. The Durash had formed two additional pseudopodia, wrapped them like nooses around the metal gobbler's third main segment, and dragged it behind him. The Stormcommander, on the other hand, staggered more than he walked, supported by the astrotelepath, who waved tiredly but excitedly at Frank.
Hastily he ran to her, jumped to Troshk's other side and helped to support him.
Strangely, no one seemed hurt.
At least not physically.
Dila growled in disgust.
"They are as woozy as a mine sapper on payday, pumped to the brim with truth drugs. No idea how Freezemayer got hold of stuff that even works on a Creesh - but that's exactly what it does. And, oh boy, it knocked her out good."
Bettsy lifted her head segment with obvious effort, barely managing to bob her antennae and make a pitiful clicking sound.
"Sorry, Frank, I told them everything. The structure of Yrsha, how and where we found her back then, her jumping ability, her main weapon, just everything."
Maybe he should have been angry, upset, possibly even furious - but he just couldn't. It wasn't her fault, and right now, all he felt for Bettsy was pure pity. He forced himself to smile.
"Don't worry, this might even be good news because it will stop them from wanting to destroy Yrsha. She is far too important to them.
The Metaltaster hoisted gratefully but was not yet finished with her remarks.
"Besides, I told them that it was my layer's layer that ate your father."
Frank stopped - a mistake, because actually, they had to get to the edge of Hephaestus as quickly as possible, at least one, maybe two kilometres further so that Yrsha could bring them back safely.
But this news changed everything.
"Your layer's layer - your grandmother? Your nana ate my old man? Is that why the Speaker is so nice to me?"
Conflicting emotions wrestled for dominance within him, but strangely enough, the dominant one at the moment was simply gratitude.
Bettsy's antennae bobbed.
"That and my intercession. That's how you got your prospector's licence too."
It was an ice-cold shower, a deep punch in the pit of his stomach into the fragile construct of his self-confidence. But did it change anything about how he saw himself and his friends? Hardly, and if so, then quite differently than the Metaltaster expected.
"Thank you, Bettsy, for everything. And as for my father - you and I are sort of family with that, aren't we?"
This time the clicking was a bit more enthusiastic.
"Yes, that's exactly what I told the speaker!"
They started up again, and Troshk groaned. At first, Frank feared that this was a sound of pain, but obviously, only the memory of parts of the interrogation had returned.
"Shit, I am sorry, kiddo, I even told them about Bettsy and I doing it sometimes in your bed when you're out without us."
"You do what?"
Dilara giggled, and Troshk grumbled apologetically.
"You know, we spice up our love life a bit, bring variety into the games. Always just the sandpit or the hammock, that gets boring in the long run. And we have this fantasy of doing it in forbidden, unusual, especially dirty places."
Now the astrotelepath even laughed out loud for a moment.
"Oh yes, you will hardly find a dirtier place than Frank's cabin. Won't that traumatise his love sock? Have you discovered an aquarium there, well camouflaged, with a fellat- ..."
"So these are the supposed friends you are betraying your race for, Mister Gazer?"
They came to a much more abrupt halt this time - mainly because they were staring down the barrels of three laser rifles.
Cuck Freezemayer himself had appeared to stop them, and at his side stood a major each, tall, with short-cropped hair, features suspiciously resembling each other, although they were a man and a woman. Siblings, no question, or perhaps what the old legends called an Alabama couple. They remained stoic and silent, letting their rear admiral do the talking.
"In the history of every culture, of every race, there have always been traitors who acted against the interests of their own blood. But you, Gazer, are a particularly perfidious specimen. Do you want no satisfaction for the billions of dead we have had to mourn? No justice for the obliteration of our civilisation?"
Frank shook his head wearily.
"This is revenge, not justice. After all, humanity continues to exist - and I am proof that almost all doors are open to us, too, in this new world."
Admittedly, this was only a half-truth, and the rear admiral was by no means prepared to accept it.
"As servants of our enemies! As spies and henchmen of those who destroyed us! What a wretched life is this?"
Dilara hissed angrily, but Frank took a step forward, gesturing for her to stay quiet. This was a conflict between humans, and she didn't want to be one, after all.
"It is above all a life! What do you have in mind? Wipe out
Creesh and Borsht, maybe even all the Council's systems? And then what? There are dozens of fleets with thousands of ships out there, and they will come if you start your madness. You don't know their positions; you can't arm yourself against the storm that's about to hit you and New Earth! Yes, Rear Admiral, you will sow destruction, kill billions - but it will be Neoterra that pays the ultimate price in the end. And then it's really over for our species, this time for good. You cannot win!"
Cuck's face turned red, and this time, he sprayed saliva at Frank with his hateful words.
"So what! Then we die, we all die! But we die fighting instead of slowly dissolving into nothing! What then is the alternative? Assimilation, the greatest evil of all! A raceless and cultureless uniform mush that has no memory of former greatness! Look at the freak by your side, this product of racial infamy!"
It dawns on Frank that he means Dilara, and all his indignation at this, his revolt against these blasphemous words, against the abomination of reviling the astrotelepath, comes too late.
Freezemayer swings the barrel just a few centimetres, points his gun at Dilara.
Frank no longer thinks, no longer reflects, no longer even really feels.
He reacts, throws himself to the side, jumps into a spin that puts his body between the astrotelepath and the enemy.
Time stands still, no, stretches to almost infinity, he floats in the air, his back turned to Freezemayer.
His gaze meets Dilara's eyes, widened in horror, the big, beautiful googly eyes of his comrade, who can do nothing, condemned to witness his death.
Because Freezemayer is already shooting.
A volley of three hits him directly in the left shoulder blade.
The perfect shot through the shoulder and into the heart.
No mercy, no escape.
Not a chance.
Just three hot stabs that end his life.
His body completes the turn, sending him crashing hard onto his back, his head rolling to the side.
Shit, so that was it. Game over.
His brain is still working, processing the signals from his eyes, showing him a rear admiral and his cronies.
Horrified.
Incredulous.
Shocked for a fraction of a second and stepping away in the face of the matter-of-factness with which the human sacrificed himself for the freak.
And that's all the time they have.
A shadow flies through the air, accompanied by a scream that makes the metal corridors and hallways, the grating below them and the struts tremble.
It hurls over Frank towards the enemy.
Still airborne, Dilara draws her sickle blades.
A tornado of whirling arms and flashing steel sends spurting blood and shreds of flesh flying in all directions.
Severed arms and useless weapons fall to the ground, landing in ever-widening pools of blood.
Ritual blades cut through muscle and bone, through guts and throats, turning Freezemayer and his companions into a messy pile of human flesh garnished with the remains of their uniforms.
Frank's brain still gets it all, sees with growing satisfaction how his death is avenged in an all-consuming slaughter.
And how Dilara walks towards him, her blades thrown away from her, her arms stretched out towards him.
I'm not dead yet! I want to go for a walk!
Her ears quiver, tears run down her pulsating red cheeks, her shoulders twitch uncontrollably.
She no longer notices anything, no longer sees anything except him, the fallen friend.
And then she is above him, shedding hot, salty tears on his face and chest, putting her hands on him.
Her lips press against his.
The moment he had been dreaming of for years is finally here, and he only had to die to experience it.
Florbsh bubbles, gurgles and trembles indignantly.
"Dilara! Damn it! We don't have time for this! Frank isn't even cold yet, and you're already starting to eat him?"
"She's not eating him; she's kissing him. Bettsy and I had a bet going that it would happen sooner or later. Too bad the kiddo had to die for it. Metaltaster, you owe me a mandible job while I guzzle a bottle of frugal wine!"
"I owe you a sculpture patty! She doesn't eat him any more than she kisses him; she's performing CPR. Dila wants to resuscitate him!"
The warm and humid air was forced into his lungs, and Frank coughed, gasped, spat saliva and blood - thank God past Dilara, who witnessed his resurrection first with disbelief, then with joyful surprise.
Groaning, he lifted his head as the first wave of pain surged through the shock into his consciousness. The astrotelepath trembled with joy, her ears vibrating so quickly that they became shadows, outlines blurred in the air.
"By Grarosh's moons, Frank, you're alive! How ... how is that possible?"
With a tremendous effort of will and in agony he had not endured since the firestorm on Gahar, Frank rolled onto his back, showing more than explaining.
"A shoulder plate made of nanocarbon, coated with pure chucknorrisium. I had a - a mining accident when I was sixteen. The replacement part was cheaper ... cheaper for the Consortium ... than having it regrown."
It was an irony of fate that the avarice and greed of his former employers had now saved his life - but painful truth.
Very painful because the nanocarbon had prevented a fatal injury, but in the process, it heated up so much that his left back from shoulder to centre was one festering, blistering burn. Scorched flesh, crispy skin that was supposed to awaken Bettsy's hunger.
Hunger?
More like almost maternal protective instincts. Despite the drugs in her system, she began to rummage in her infinite bag, hastily clicking orders.
"Dila, Troshk, hold him still! Florbsh, slime him!"
"I can't do it with you watching me!"
"Then we'll just turn around! Come on, just do it!"
The next few minutes were a dance of pain and touch for Frank, balancing on the precipice of a merciful swoon, but it did not come. He didn't know what bodily function of the Durash secreted the healing slime - and no, he didn't want to know.
But the waves of agony became smaller, calmed, finally subsided in a pleasantly cool sensation that covered his whole back. Bettsy poured him a foul-smelling liquid that tasted like a Gulptar's pee, gave him two more injections in his right upper arm - and then he got back on his feet.
His back was still throbbing, but it was more a dull sensation than pain, his knees were still shaking, but he could walk again. Panting, he came up, saw Dilara standing in front of the remains of Freezemayer and his companions, giving him a brief, furtive, embarrassed look.
Was she ashamed of the tears she had shed for him?
Maybe, and in any case, she did everything to distract from her previous reaction.
"Frank, come here and look at this."
Cautiously, putting one leg in front of the other, he moved towards the gruesomely mangled corpses, finally coming to a halt in front of the cadaver of Cuck Freezemayer, whom Dila's blades had robbed not only of life but also of clothing and the last vestige of dignity - if Freezemayer had possessed any at all.
"I don't have any experience with human males, but that seems pretty small to me. Is that a below-average junk with you guys?"
Frank risked a glance and finally nodded.
"It's not just below average; it's tiny. We call that the dreaded micropenis. Often causes an inferiority complex which then seeks an outlet - racial delusion, belief in a divine mission, drooling comments on the Holonet, and so on."
Groaning, Frank stretched his back, carefully moved his left hand. Florbsh's slime did a good job; he was really ready for action again - and able to command.
"Come on, guys, let's get the hell out of here. Activate the transponders!"
*
The battle was drawing to a close, and on the whole it had gone as one might expect. However, the devil was in the detail - at least for the military fleet
.
Yes, they were on the road to victory; there was no doubt about it. Yrsha was badly beaten, only two ships flown by amazingly talented policewomen were still resisting, and one of them detonated moments after the place-to-place transport materialised Frank and his friends, confused but alive, on the bridge.
But at what price?
Eighty of the two hundred fighters had fallen, just cooling debris or diffusing clouds in the blackness of space. Thirty more had veered off, with damage that would keep them in the dockyard for weeks. A second destroyer was, well, destroyed, and the third was struggling with system failures, no longer forming a serious opponent, acting more as a stationary gun secured by its own squadron.
It had been a tough battle, the losses on both sides enormous.
Yrsha had superficial damage to nearly every part of her hull; the left of the smaller side windows on the bridge was dull and soot-blackened, casting precarious blisters on the outside. Two of the plasma launchers were silent, and most of the redundancy systems were fried.
But even worse, even more alarming was the state of the energy reserves - they had a mere eighteen per cent left, not enough to make a self-sufficient jump, not here, not even close to the system.
Frank and Dilara sink into the triad, share their pain with Yrsha - and accelerate. A barrage from the side plasma guns, carefully dosed, sparing the energy reserves, putting the rest into acceleration and evasive manoeuvres.
"Guys, we need to get to the Kundahar wormhole!"
"Why, Dilara? I don't have an expander!"
"Yes, but the enemy doesn't know that! So, maybe they know from Bettsy and ..."
"No, I didn't; we weren't asked about that. They know that Yrsha can jump anywhere, but that a wormhole is no help ..."
"Exactly, that's what I mean. Frank, Yrsha, trust me - on to the wormhole!"
They fly loops with the last companion at their side, deflect attacks from the flanks, and take more hits.
The armour heats up, Frank now feels all over his body, in empathic connection with Yrsha, exactly the same pain that recently covered his shoulder.
