Vorpal Blade

by John Ringo

"More likely, it's a necessity in their diet," Julia said. "I am fairly certain, based on the biology, that the 'locals' are lost star-travelers that found a planet that was close enough to survivable for them to stay. Castaways or maybe a failed colony. There was one plant I found that was closer to their genetic structure than the dozens of others we've found. I haven't been able to gene-type everything, though. For all we know, some of the small mammals may be exotics that came with them. Anyway, that's the one anomaly and I'm not stating it as a given. It might just be extreme genetic drift. I will say that they are closer to this biology than humans are, and humans are close enough that I feel quarantine is fully justified. Sorry, Chief."

  "No problem," Miller said, sipping a bulb of cola. "I knew it was going to be quarantine when I opened the suit. I just felt . . ."

  "It was a great help," Miriam said. "I appreciate it. They were more accepting with a warrior present. They knew I wasn't one," she added with a laugh.

  "Miss Moon, can you describe the control method of the flying board?" Dr. Beach asked.

  "Not really," Miriam said. "Except it's like telepathy. I just got on and thought 'up' and it went up. From there on I just sort of . . . flew it and it went where I wanted to go. Ever used a Segway?"

  "Yes," Everette said, chuckling. "I even took a nose dive on one."

  "Well, the board was like that but more so," Miriam said. "You just lean and it banks. Think where you want to go and it goes. It might be very subtle reading of body clues but . . . We are not locals. So it is able to read both our body clues and those of the locals."

  "How do they produce them?" the CO asked.

  "They don't," Miriam said. "New ones turn up from time to time. They just find them while hunting. But rarely. Most of them are handed down over generations. They don't know where they come from."

  "So the next step, if I've read the manual right, is to make contact with a civilization," the CO said. "Get to work looking over the possible candidates. I'll give the science team two days to assimilate their data, then we'll meet again. Among other things, that will give maintenance time to do some work on systems."

  "There may be some neenion contamination," Staff Sergeant Driscoll said as Lurch opened up the armor.

  "Damn straight there is, Staff Sergeant," the armorer said, sighing and waving a blinking box over the interior circuits. "I'm going to be deconning this thing all day. Look, I've got to pull the motivator circuits; could you get somebody to run down to engineering and ask them for a can of ID Ten T decontaminant?"

  "Hell," Driscoll said. Top had pulled his whole team off on another detail as soon as they got back to the ship. The Wyvern bay was deserted except for himself and the crip. "I'll go get it. I Dee Ten T, right?"

  "Thanks, Staff Sergeant Driscoll," Lyle said, grimacing in pain as he crawled into the suit. "My back is really acting up."

  Driscoll, cursing under his breath, went to the far end of the compartment and opened up the hatch to the mid level. Dogging the heavy hatch behind him, he climbed down the ladder to the bottom, opened the next hatch, dogged it behind him, climbed down and then headed over to the hatch to engineering maintenance. Which was locked on the other side.

  "Hey," he said, hitting the intercom. "I need some cleaner."

  "Who's there?" one of the crew asked.

  "Staff Sergeant Driscoll, Second Platoon," Driscoll said. "I need some ID Ten T decontaminant."

  "Maulk, we don't keep that here." The hatch was opened to reveal a short, hairy mechanic. "The locker for that's up by the torpedo room. Ask Red. But you're going to need radiation gear."

  "What?" the staff sergeant asked, his eyes blinking.

  "Stuff's radioactive as hell," the machinist's mate said, sucking his teeth. "You're going to have to suit up."

  "We're going to put radioactive stuff in my suit?" Driscoll asked, confused.

  "Hey, welcome to the Space Marines," the machinist mate said, leading him into the compartment. "The radiation and the neenions counteract each other. Your suit will be clean when they're done. Heck, if we could figure out a way to generate neenions, we'd have a way to decontaminate anything. Unfortunately, they're only found around buttumium and there's no way to, like, bottle 'em."

  The machinist mate had gotten out a heavy rubber suit complete with respirator.

  "You're probably gonna want to strip to put this on," he said. "It's a hot mothergrapper."

  "How do I get to the torpedo room?" Driscoll asked when he had the, yes, hot suit on.

  "First, you're gonna need the tongs," he said, handing over a set of heavy metal tongs. "They're to carry the ID Ten T container. Now, to get to the torpedo room, you're going to have to pass through the conn. First, go up to the third level in Sherwood Forest . . ."

  The giant gas giant above, the blue and white planet they circled, reflected light from the gas giant lighting up the clouds below . . . Weaver never tired of the sight. So even though it was late in his shift and he should be doing paperwork, he was sitting in the CO's chair staring at the forward viewscreen when there was a buzz at the hatch to the bridge.

  He looked over his shoulder and his eyes widened as the COB passed a man wearing a full rubber decontamination suit into the conn. The man walked through to the far hatch, passing tactical and pilot as he went, then exited.

  "COB," Weaver said. "I have to admit I'm new to this game . . ."

  "He's going up to the torpedo room for some ID Ten T decontaminant, sir," the COB said solemnly.

  "ID Ten T?" Weaver said, nodding. "What's it used for?"

  "Neenion particle contamination, sir," the COB said. "It's radioactive, thus the suit. And the tongs, sir. Don't forget the tongs."

  "Uh, huh," Weaver said. "Think the CO is awake, yet?"

  "Should be, sir," the COB said. "And had his first cup of coffee."

  "And I'm guessing he'd like to see this, wouldn't he?"

  "That would be my guess as well, sir," the COB said solemnly.

  "ID Ten T, huh? Neenions. Why not weenions?"

  "A bit obvious, sir," the COB said reproachfully.

  "You must be Red," Driscoll said angrily, when he finally reached the designated area.

  "They said you wanted . . ." Red paused and gulped. "The ID Ten T decontaminant."

  "If you don't mind," Driscoll said, trying to rein in his anger. He was angry and it had been a long walk, and climb, to here.

  "Okay," Red said, pointing to the locker and backing away. "It's in there."

  "Great," Driscoll said, pulling open the locker. The only thing in it was a glass flask filled with a red glowing liquid. "How in the hell am I supposed to carry this on a ladder?"

  "Carefully," Red said, stepping through a hatch. "Drop that and break it and it'll flood the whole ship with radiation."

  "Grapp," Driscoll said, carefully lifting the container out with the tongs. "Why in the hell is it in glass then?"

  "Oh, and it will probably eat a hole in the ship," Red said from around the corner. "It's one of the strongest acids known to man."

  "Grapp me," Driscoll whined, carefully backing around and heading back to the missile room. "Can you help me with the hatch?"

  "Not on your life. Specially not on mine."

  "Neenion contamination, huh?" the CO said, leaning way over in his chair as the staff sergeant passed.

  "Yes, sir," Driscoll said nervously.

  "Drop that in my ship and you're going to be breaking rocks for the rest of your life."

  Driscoll finally made it back to the missile room and cautiously set the container down on the deck.

  "Great," Lyle said, picking it up and sloshing some onto his hand. "This is just the thing."

  "Wait!" Driscoll said. "That's radioactive!"

  "Yeah, but the neenions counteract it!" Lyle said, cheerfully rubbing some onto the surface of the motivator module. "See?" he continued, taking a taste of his finger.

  "Tastes like . . . sugar water," the armorer added, grinning. "Try writing it
out with the number, Staff Sergeant Driscoll. I-D-1-0-T."

  "Oh, you son of a—" Driscoll said, ripping off the respirator. "I'm going to . . ."

  "You're going to what, Staff Sergeant?" the first sergeant said, coming around the side of the missile tube and leaning up against it.

  "Top, I cannot believe that you have—" Driscoll said, furiously. "This is an insult to my dignity as an NCO!"

  "Walk with me, Driscoll," the first sergeant said, waving towards the far end of the compartment. "Walk with me, as the Disciples once walked with the Lord God. And perhaps open up your ears . . ."

  26

  Define "Demon"

  "I don't see how we can do a humble approach," Dr. Beach said.

  "The manual calls for making contact away from major civilization," the XO pointed out. "Appendix Sixty-Seven."

  "We could set down well off position and march overland to make contact," Dr. Beach said. "But that would have us contacting peripheral leadership. If we're going to make serious contact with these civilizations, determine their real technological and social advancement, we'll need to contact primary leadership. I'd say that a reasonably close approach to one of the major cities, while it has issues, is a better choice."

  "Like riots," Captain MacDonald said. "Crowds. Attack by local military forces or mobs."

  "Our orders are clear," the CO said. "We're to make contact with civilization on the planet. Somebody that can speak for a sizeable body if there's no world government. We're not to become involved in wars but we are to assess the political and military structure of the governments. So landing on the peripherals is out, whatever the book says."

  "There's a bunch of cities," the tactical officer said.

  "First Sergeant Powell," the CO said. "I would like your input."

  "I can only extrapolate from human civilizations, sir," Top said. "But, historically, contact like this would, in general, be better suited for a growing society. Indicators of physical growth in cities would be what I would look for. Such societies are already adjusting to societal change associated with that population growth. While they are going to be more volatile, in general they are more able to accept change. There are exceptions, of course. London didn't really start to regrow after the Black Death for some time and yet underwent a Renaissance. But, in general, it's the way to steer."

  "And while that will potentially increase the security threat," Captain MacDonald said, "it's unlikely that there will be anything we can't handle. As long as Miss Moon agrees to remain in her armor."

  "Then I have a suggestion," Miriam said. She and the chief were back on videophone. "The first city we've spotted. I was looking for some of the same indicators and it gives evidence of recent growth."

  "Okay," the CO said. "I'd say that's our target. Captain MacDonald is in charge of determining the landing zone. Think ability to contact and security."

  "What do you got, Top?" MacDonald said, looking up from the computer screen.

  "Interesting suggestion, sir," the first sergeant said, laying a sheet of paper on the desk. "This spot is located about six klicks from the outer edge of the real metropolitan area. It's a large manor that seems to be part castle. Broad lawns, so they apparently like the same sort of stuff we do, which is interesting. Most important . . ."

  "Those look like defenses," the CO said, pointing to spots. "Is that a trenchline?"

  "That, sir, is a ha-ha," Top corrected. "A deep ditch designed to keep the riff-raff out. This, in fact, looks very much like their version of Buckingham Palace, just when the duke of Buckingham still owned it. Some interesting indicators to be drawn from it. The fact that all serious defenses have been eradicated indicates that the area is free from external threats. Lots of ship traffic. I think Miss Moon hit the jackpot."

  "I was looking at this thing," the CO said, pulling out a similar printout. It showed an open plain and a very large hill apparently composed entirely of granite.

  "I saw that as well, sir," the first sergeant said uncomfortably.

  "And you have objections," the CO said. "It's certainly defensible. And if we need to make a quick getaway . . ."

  "As you say, sir," the first sergeant replied.

  "Say it, Top."

  "First, sir, there's the fact that there is no development," the first sergeant said. "There's no indication that even when this area was castellated, and there's significant indicators of previous castellation, that any occurred on that hill. So they deliberately chose not to build defenses on it. That could indicate anything from instability to taboo to religious reasons. Second, sir, it's a long damned walk. Communication with the ship will be difficult if we end up entering the city. And in the worst possible scenario, fighting our way back to the ship will be difficult or impossible. Those are my objections, sir."

  "And they're good objections," Captain MacDonald said, frowning. "I'd thought of the second one but not the first. Very well, First Sergeant, Buckingham Palace it is . . ."

  "To arms! To arms!"

  "What is my son shouting about, Sreen?" Lady Che-chee asked as her footman entered the room. The normally phlegmatic servant was showing clear signs of agitation in his demeanor, his ears twitching most distressingly.

  "Mistress," Sreen said, his nose flickering open and closed. "There is a . . . thing on the lawn. It appears to be a greater metal Demon."

  "The Demons are here?" Lady Che-chee said, rising to her full height of nearly two meters. "Bring my sword and have the pups evacuated immediately."

  "Yes, mistress," Sreen said, backing out of the room.

  "Nice reception," Jaen said as he stepped out of the elevator.

  The locals had lined up confronting the sub, which had landed on the broad lawn of the manor. The building had fewer windows than a similar structure on Earth, but otherwise was remarkably similar. There were two long wings centered on a main "hall" that had clear signs of having once been a small fort or castle.

  Drawn up by the heavy front door were, apparently, the defenders. Two were in plate armor and holding swords. They also were standing on a pair of the golden surfboards. It descended from there to a local that had to be a young teen holding a butcher knife. Most of the locals were holding short spears. No firearms, no bows and sure as hell nothing that could penetrate Wyvern armor.

  The threesome deployed then, as instructed; Jaen marched forward, halfway to the "reception committee," laid a heavy casket on the ground, then backed up.

  "Be interesting to see what they think of the bait," Berg said just as one of the armored guys lifted off on his surfboard. The action apparently was not agreed upon by the other, larger, armored figure who raised an arm and squeaked at the other.

  Despite the apparent imprecations, the figure swept down and took a spear from one of the retainers, then swept around to face Jaen.

  "Oh, maulk," the team leader muttered.

  "Do not fire," the CO said. "Just take it."

  The local hefted his short lance and then barreled forward, gaining speed rapidly until he could plunge the weapon, hard, into the team leader's chest.

  Jaen, who had planted one foot behind him, didn't even rock from the blow. The spear shattered.

  The local, clearly infuriated, came around for another run holding his sword.

  "If that's a monomolecular edge it's gonna sting," Berg noted.

  It wasn't. The local nearly lost his grip on the sword, which was clearly ringing like a bell in his hand, but he stayed in the fight, whaling away on Jaen's armor as the team leader took the blows stolidly.

  "Sir?" he said. "Any suggestions?"

  "Cha-chai! Get back here this instant!" Lady Che-chee shouted. Her son had recently joined the cavalry regiment and thought himself quite the warrior. Given that Lady Che-chee had started life as an almost penniless ensign and risen to the peerage, she knew what "warrior" meant.

  And the visitors were clearly uninterested in attacking. They had no obvious weapons, but those suits of armor alone made them a weapon
. She could see no air gaps, no way for them to breathe. Just masses of metal, perhaps even metal things like the chak-chak. The legends spoke of such, but she had never expected to see the day. Of course, the legends also said that where the metal things went, there went the Demons.

  Cha-chai had ignored her, as was too frequently the case lately, and now snatched a spear from the gamesman and charged the leader of the trio. Aware that it could mean war at any moment, Lady Che-chee took a stance and prepared to draw. But the spear shattered upon the armor and the armored figure didn't even rock.