Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

  “Sho-sa, we’ve lost sync with Tlemitl’s battlecast,” Pucatli reported, not too surprised to find Oc Chac at his shoulder.

  “Have we moved out of range?” Oc Chac asked, reaching over the younger man’s shoulder to key up a diagnostic subsystem. “Is there some kind of heavy debris concentration between us and the squadron?”

  “Kyo, we’re on a return leg of the patrol pattern—distance is closing with the Can and squadron center-point. But the dust—it’s very heavy.” Pucatli slid part of the navigational display into view on his console. “I’ve been seeing irregular gravitational interference with comm, but we’ve rotated through this sector at least once before and did not lose sync.”

  “Mark the area. And see if there’s anything on our new map of the Korkunov route that could explain the blackout. Perhaps we can avoid it the next time around.”

  Oc Chac frowned at the console for a moment longer, watching the diagnostic run.

  “Chu-i, if anything flags red on that scan—you let me know immediately.”

  THE WILFUL

  IN HYPERSPACE

  De Molay was lying in her hammock over the reaction mass tank, eyes closed, listening to the gurgling and chuckling of the pipes winding over and around her, when Hadeishi emerged from the darkness, his face blackened with grease. “Here,” he said, parting her thin fingers and pressing the slim metallic shape of the Webley Bulldog into her hands. “I will return in a little while, but anything may happen between now and then.”

  She opened one eye, and then the other, seeing the Nisei had acquired a serrated-blade knife about twenty centimeters long to go with his machete. The machete was now enclosed in a crude, handmade scabbard and strapped to his chest at an angle. The knife fit into his belt. She made a face, eyebrows beetling up. “You will need to be quick,” she whispered. “Do you hear that whine building in the hypercoil? We’re losing gradient fast, we’ll drop back to realspace soon. And when we do, even these lax fools will realize something is amiss.”

  “I know.” Hadeishi held up his hand-comp, which was still relaying the nav system telemetry. “About thirty minutes and we’ll drop out. I plan to be back before then.”

  He bowed in parting, and then climbed silently down to the Engineering compartment. By his count there were two Khaiden loose in the down-below decks, and both of them had left their duty stations to do … something. So he padded quietly from room to room, working his way around the huge bulk of the maneuver drives. Approaching the access way leading to the hyperspace coil generator he heard the sound of boots on the decking and flattened against the wall.

  A Khaid engineer ambled out of the side passage, helmet back, nosily crunching on a heavy, bonelike ration bar. The alien’s jagged, double-flanged teeth were making quick work of the claylike brick.

  Mitsuharu’s arm snapped out, the serrated blade spearing up into the underside of the Khaid’s jaw. The creature goggled at him, huge eyes rolling in different directions, and the Nisei lunged, getting an arm under the shoulder joint. The alien was very heavy—massing nearly twice his own weight—and Hadeishi grunted with pain as he eased the corpse to the g-decking. Mindful of leaving a trail, he dragged the body into hypercontrol, wrapped the corpse in a plastic sheet from his other leg pocket, and then wiped off his hands and forearms, which had been spattered with cloying blue-black blood.

  Then he continued on, trying to move a little faster. The down-below had never seemed so large before, but now the number of rooms seemed infinite. Finally, having almost completed a circuit of the entire ship, he approached an alcove which served as a crude reference library—there were shelves of data crystals, a comp station, and portable readers hung on the walls. Nearly twenty-five minutes had passed and his chrono was showing time winding down at a swift pace.

  But light flickered on the wall of the alcove and there was a singular musk in the air. Reading up on the new ship, is he? A Khaid seeking to better himself, how excellent.

  Hadeishi crept to a point where he could see the elbow and shoulder of the engineer, who was sitting on the bench in the alcove, thumbing through a series of technical manuals. Laudatory, Mitsuharu thought, feeling a pang. I’ve had ensigns who refused to do so much.…

  At that instant, the ship began to slide gradient and the transit alarm blared. Startled by the unexpected noise, the engineer looked up in time to catch sight of Hadeishi rushing out of the dimness. The Khaid’s first impulse was to drag out his comm—a handheld unit instead of the usual Imperial wristband—and sound an alarm. In the heartbeat between impulse and action, Mitsuharu hewed down with the machete, the full strength of his shoulders behind the blow, catching the Khaid’s raised hand on the wrist. There was a jarring crack and the joint split, along with the z-suit ring.

  Howling in pain, the Khaid leapt back, crashing into the shelves. Books and data crystals flew in all directions, rolling wildly on the floor. Hadeishi crabbed in, hacking with the long flat blade, and the edge bit into the engineer’s other arm, drawing a deep wound. Blood slicked the floor, making his footing treacherous. The Khaid sounded a deep coughing howl and scrabbled for some weapon—a knife, a gun—nothing came immediately to hand.

  Mitsuharu kicked the engineer’s knee, making the creature topple over, and then stepped in, hacking down. Now the blade fell true and the Khaid’s head lolled to the side, half severed. Hadeishi grimaced, feeling his limbs burn with exertion, and then felt enormous exhaustion wash over him.

  The books are ruined, his father’s voice echoed in memory. What a pity.

  * * *

  Hadeishi staggered into the Engineering compartment, the tool belts from both dead engineers looped over his shoulder. He was surprised—but pleased—to see that De Molay had dragged herself down to the still-working console and was trying to secure control of the ship’s systems.

  “You’ve access to environmental, kyo? Good. Pump one percent cee-oh to Command and the cargo bay.” Mitsuharu gasped, feeling winded. “Secure air in Engineering and let’s get you into a z-suit.”

  De Molay clung grimly to the console with both hands. “They’ll be in the corridors, too.”

  Struggling with the stylus, the Wilful’s captain tapped open a new series of v-panes—from cameras Hadeishi had never been able to reach with his own access. The old woman leaned her head over, wheezing: “I can see another figure in the mess as well. Everything else looks clear for the moment.”

  “Good.” Hadeishi took a deep breath and set down the extra tools. “Don’t lock the areas where the gas is released. Let them believe free movement is possible.” He stood at her shoulder, watching the suddenly superior v-pane displays with envy. “And where was all of this when I was cleaning the bilges?”

  “That one knows there’s a problem,” De Molay observed softly, a blood-caked hand tapping the feed from the bridge. A Khaid under-officer stood uncertainly at the captain’s station, rubbing his eyes. “He could signal for help if the comm system has been recoded since they came aboard.”

  Hadeishi shrugged. “I struck down one reviewing our technical manuals—but how far they’ve gotten beyond the nav system—”

  The crewman sat down in the captain’s chair, looked around in apparent puzzlement, and then suddenly pitched forward. The sound of his fall was audible in the camera pickup, and was more than enough to draw the attention of three more Khaid who had been working at consoles on the far side of the small bridge. These turned, then one of them pointed at an environmental display flashing a warning.

  De Molay shook her head. “They see the air warning lights. How quickly will they be overcome?”

  Mitsuharu looked thoughtful. “Not long, but it may be enough to cause us mischief. I will stand watch at the lift between decks.”

  After a swift review of the weapons to hand—his machete and knife were now supplemented by another Khaid shipgun—the Nisei slipped out of Engineering. As the hatch closed behind him, De Molay ventured a crooked little smile, saying: “I’ll let you kn
ow if anyone resists taking a very long nap.”

  AT THE PINHOLE

  Sitting in the junior officer’s mess aboard the Tlemitl, Engineer Second Helsdon was acquainting himself with a fresh-baked chicken pie and a jug of Ceylon black tea. The Jaguar Knights who had dragged him before the Prince had no interest in escorting him all the way back to the Can—so they’d jobbed him off on Logistics to ferry over to the research station when convenient. This left the sandy-haired engineer at loose ends for six or seven hours, so cooling his heels in the well-appointed mess seemed the perfect answer.

  But scuttlebutt from the ensigns slouching at the next table indicated the Can itself was being abandoned, with the Mirror scientists returning to their transports. Which left Helsdon with nowhere to go, but for the moment he wasn’t too concerned about finding a bunk—the chicken pie was excellent and he guessed the engineers aboard the Tlemitl would look out for their own in a pinch. He’d hot-bunked himself, more than once, when a fellow mechanic needed a place to sleep and hadn’t found an official posting yet.

  A steward passed by, and Helsdon flagged her down. “Could I get another cuppa, please?”

  She was pouring, the tea shedding curlicues of steam, when an alarm Klaxon sounded. The noise was harsh, shocking to the ear, and unmistakable.

  “All hands to battle stations,” boomed the overhead, “all hands to battle stations.”

  The decking itself suddenly shivered; every cup, saucer, and pot rattling on all of the mess tables. Aft of the cafeteria, in the engine ring, the super-dreadnaught’s maneuver engines were flash-heating to full combat power. Everyone was already up, on their feet, sealing the regulation shipsuit under their uniforms and scrambling towards the emergency lockers for helmets.

  Helsdon seized hold of the edge of the table, stuffed the rest of the pie into his mouth, and then sealed his helmet. He, unlike many of the others present, was still wearing a proper z-suit and carried his full EVA helmet slung over his back on a lanyard. Surviving in the wreck of the Calexico had made him intimately familiar with every piece of survival gear Fleet provided.

  “Incoming hostiles at all points,” bellowed the overhead. “Missile impacts expected in one minute, one minute. Brace for hull rupture, all hands secure compartments and brace for zero-g.”

  Oh Lord of my Sainted Fathers. Helsdon bolted for the nearest damage control station. Work to do, I have work to do. I need to do my work, he chanted as he ran, fearing he’d freeze up if he faltered for even an instant.

  * * *

  Koshō stiffened in her shockchair as the executive threatwell displayed by her console filled with a swarm of angry red icons, each circumscribed by rapidly mutating glyphs. The ship’s threat assessment AI triggered, sounding alarms the length of the Naniwa.

  “Battle stations!” Koshō barked, feeling the shockchair fold around her automatically. A helmet was already lowering over her head and she reflexively tucked her hair in. Combat readiness subsystems were kicking in at every station, discarding the patrol-specific displays and replacing them with battle configurations. The lights shaded to red, and behind her the main hatchway sealed itself. Her eyes flicked across the storm of data flowing into the main threatwell. “We are under attack by a Khaid fleet—repeat, we are under attack by a Khaid fleet.”

  The Khaiden armada—or nearly so, given the usual size of their raiding squadrons—had dropped gradient directly on top of the Imperial ships loitering around the Can. The Naniwa’s sensor suite was already flooded with the fury of beam weapons igniting, and the threatwell was filled with swarm after swarm of missiles and bomb-pods spewing into the void.

  Koshō spared an instant to thank Hachiman they were in motion and a fair distance from the rest of the squadron.

  “Message drone away,” Oc Chac barked reflexively. “Transit to hyper in one hundred thirty-six seconds.”

  Susan’s habitual calm turned icy and everything around her narrowed down to the storm unfolding in the threatwell. She could feel Oc Chac’s attention on her, hot and wavering, an unsteady flame. The other officers were still scrambling to bring deflectors up, or confirm gun crews and missile teams were standing by. Pucatli at comm was speaking rapidly into his throatmike, confirming readiness of the interior compartments and sections.

  Koshō caught the Mayan’s eyes. “Sho-sa, this is a brawl for dreadnaughts. I’ll handle maneuver, combat targeting, and tactics; you keep us able to move, fight, and react. Do you understand? We’re going to get hit hard, and you’re going to have to put us right with all speed.”

  Oc Chac stared back at her for a second, almost paralyzed with panic, and then nodded sharply. “Hai, Chu-sa, hai!”

  “Pilot, full ahead,” Koshō grated, seeing Naniwa’s velocity climb. They had not, luckily, been at full stop when the attack began. The initial confusion around the Can had started to stabilize and she could see every Imperial ship was trying to get underway. They’ve jumped in “orumchek” formation, she realized, watching the spiderweb attack pattern of the Khaid ships unfold. And they’ve caught almost all of us at zero-v, pants down, finger up the nose.

  “Weapons, all launch racks deploy, give me every sprint missile we can throw, configure for independent terminal tracking.” The stylus slashed through her copy of the threatwell, describing a second “shell” of target areas around the periphery of the combat area. “Pilot, full combat power, angle for thirty-two degrees off axis. Take us hard up along the Barrier line. Transit deflectors at maximum power.”

  The Naniwa surged ahead, engines flaring sun-bright, warning lights flashing in every compartment as the crew raced to battle stations. Susan ran through a brief internal checklist, confirming all drives were showing green, no bay doors were open to space, and internal battle compartments were sealing. Already the ship shook with the vibration of the ammunition Backbone shuttling fresh shipkillers to the primary rails, while the missile racks rolled out from the hull.

  “Chu-sa, targeting solutions are locked.” Konev seemed absurdly happy. “Hardpoints are clear to launch.”

  “Weapons, fire.” Koshō felt a sharp bolt of elation as dozens of missile tracks sprang into view on the threatwell, spiraling out from the Naniwa, which was now accelerating hard. Holloway was sparing nothing to hit the mark she’d set for him.

  “Kyo, salvo one away,” Konev reported, voice tight with adrenaline and fear. “Cycling launchers.”

  * * *

  In the center of the spiderweb, caught at a dead stop, battle-shields off-line, the surface of the Tlemitl rippled with white-hot explosions. Khaid particle-beam weapons savaged the enormous hull, chewing away at a shipskin four times the thickness of the armor encasing the Naniwa. Clouds of shipkillers rained in, flooding the point-defense network with a constant stabbing barrage of detonations. Behind them, bomb-pods stuttered, unspooling long chains of thermonuclear-pumped laser emitters. Despite being caught unawares, the Tlemitl’s on-duty gun crews were already in action—city-block-long emitter nacelles swiveled, flaring with the sidescatter radiation from beam weapons igniting. Missile launch rails were cycling as fast as their hardware allowed, disgorging heavy shipkillers in bursts.

  * * *

  In Flag Command on the super-dreadnaught, Prince Xochitl—who had been caught by the attack in transit to a meeting with the senior Mirror scientists and their political officers—staggered as a pair of shipkillers detonated against the Tlemitl’s hull. The internal g-field was fluctuating and even his coppery skin was noticeably pale as he dropped into a shockchair at the Admiral’s console. His Jaguars had been carrying the components for a full EVA suit with them, and now the Prince was locked down and encased in full armor.

  The Tlemitl’s captain, Ikaru Yoemon, was in Main Command, fifty decks and half the length of the ship away, which left the Prince with whichever duty officers were within reach of FlagCom when the first alarms sounded. Despite being shorthanded, Xochitl tapped into the battlecast directly and immediately upon establishing comm lock, the F
lag threatwell sprang to life, showing the whole chaotic scene in vibrant detail.

  The Fiske and Eldredge were already shattered hulks, spewing wreckage and burning with radiation fires on all decks. Two of the heavy cruisers, the Axe and the Mace, were expanding spheres of ionized metal and plasma—containment lost on their reactors, weapons cooking off in a ripple of secondary explosions. By tremendous luck, the Fleet tender Hanuman had been at the periphery of the attack area and was now only minutes from making gradient to hyperspace.

  The battle cruiser Naniwa, which had just rotated out on a patrol sweep, was also out of the immediate melee.

  Though his first instinct was to comm Thai-sa Yoemon for ship’s status, Xochitl knew the captain was fully occupied with damage control and fighting for his ship. Instead he confirmed the status of the other ships in the squadron and added himself to the ’cast command channel. Immediately the chatter of six or seven commanders flowed through his earbug, including the harsh bark of Chu-sho Xocoyotl on the Tokiwa.

  “Battle shields coming on-line now,” Yoemon reported on a channel specific to the Tlemitl.

  The overhead lights in Flag Command flickered and the constant shattering vibration of bomb-pod impacts and particle beam detonations ceased. In the threatwell, the Firearrow’s glyph changed and Xochitl knew that outside—in the maelstrom of radiation, spinning debris, and streaking missiles—a wavering, rainbow-hued globe had sprung up around his ship. Within the second, one of the v-panes on his threatwell display was strobing, showing impact rates on the various shield cells managed by the massive Tototl-Aerospatiale generators embedded beneath the shipskin.

  One corner of the threatwell spiked as an irregular sphere of plasma suddenly occluded the Can.

  So much for the Mirror’s sensor platform, Xochitl thought, shunting the flood of data flowing over him to his exocortex. Battlecast is up and synchronized … Xocoyotl had better get—ah, good, here they come.