by John Ringo
He only came out here when he was at his wits end.
A group of Myrmidon shuttles was picking up a whole drive system from one of the Horvath frigates. They probably didn't even know why but along with the rest of the surviving drive systems, they were about to be installed in the Troy to give it some rotational capability. Which meant that it could engage attackers more effectively and both keep them from taking the system and stop them from bombing the crap out of Earth.
There was one more positive, if it could be called that to the E Systems method.
In each group of sacrificial lambs, there was some small percentage that were smart and tough and able and careful enough to survive. Some few who actually had the attention to detail and sheer will-power to survive what killed the rest.
And although most would go back to their small cities and villages and never, ever, return to space, some would stay. Some, addicted to the pay or because they loved the wheel of stars untarnished by atmosphere, would stay in space. Live in space. Die in space only after years of work.
They, as much or more than the Apollo techs, were the future. They were going to make sure that humanity survived and got off the mud ball and onto other worlds.
But it was at a horrible cost.
"Please, God. Please. Let it be worth it."
"It's not going in the fabber?" Hartwell said.
"Not according to this flight plan," Dana said, carefully controlling her vectors.
The Myrmidons had gotten the big chunk of frigate going easily enough. Get behind it and push.
Slowing it down was tougher. Myrmidons weren't designed for that. Before they entered the tunnel, they'd had to detach, hook up to the other side, slow it down, detach and reattach. Paw Tugs could have done the job easily. If there had been more Paws.
Now the group of shuttles were having to, carefully, maneuver the grav drive through the increasingly busy main bay. Paris had cleared out a big area for them to maneuver through. But as they approached Horn Two, the driving was getting more and more ticklish.
"They want to put it on the Horn?" Hartwell said.
"They're control levers," Dana said. "They need grav drives."
"But a frigate drive?" Hartwell said. "I'm trying to decide if I'm overwhelmed or underwhelmed. That's a drive that can accelerate a Horvath frigate to six gravities. On the other hand, it's only a Horvath frigate and six gravs ain't much."
"Every little bit helps?" Dana said, distractedly.
"I suppose," Hartwell said. "Sounds like I should shut up."
"Just keep an eye on the grav locks," Dana said. "I really don't want them going out about now."
"Will do."
"Stand by for touchdown," Glass commed. "Forty-Two, more power."
"More power, aye."
"And . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ." Glass commed. "Touchdown. Paris, the engine has landed."
"Roger, Charlie Flight," Paris commed. "Hold that there while we get a weld on. Bring it in a bit . . ."
"Careful," Glass commed. "We've got sleds working around this thing."
"I'm being careful," Dana muttered, carefully adjusting her power output to the parameters sent by Paris. The mass of grav drives was, to say the least, bulky.
"And we have weld," Paris commed. "We can handle it from here, Charlie Flight. Thanks for the assist."
"Roger, Paris," Glass commed. "Okay, boys and girls, back to the sandbox."
"You know the other fun part about all this?" Hartwell said as the Flight headed back out the tunnel.
"What?" Dana asked.
"Since we don't know exactly when the Horvath or Rangora are coming through, the more we work out there the more likely it is we'll get caught in a battle between Troy and an enemy fleet. Again, I might add."
"Boy, you are a little ray of sunshine today, aren't you?"
"Well, Major, good news," General Lhi'Kasishaj said, rubbing his hands together.
"Yes, sir?" To'Jopeviq said, sitting down at the general's gesture.
"It will, of course, depend upon your analysis having some hint of reality," General Lhi'Kasishaj said. "I have placed much faith in you, To'Jopeviq. So I hope you are worth it. But I have high hopes."
"The assault on Terra has been authorized?" To'Jopeviq said.
"Yes," General Lhi'Kasishaj said. "And I have been removed from responsibility and demoted. You, by the way, are getting a reprimand from the High Command for defeatism."
"What?" To'Jopeviq said. "I thought you said there was good news!"
"That is most excellent news!" the general said. "Oh . . . My poor dear boy," he continued, hissing in laughter. "My poor, naïve To'Jopeviq. You really don't understand anything about high command, do you?"
"Apparently not," To'Jopeviq said. "Please explain, sir."
"Heh, where to start?" Lhi'Kasishaj mused. "Going into the full politics of the Junta is quite out of the question. Suffice it to say that Star Marshall Gi'Bucosof is not in high favor at the moment."
"He has conquered most of the Glatun Federation," To'Jopeviq said. "Not in high favor?"
"Yes," Lhi'Kasishaj said. "For two reasons. Success and failure."
"How can he be in trouble for both?" To'Jopeviq asked, totally confused.
"Not trouble so much as reduced favor," Lhi'Kasishaj said. "But the difference is immaterial at your level. The success. By crushing the Glatun he has made himself a hero of the Rangoran people. Thus he is something of a threat to High Marshal Phi'Pojagit who did not expect him to succeed to the degree he succeeded. The Junta does not often respond to popular demands but if there is enough pressure, it is worth it. Thus, High Marshal Phi'Pojagit is in a somewhat uncomfortable position. Star Marshall Gi'Bucosof is much in the news. There is talk, popular talk mind you, that Phi'Pojagit should retire for ‘the hero of the Imperium.' "
"Yes, sir," To'Jopeviq said. "I've heard the talk. I can see that. Sort of."
"So Phi'Pojagit would love to see Gi'Bucosof taken down a bit," the general said. "And in the eyes of High Command, ‘the hero of the Imperium' is anything but. He screwed up the flanking maneuver terribly and defied High Command to concentrate on the Tuxughah system instead of bypassing it. He lost seven Assault Vectors taking that one minor, if somewhat logistically important, system. Not to mention twenty other capital ships. And he had similar losses on other systems that, had he moved more quickly, would have been virtually unprepared. The unwashed, of course, are unaware of his many mistakes. High Command is never going to let things like that out. But the truth is, Gi'Bucosof is a terrible bungler. Everyone knew it which is why he was given the job of doing the end run. It was assumed he'd get himself killed, he could be given a hero's funeral and all would be well. Instead, he stayed back, got a bunch of very expensive ships gutted and generally bungled his way to victory. You with me?"
"He's disliked for both his success and his failure," To'Jopeviq said, nodding. "This begins to make sense. Now . . . why am I being reprimanded and why were you demoted?"
"Because I gave the analysis to Gi'Bucosof of course!" the general said, hissing fit to die. "And he exploded! He wrote a reprimand to you in his own hand and sent a copy to the Junta. He demanded I be demoted to General. He gave Star General Magamaj the task of taking the system! With a fleet of sixteen Aggressors!"
"They will be slaughtered," To'Jopeviq said. "Surely they are sending more than that! If they have gotten any work done on the Troy, if they have completed their repairs on the SAPL . . ."
"Oh, I'm sure they have," Lhi'Kasishaj said. "I have read your reports quite thoroughly, To'Jopeviq. And the more I study the humans the more I become convinced they are quite an interesting race. Very resourceful. I'm sure they have found fuel somewhere. We may have to make them satraps instead of destroying them. They could be very useful."
"General," To'Jopeviq said. "Thousands of fine Rangora will die."
"Everyone dies," Lhi'Kasishaj said, shrugging. "When the fleet is mangled, that will be the l
ast straw for so-called Star Marshall Gi'Bucosof. Phi'Pojagit will demand his head for the loss of many fine Rangora warriors as well as more expensive ships on a pointless crusade against another minor system. Your name will have come to the attention of the Junta as predicting this outcome, so you will be held in high favor. I will be held in higher favor since I argued very strenuously that this is insufficient force. Strenuously but not so strenuously as to be believed, you understand. We will come out smelling like thun. I see stars on your shoulder, young man. And novas on mine. Very soon! Very soon!"
To'Jopeviq left the general's office and stopped for a moment in the corridor. The air was somehow sweeter. Rangora did not have a vomit reflex or he would have run immediately to the nearest head.
"If this is what it means to be a general, I decline," he whispered.
"Don't think to warn them," Beor said.
"You have a very soft tread," To'Jopeviq said, not looking up.
"I can read you like a manual," Beor said. "Do not do it."
"I will not," To'Jopeviq said. "But . . . Beor . . ."
"And do not say what you are about to say," Beor said, walking around to look him in the eye. "War is sacrifice. What is the first duty of the Rangora warrior?"
"To sacrifice for the Emperor," To'Jopeviq quoted automatically. "We are born dead. Our life is the Emperor's."
"You heard what Lhi'Kasishaj said about Gi'Bucosof. He is a danger to the Imperium. Removing him is a worthwhile goal. And this is the cheap way. You don't want to know the expensive way."
"Those ships . . ." To'Jopeviq protested.
"Born. Dead," Beor said. "This is a sacrifice for the Emperor."
"Yes, Beor," To'Jopeviq said, bowing his head. "As you say."
"And if any make it out, we will have real time intelligence, yes?" Beor said, taking his arm. "You know how much you'd like that."
"Beor," To'Jopeviq said as they walked. "Can I ask a question about the Kazi?"
"Yes," Beor said. "I don't promise to answer it."
"What is the first duty of the Kazi?"
"To protect the Imperium," Beor said.
To'Jopeviq thought about that for a second.
"That is not . . . quite the same as the military oath."
"You noticed."
TWENTY-FOUR
"This is going to be over very quickly," Captain Bacajezh said, tapping his staff of authority on the holo console.
"I am in total agreement, General," Commander Qathecuk said. The XO of the victory tested Aggressor class battleship Zhiphewich was practically jumping up and down. "Our very own star system to conquer."
"Yes," Bacajezh said. "I did not say it will have a happy outcome, Commander."
"Certainly not for the Terrans, sir," Qathecuk said.
"Do you think," Bacajezh replied. "I was passed, very quietly, an alternate report to the one we were handed through a friend of my father's."
The Bacajezh line was somewhat reduced from its heigh-day. During the wars that had led to Rangora unification, prior to first contact, the Bacajezh had controlled vast territorial claims. They had retained them even after the Unification under Emperor Zha'Nechighor The Great.
Time took its toll on families. The Bacajezh had not reacted quickly enough to the changes caused by the opening of the gates. Suddenly, productive farmland was not worth what it had been. The damnable Glatun had caused immense disruption. Upstart families arose, gained power, the power of the Emperor was weakened as new riches turned to conquest.
But the name still carried weight in certain circles. And friends were friends. Scales were scratched.
"And it said?" Commander Qathecuk asked. He knew of the Captain's affiliations. Since the Bacajezh still retained a measure of fealty but were not one of the Families, it always made him a tad nervous.
"You know this system gutted a Horvath task force composed mostly of Devastators?"
"I served on the Devastators, sir," the commander pointed out. "They were fine vessels in their day. But they were under powered and their screens were trash. They failed if you looked at them cross-wise."
"Did you know the battlestation that took them out wasn't operational, yet?" Bacajezh asked.
"No?" the commander replied. "That . . ."
"Wasn't in the intelligence summary we were handed," Bacajezh said. "Curious that. The further estimate is that the humans have not gotten it operational. We cut them off when they still did not have a fuel plant and there was no way for them to get the fuel plant running without fuel. And although they have a great deal of solar power in their lasers, that they cannot focus all of it. Because to be able to, they would have to have access to Glatun military technologies. And they certainly do not have access to the Glatun technologies. They do not have access, for example, to Glatun penetrators which can pierce our screens. Or fabbers which will produce Glatun missiles. And their ship fabber cannot produce Glatun cruisers or dreadnoughts."
"Let's hope not," the commander said, gulping. The Zhiphewich had been in the fourth wave of assaults on Lho'Phirukuh. If he never had to match a flight of Glatun missiles again it would be too soon. They were still repairing the damage.
"What they have is a hollow ball-bearing with, at most, a couple of firing ports and a door they cannot close very fast," Captain Bacajezh said. "So we go through, close their firing ports for them, open up the door and dig them out. Then we reduce the system. If they surrender quickly, we leave them the use of a few cities."
"Which is the plan, sir?" the commander said.
"Absolutely," Captain Bacajezh said. "And if they have got their two trillion ton battlestation working, and a door that closes and more than a few firing ports and mirrors that can concentrate all that enormous amount of power . . ."
"We'll be gutted like trib flies," Commander Qathecuk said, gulping. "Oh. Sir, if High Command thinks they may be prepared . . . ?"
"I never think to try to examine the murky depths of the thoughts of High Command, Commander," Captain Bacajezh said. "We could be a reconnaissance in force for all I know. They may have reasons to reject the analysis I have seen for intelligence I don't have access to. Star General Magamaj certainly seemed confident. And I think I'm a better liar. So we shall have to see. The projection that I saw, though, said that the system would require twenty Assault Vectors to conquer."
"Twenty?" Commander Qathecuk said, starting to pant.
"Calm yourself, Commander," the captain said. "Everyone dies. We are dead. Our lives are an Emperor's, who, I'm also given to understand, can barely speak in coherent sentences anymore."
"Captain," his aide said. "All ships are in position."
"Good," Captain Bacajezh said. "Signal for gate sequence. Destination: Terra."
"Okay, I'm officially tired of feeding the goddamned missile fabber," Dana said. "Can't they just use the chunks from the walls that are building up?"
"Wow," Hartwell said. "Ice Queen must not have gotten laid last night."
"EM," Dana said, tightly. "I am not enjoying trying to maneuver this chunk of junk. And my back hurts like fire. And for your information, no, I did not get laid last night because Rammer had duty. So if you would kindly cut me some fricking slack?"
"Got it, Coxswain," Hartwell said, grinning. She was behind and above him so she probably couldn't see. "All systems nominal."
"For once," Dana said. They were still having trouble with the damned grapnels. Which would suck at the moment.
The scrap yard was composed of every size and type of material imaginable. The fabber was happy with more or less whatever it got. The materials of a Horvath ship were pretty much what it needed for missiles.
So the parameters had changed, somewhat. The Myrmidons were now picking up bits they could manage individually and hauling them into the Troy.
Since the Myrms could move pieces much larger than themselves, the looked a good bit like carpenter ants. And, as with carpenter ants, keeping the ships and material on vector was occasionally di
fficult. They didn't "fall over" from the "weight." They got "into an out-of-control condition" due to "anomalous delta."
It looked pretty much the same from a distance.
"Your back hurts like fire?" Hartwell said after a moment's rumination.
"Drop it, EM," Dana said.
"If you need to see the corpsmen . . ."
"It's a woman thing," Dana said.
"Oh," Hartwell said, blanching. "Okay. End of conversation."
Dana forbore to mention that it was only a "woman thing" if tattoos were a woman thing. The tat was going well. But it hurt like hell every time.
"God damned Horvath piece of . . . !"
"Unscheduled gate activation!" Paris sent. "Set Condition One!"
"We need to . . ." Dana said.
"Shut down all systems," Hartwell said, sending the codes. The lights dropped off and the gravity went away.
"We're . . ." Dana said.
"Too far," Hartwell said in the darkness. "There's no way we can make it. And they've got the door closing in less than two minutes, now. I don't want to splat, thank you, Cox. This way, we might be mistaken for garbage. Assuming the Troy wins."
"Roger, EM," Dana said. "Hey, EM?"
"Yes, Coxswain Parker?"
"You know how they're always asking for suggestions?"
"Yes."
"A window would be spare about now. Because that way we might see the missile that kills us."
The Troy's command center had been designed with a passageway from the Admiral's quarters to the command center which, the Admiral had timed it, took three minutes to walk.
Or thirty seconds to run at a sprint, trying to tuck in your shirt the whole way.
"Status?"
"Emergence," Captain Sharp said. He had had the midwatch Command Officer slot. He always had the midwatch because, as he put it, a smart enemy would attack during midwatch. And he liked smart enemies. "Rangora. I make it sixteen Aggressors, four Cofubof class cruisers and six smaller consorts. Single emergence. Tight formation. They are engaging."
"Light them up, Captain," Kinyon said, taking his station.
