“Sir?”
“Relay those orders, Lieutenant. I don’t want the arrival of possibly overeager elite troops to fuel the confidence—and vengeance—of resistance fighters. That could turn a nice, calm surrender into a slaughter. We will lead our elite formations in and set the tone as diplomatic, not military. Make sure they understand that. And tell the pilot we need to move up our ETA to Jakarta as much as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alnduul swayed gently toward him as the high-speed command VTOL bucked with a sudden surge of acceleration. “Are you quite sure that this change is safe, Mr. Downing?”
“You mean the speed of our approach?”
Alnduul’s outer lids nictated slowly. “I mean our direct entry into an unsecured combat zone.”
Downing felt a brief spasm of contempt for the Dornaani Custodian, pushed it off with a shrug. “There is some risk involved. That is the nature of war, after all.”
Downing felt as though the large, dark pupilless eyes were dissecting his words, his intents, his psyche. Then they blinked. “So it is. My apologies, Mr. Downing.”
“Your apologies? For what? For asking about the degree of risk?”
“For forgetting what it feels like.”
Downing felt his eyebrows rise. “It must be nice to live in a world where that’s something you can forget.”
“Nice? Perhaps. But worrisome, also.”
“Worrisome?”
But Alnduul had turned to look out the small window to his right, the blue and white of sky and clouds a roiling concave moiré reflected upon his eyes. Downing waited, but the Dornaani did not speak again.
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
“Have you contacted our ships yet?”
“We have not, Darzhee Kut,” answered the communications specialist.
Urzueth Ragh moved closer to him, hummed his query softly. “I do not understand. If you are determined to keep the fleet from destroying itself, why are you so eager to contact them with news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death?”
“Because if they hear of our capitulation without also learning that the Final Directive is rescinded, the ship masters will presume it is in effect and scuttle their ships.”
Urzueth’s answering buzz was anxious. “It may occur anyhow, Darzhee Kut. If our rock-siblings are boarded before they can restore their systems, they are likely to destroy themselves, probably with humans aboard. And soon, down here, they will start finding some of our fully isolated troopers becoming sluggish, sick. And you know what they will find.”
Darzhee Kut nodded. “Within forty-eight hours, all their potential prisoners will die of a noncontagious virus that first renders them unconscious and then kills them by producing fatal toxins out of body tissue.”
“And because we have no way of reaching all of them, thousands will die within the same day or two. The humans will, as you say, realize that it is not a disease at all, but a suicide method. So let us reconsider. Why not be safe and destroy the ships, as well? If we cannot prevent the humans from discovering our planetside force’s numerous suicides, then we might as well destroy the concrete answers the humans might find on our spacecraft.”
Darzhee Kut snapped his claws. “No. If we can keep the planetside casualties to a minimum, we can explain that the troopers who killed themselves simply feared capture and torture. We must spend all our energies striving to contact our units. To that end, ask the humans to find Riordan and bring him back here.”
“Why?”
“Because he will help us, and the humans still have radios. We can use those to contact our rock-siblings. If we can prevent even half of our units and ships from following the Final Directive, the suicides of the remainder may appear to be more an aberration than a plan.”
Urzueth Ragh’s antenna snapped erect as he spun away. “I shall inquire after Riordan with all speed.”
“Delegate Kut.” It was the first time anyone had ever addressed him with that honorific; it was thrilling and horrible at the same time.
“Yes, Communications Master T’yeen?”
“I have the ship Greatvein.”
“Who is on the channel? Fleetmaster R’sudkaat?”
“No, Delegate Kut. As you requested, Senior Sensor Master Tuxae Skhaas.”
“Excellent. Tuxae Skhaas?”
“Yes, Speak—Delegate Kut.”
“I must first sing a song of mourning. Hu’urs Khraam’s voice no longer echoes in the rocknest.”
There was a very long pause. “We are ill-fated to be alive to hear such notes, Delegate Kut.” The sorrow in Tuxae’s voice was deep and genuine.
“I have a very new song for your antennae alone, Tuxae Skhaas.”
“I listen, ready to harmonize, Delegate Kut. But your radio has very limited range, and the path of our orbit will soon carry us beyond each other’s reach.”
“So I will be frank. We must not scuttle the fleet.”
“We—have I heard you correctly, Delegate Kut?”
“You must unlearn the hymn we all sang together when we left Homenest. And you must teach this new atonality to all the other ships that you can reach: we must not follow the Final Directive.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Presidential Palace compound, Jakarta, Earth
“Trev?”
“Hmm?” Trevor Corcoran kept his eye on the scope of the Remington M167 he had retrieved from Gavin’s body. Almost eight minutes since I’ve seen a Sloth, but I’m in no rush. Six bagged and counting. And that last one—Stosh would have been proud of that shot: four hundred eighty meters if it was a centimeter. Single round, center of mass. The bastard went down like a poleaxed ox. Welcome to Earth, motherfucker.
“Trevor.” Tygg’s voice was subtly more insistent.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“A report, Captain.”
Yeah, that’s right. I’m a captain now. Probably will keep my rank after this shindig. Glories and medals, too. O, be still my beating heart—
“Heart.” “Heart” made him think of Opal, which made him stop thinking. When he opened his eyes, he found the view down the scope alien, strange, as if he had never seen it before. “Okay. Okay.” He blinked, felt like he was coming out of a general anesthetic. “What’s the sitrep?”
Tygg, his sand-colored beret wet and rumpled close to his head, was at his left shoulder, his eyes steady, assessing. “Best if you come down to hear it, sir.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And we can put Cruz on overwatch up here, give him the Remington. Don’t you think?” Tygg’s hand was already gently cupping the forestock of the long weapon. Trevor noticed that the Aussie’s eyes never blinked.
Trevor nodded. “Yeah—I’m done.” Tygg nodded, averted his eyes as if suddenly embarrassed. Trevor started down the narrow stairs that led from the small fieldhouse’s observation cupola into its shattered atrium. Faces looked up at him, looked quickly away. His impulse was equally divided between a desire to hide his own face from them and to tell them to fuck off. Frozen into immobility between these two diametrically opposed urges, he managed to simply descend, silently, into their midst.
“Reports,” he ordered.
Ayala started. “Outer perimeter secure. Our biggest problem is locals wanting to get in and trash this place. It’s pretty ugly out there.”
“What about the hunter-killer squads the Sloths sent out?”
“Scattered reports. Lots of them are still active, but running out of steam. A lot more have been wiped out. Some tried to lift their own vehicles to make a run for orbit or elsewhere. We really don’t know. Our flyboys were too busy shooting them into small fluttering pieces.”
Trevor nodded, turned to O’Garran. “Relief forces?”
“According to the latest fiber-com update, ETA is now six minutes.”
“Vertipads?”
“Secured. Lieutenant Winfield and most of Commander Ayala’s SEALs are working as cadre with ex-military insurgents to maintain
a dedicated overwatch on the ’pads.”
Trevor was preparing to move on to Rulaine for the internal security report, heard O’Garran clear his throat. “Something else, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. Although we’re expecting the SAS and First Air Cav to be the first wave in, according to my latest intel update, their landing has been redesignated as the arrival of a ‘high-security diplomatic mission,’ not a part of the general assault.”
“Who’s leading this diplomatic mission?”
“I have no word on that, sir. But the Confederation clearance classification is listed as 01A1B.”
Jesus. “Sergeant, you are to send all your remaining forces to the vertipads. I want them deployed as two concentric perimeters, placements and range at Lieutenant Winfield’s discretion. And Sergeant O’Garran?”
“Sir?”
“You stay with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bannor?”
Rulaine swept an arm out over the esplanade. “Interior is all quiet. No sniping incidents, not even any thermal signatures that aren’t us or human workers. The undercover insurgents among the staff have made contact with us, confirm our suspicions that the only Hkh’Rkh left within these walls are the three we have captive and the dead.”
“And the Arat Kur?”
“Most are holed up in their billets or are back near Lieutenant Wu in their headquarters.”
“Any resistance from the others?”
“Not a peep. External reports tell the same story. The Arat Kur have ceased all offensive operations. Possibly due to illness.”
Trevor swiveled back toward Rulaine. “Illness?”
“Yes sir. Scattered intel suggests that here, and at their other cantonments, an increasing number of Arat Kur are acting sluggish, distracted.”
Caine’s voice arose, was aimed into the rest of the crowd, not at Trevor. “Those of you with the infiltration teams or the fiber-com. Did you hear anything about plans to use a chemical weapon on the Arat Kur?”
“No, sir.” Ayala shrugged. “Scuttlebutt is that no one ever got genetic samples of the Arat Kur.”
Caine nodded. “Yeah, I believe it. All throughout the insurgency, the exos occasionally retreated, but they never left their dead behind for analysis. The one time I saw them retreat without all their bodies, they called in an air strike and burned the kempang down to bedrock.”
“So the Roaches get sick. What of it?”
“Maybe nothing, Trevor—but if a whole lot of them are succumbing to some kind of disease or malaise right now, it might not be coincidence.”
“Trev.” It was Elena, her voice coming from behind, not much more than a whisper. “Caine is also the ambassador to the Arat Kur. If something’s going on, he should be back in their headquarters, staying in touch with what’s left of their leadership.”
Trevor picked up his CoBro assault rifle. “Fine. We’ll escort you to Cockroach central. Tygg, Rulaine: on me.”
Wholenest flagship Greatvein, Earth orbit
Tuxae kept his claws very still as R’sudkaat approached. “Yes, what is it now, Tuxae Hu’urs?”
“Esteemed Fleetmaster, I have a message from Darzhee Kut.”
“A message to me? From him? Very well. What is it?”
“Delegate Kut sends his compliments and informs you that the Final Directive has been rescinded.”
For a long moment, R’sudkaat did not move. Then he started forward, claws half raised. “Rescind the Final Directive? And since when is Kut titled Delegate?”
“Since Hu’urs Khraam sang his last note, some minutes ago.”
R’sudkaat rocked back as though struck between the eyes, which roved in the direction of H’toor Qooiiz’s empty couch, as if searching for some rock-sibling who would sing a different song than this, would negate and drown out the dirge that Tuxae sang. “This cannot be.”
“So I thought also, but it is true. The ground staff has verified his death, as well as Hu’urs Khraam’s conferral of the title Delegate Pro Tem upon Darzhee Kut.”
R’sudkaat was very still. Then: “Preposterous. Hu’urs Khraam would never put the fleet under the direction of Kut. Magma and rotting meat: he is but an Ee’ar!”
Tuxae kept his antennae and claws very still and elected not to point out that he, too, was of the Ee’ar caste. “So he is. But now he is our Delegate in this place, as well. And he orders that we rescind the Final Directive.”
R’sudkaat looked at Tuxae closely, who heard the sifting-sand sound of his commander’s lenses compressing with the intensity of their focusing. “No,” R’sudkaat hummed slowly. “No. I will not do so. Kut’s order shows that he is not our Delegate, but rather that he is a tool of the humans.”
“R’sudkaat, with respect, you must comply.”
“I will not take orders from an upstart Ee’ar.”
“I am afraid you must.”
R’sudkaat raised a claw high, haughty. “You have slipped into sun-time, Tuxae Skhaas, if you think I will abandon our orders and our mission on the word of an Ee’ar. And now I must instruct you to relinquish your post. Until such time as a Nestmoot can be held to determine your complicity in this attempt to subvert the orders and due authority of this fleet, you are relieved of your duties.”
“With respect, R’sudkaat, it is I who must now relieve you of your duties.”
R’sudkaat’s antenna wiggled, but there was no mirth in his voice. “Tuxae Skhaas, your audacity is singular. Comply or I will summon Enforcers.”
“You need not. They are already here. Turn around.”
R’sudkaat did so, discovered H’toor Qooiiz and six Enforcers standing two meters behind him. “Please come with us,” H’toor Qooiiz asked softly.
Stunned, R’sudkaat scanned the bridge: expressionless eyes stared back at him. He turned quickly back toward Tuxae Skhaas. “Have you all gone mad? Have you forgotten the songs of our mothers and their great-grandmothers before them, back unto the rebirth of the Homenest? These are humans—humans! The great despoilers. If they take us captive, they will have access to our best technology, our drives, our weapons. We will be enabling them to cut another swath of terror through the stars. They will invade Homenest, take hostages, experiment upon us, torture us, make labor slaves out of the entirety of our race!”
“They are more likely to do so if, in destroying ourselves, we destroy their boarding teams as well. As might begin happening any moment. We have word that the ships of our counterattacking fleet are even now being commandeered by human troops.”
“But—”
“With respect, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, I cannot have this discussion at this time. We must try to send this instruction to Orbitmaster Edkor Taak’s flagship. Please accompany the Enforcers. H’toor Qooiiz, please remain with me.”
“Orders, Shipmaster Tuxae Skhaas?” H’toor Qooiiz’s voice was a melody of liquid laughter.
“Given the approach of the humans, my first orders will probably be my last.”
“Then they had best be good ones.”
“Truly spoken. Can we reach the Orbitmaster’s command ship with this radio?”
“We can try.” H’toor Qooiiz’s response was unconvincing, but after fifteen seconds of waiting, the channel crackled and cleared. Orbitmaster Edkor Taak responded personally. He was unsurprised by the news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death, was startled by the naming of an Ee’ar to the position of Delegate, and fell into a long silence upon hearing that the Final Directive was rescinded. Then, in a slow voice, Orbitmaster Taak announced, “Before complying, I will speak to this Darzhee Kut myself.”
“He is no longer in my radio range; perhaps he is in yours.”
“We have no radios remaining other than this one, and we are too far from . . . planet . . . to exchange . . . or messages.”
“Orbitmaster Taak, I believe we have little time to—”
H’toor Qooiiz clicked a negation, looked up at him. “He has passed out of the range of this radio.”
Mobile Command Center “Trojan Ghost One,”
over southern Java, Earth
“Any word from RTF 1?”
“Boardings are underway, Mr. Downing. About forty percent of the opposing fleet’s ships have been taken by Joint Spec Ops forces. No sign of resistance whatsoever, even though some of the Roach boats are starting to get their computers back online.”
“Their belt fleet?”
“They were at longer range. Judging from Admiral Schubert’s last report, he’s anticipating first rendezvous in about two hours. And it’s about thirty minutes before our ground-launched teams reach the ships in orbit around Earth.”
“Are we anticipating any problem if either of those enemy formations get their systems running?”
“Not really, sir. We already have their hulls ringed with missiles and ordnance that caught up to them, retroboosted, and is now station-keeping with them in lethal proximity. If they so much as frown at us, they’re ash. Nothing but good news for us, sir.”
Downing looked over at Alnduul, who had not spoken for ten minutes, whose head had inclined to stare down at the Jakartan metroplex that was rushing up at them. There’s always risk, he had told the Dornaani. That was another way of saying that, in war, the news is never “all good.” Downing stared at his watch for the third time in the past thirty seconds, wondered why he was so anxious, why he felt it to be so desperately necessary to link up with the Arat Kur leadership, why he couldn’t think past the one thought that was pushing all others aside. Land this thing, damn it; land it now.
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
“Any word?” asked Darzhee Kut when he was sure no humans were close enough to hear.
“About the fleet or Riordan?”
“Either. Both.”
“Nothing on the fleet,” answered Urzueth Ragh. “None of our ships are in radio range any longer. The human Wu is unwilling to share much information, but I believe that Riordan was already on his way when I asked.”
Trial by Fire Page 62
