The Fleet05 Total War

by David Drake (ed)

  “Where’s he going? Blitvan, come back here!”

  “I told you they’d defect,” spat Dockerty. “The Syndicate owned them first. We never had their loyalty. We’re going to have to kill all the damned Khalians before we can get through to the Syndicate men.” Dockerty flung himself onto his belly and aimed his laser rifle, giving orders to his concealed sharpshooters to do the same.

  Shillitoe, too, was afraid the Weasels had turned back to their former masters. If the Khalians turned against them, there would be only a scant handful of defenders until B and C Units arrived. By the time Blitvan’s warriors reached the Syndicate men, he realized he needn’t have worried. The Khalians threw themselves on the stunned guards, tearing at their faces and throats with razor-tipped claws.

  “Evil humans, we defy you!” crowed the Nedge, translating Blitvan’s triumphant cry. “We serve our new masters, the Alliance. Death to you!”

  “Yeah! Come on, men!” Shillitoe whooped, arcing an arm over his head and running after the Khalians. “We can’t let our furry brethren have all the fun.”

  Screaming and battering at their small attackers, the guards backed up into the courtyard, calling out for help. Surprise had prevented any of them from reaching for weapons. They seemed bewildered by the speed of the Khalians’ reactions. Any time one of them put a hand on a holster, sharp teeth closed on his fingers, and the same creature raked talons through the fabric of his uniform or the flesh of his throat. Almost before the Fleet Marines had entered the courtyard, two of the Syndicate men were dead. Dockerty’s sharpshooters had taken out two more before having to rise and run after the rest of the Alliance unit.

  “Pause all skyward!” cried a deep voice, as floodlights on in the stonewalled enclosure flared sunbright down onto the battle. From a doorway in the tower appeared a tall, impressive man clad in the same uniform, but decorated at the shoulders and throat with silver.

  “He says break it up,” the Nedge translated for the Apes. “An elder cousin or first brother,” said Ellis. “This is probably his proprietory.”

  “Take him!” Shillitoe ordered. “He’s one of the ones we have to get for Command.”

  The Marines made for the tall man. He smiled at them, his gray eyes glittering, and stepped backward through the double doorway. From behind him strode two lines of huge, centauroid monsters, clad in armor and carrying spears as well as oversize laser pistols. The Fleet sergeant stared, trying to see faces in the folds of thick, hairless skin at the front of the heads. The eyes were evident, glowing slits under heavy semicircular ridging; and surprising saw-edged teeth lined the lipless mouth at the bottom of the expressionless faces. The ridges also guarded parallel sets of arcing frills, which bracketed the eyes and mouth. Ears? Noses?

  The two monsters in the lead pulled spears out of the quivers slung on their backs, aimed, and threw. The Apes barely recovered enough to duck out of the way in time. The Khalians, tearing up the human guard, paid no attention.

  As soon as the last of the gray-green monsters was out of the door, it slammed shut, sealing the Syndicate man safely inside.

  ”Get past them if you can! Take him alive!” Shillitoe ordered. “What in hell are those?” he demanded, rolling. He slid on the cobbles and came up with his own laser pistol out. The gray-green creatures advanced on four huge, round, flat-soled feet, sturdy as tree trunks and every bit as stable.

  “Bodyguard,” Ellis panted. “But what kind of creature I have no idea. God, are they ugly.”

  “They are Kosantzu,” chittered the Nedge, pressing itself into a corner away from the fighting. “The ones who stand. Even when they die.”

  The Kosantzu, moving with a sleepy, slow-motion grace, each reached behind it and pulled another spear from its quiver. The spear shaft rested like a feather in the angle between three massive manipulative digits, which looked like the business ends of horseshoe magnets. As one, the Kosantzu raised their spears.

  “Down!” shouted Shillitoe, though there was no cover in the courtyard behind which they could hide. They would have to keep moving. “Fire at will!” The Kosantzu seemed to be obeying the order, showering the Marines with the spears they seemed to prefer to their oversize rifles.

  Dockerty’s men were good, scoring on Kosantz flesh no fewer than one out of two shots. The wounds bled redly but laser fire seemed to do little to stop them. Even a direct hit on the face was nearly impossible. The Kosantz would slit its eyes closed and draw in the flaps of flesh, leaving a featureless expanse of gray. Fortunately, the four-legged giants moved slowly, deliberately, giving the humans time to maneuver. There was no way a human could survive corps a corps fighting with one of these. They were doing a very effective job of keeping the Fleet unit away from the entrance to the tower.

  “We need more firepower than this! Jordan!”

  “Cover me,” the Marine said, dropping to one knee with his plasma cannon on his shoulder. His fellows kept up a steady barrage of laser bolts and slugs while he aimed at the Kosantz closest to him.

  There was a deafening burst as the plasma bolt struck the Kosantz full in the chest. The explosion tore one of the centauroid bodyguards apart and rocked the creature behind it up on its back feet. Stunned, it dropped its spear and rifle. Shillitoe and three others rushed in and bore the Kosantz over. It thudded heavily to the ground and snaked out its flexible arms, grabbing for them. It caught hold of Sokada’s leg and started to squeeze. The Marine’s face drained of blood, and he fell over.

  “Sarge!”

  Shillitoe jumped in with his sword drawn and hacked at the arm. Sokada kicked at the Kosantz’s face, but it merely shut up its features behind the protective skin ridges. The creature maintained an impressive level of strength for one whose thorax had a hole blown right through it by a plasma charge. In less than a minute, shock caused it to lose its grip. It flailed its arms blindly until it stopped moving. Shillitoe pulled Sokada clear and helped the man limp over to the corner where Daile waited with the Nedge.

  * * *

  Dockerty and Marks singled out another Kosantz. They discovered that not only were the giants slow-moving, but they had almost no neck, and the “waist” wasn’t very flexible, so it was possible to keep one spinning on its huge feet while they peppered it with lasers, searching for vital organs or vulnerable spots. The tough, loose skin seemed to absorb slugs, so those served only to annoy more than injure. Something was getting through to its slow brain, because the slitted green eyes were becoming wilder. It had run out of spears, and was returning laser fire, but its aim was poor because its targets kept moving out of the way. The Kosantz roared, furiously trying to hit the Marines with laser blasts. The courtyard was full of etched and half-melted cobbles.

  “How in hell do you make one of these stop?” Viedre panted, dodging.

  “It’s got to run out of blood eventually,” Dockerty said. “It’s getting tired. Marks, ready when it’s got its back to you. The spine is your best bet.”

  Marks steadied the plasma cannon on his shoulder, waited, and fired. The burst glanced off the Kosantz directly in the middle of the horizontal portion of its back. The bulk of the shell burst far beyond the battle. Shrieking, it dropped its laser pistol and reached for the smoking wound with both hands. Unbelievably, the arms were jointed to allow movement as good behind as before its body.

  Dockerty stared in disbelief as the Kosantz pulled its arms forward again, swiveled on two feet, and charged straight for Marks. No more lumbering giant—this beast was mad.

  He and Viedre tried to head it off, firing steady beams into its chest, but it paid no attention to the burning wounds. It bore down on Marks, hoisting its limp rear legs forward behind it. As Marks gaped up into its face, the Kosantz seized his chest between its hands and squeezed.

  It was over almost before Dockerty could turn around. The plasma cannon fell off the man’s shoulder with a clatter. Marks let out no more
than a breathless squeak before the life was crushed out of him. With visible effort, the Kosantz flung the Marine’s limp body against a wall. It watched, swaying, as Marks struck and slid down into a heap. Then the upper body collapsed, slowly folding forward until its hands brushed the ground. But it never fell over.

  * * *

  Shillitoe left Sokada with the doctor strapping his leg, and surveyed the courtyard. Blitvan and his brood were in trouble. Khalia weren’t as strong as humans. The low gravity of this planet gave them an advantage, but the human guard had superior weaponry and armor, which protected them from a lot of the Khalia’s favorite attacks. Three of the Khalians still standing had bad burns and wounds. In a little while, there would be no Khalians left alive or no Syndicate soldiers, and Shillitoe needed prisoners.

  “Blitvan!” he called over the comlink. “I’ve got a better place you can use your speed. Come and help us clean up the Kosantzu. They move slowly, but watch it! They’re strong!”

  The Khalian’s head swiveled toward him. “Do I have autonomy to order my warriors? And your cannon weapons?”

  “Yes, dammit, just move before they know what we’re doing! Jordan, you shoot where Blitvan tells you.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Blitvan shrilled out a cry, and the Weasels poured away from the amazed human guards, who watched them disengage from their individual battles and run away. The captain of the guard recovered and, wiping blood from his face, ordered pursuit of the furred menace. They were met halfway by the Fleet Marines.

  The Khalians swarmed all over the slow-moving Kosantzu. Blitvan was a clever general. On his orders, his warriors struck swiftly, tearing at the protective flaps covering the Kosantzu’s features, digging talons into the sensitive eyes and nostril slits, and tearing open their torso armor, and then jumping away before the slow giants could grab them. One of the Khalians was knocked down and stomped to death by a Kosantz before it could move out of the way, but it looked like an accident to Shillitoe. Once a Kosantz was blinded, the Khalians concentrated laser fire on the back of the massive neck and the curve of its spine until the creature went limp.

  One of the blind Kosantzu went berserk, throwing the small Khalians in all directions. On Blitvan’s shrieked orders, three of them picked up one of the Kosantz’s discarded spears and held it angled upward between the courtyard wall and the cobblestoned floor. They screamed taunts at the giant, goading it into charging them. Unable to see the pike, it blundered forward, hands out to grab its noisy little opponents. Its body rammed itself almost eight feet along the spear’s shaft before it died.

  * * *

  Shillitoe and the others moved in on the human guards. Ellis knocked one down and ripped the helmet off the man’s head when his mouth began to move. A big male with a curved sword charged toward the sergeant. Shillitoe backed away and parried with his own sword.

  “Sarge, this one was radioing for help!” Ellis announced over the comlink.

  “Knock him out and give him to the doc. We’ll keep him for Captain Slyne. Let me see if I can raise our fearless leader yet.” Shillitoe nudged the frequency selector with his chin and listened for voices, watching his opponent closely. The man had a silver insignia on his chest instead of the simple blue ones worn by the other guards. This could be a prize, if the Marines could take him alive, but the man was good with his sword. The guard parried under Shillitoe’s sword and scored on the flexible armor over the sergeant’s midsection.

  “Doesn’t this radio machine work, human sergeant?” Blitvan’s voice inquired over the headset.

  “Do gerbils chew cardboard?” grunted Alvin as he sidestepped a blow from the guard’s sword, and riposted with one of his own. Ah, near miss to the other man’s temple. He was getting closer.

  “I do not know if we will survive this fight, so I must ask, at risk of giving offense. Why are you and your followers called Apes? Are you humans not all apes?”

  The question would have bothered Tarzan before, but now he just smiled grimly. “Yeah, but we’re special. We’re more ape than any of the other apes.”

  “I think I am honored to know you, Sergeant of the Apes.”

  “That’s Tarzan. “

  “A Unit, do you copy?” It was Captain Slyne, on interrupt frequency.

  “Thank Krim, where are you? Sir,” Shillitoe exclaimed, jumping back to avoid a slice.

  “About a hundred yards behind you, on line-of-sight contact, with B Unit. C Unit is just landing. They were monitoring and insisted that the time interval was too great, and I agreed.”

  “Our medical officer is holding a couple of the Syndicate men alive and unconscious for your questioning. But we’ve got other problems,” Shillitoe said, looking for an opening. He didn’t want to kill the guard, but the man was making it difficult for him to get in a knockout blow with the flat of his sword. His own body armor was nicked in several spots.

  “I see ’em. Holy earth mother, what are those?” asked Unit B commander over Shillitoe’s headset.

  “The Syndicate’S new flunkeys. Care to try a turn with one of them?”

  “God, no. They’d probably step on my feet.”

  “Well, they’re tough, but they don’t move too quickly. Would you mind getting in here and helping? If it isn’t too goddamned much trouble? One of our prisoners was just transmitting a cry for help!”

  “Well, Sergeant,” demanded Captain Slyne sternly, “if the Khalian pirates aren’t based here, where are they?”

  Did all brass have ball bearings for brains? Shillitoe tried to keep his voice level. “Captain, with all respect, I’d say the pirates—or any Khalians—are the least of your worries this time around. This is a Syndicate base. Would you mind doing something about our big friends here? We haven’t got the complement to deal with these things.” He took a quick step back and risked a quick glance around. Almost half the Khalians were down or visibly wounded. His own men had formed along the perimeter and were firing at the massive aliens whenever they could get a clear shot. “The Khalians can’t hold them off forever.”

  There was a short pause while Alvin could hear metal rattling over the open command link.

  “Time to dance, Sergeant. Tell your men to flatten out when I give you the word.”

  Alvin managed to slap his sword into the unprotected head of his opponent. Flipping over to general broadcast he barked the order. “Blitvan, everyone, hit the deck!”

  The barrage of heavy laser fire started one second after the captain gave the order. Only later did Shillitoe realize he had thought of both the humans and the Khalians as “his men.” Even the massive Kosantzu couldn’t absorb the energy from a direct hit and survive. The air thrummed from the power contained by the five-centimeter-thick laser beams passing inches over the squatting noncom’s head. To Shillitoe, it was the prettiest dance music he had ever heard.

  THE LEVEL and mechanizations of those who revel in the mind games called intelligence and espionage are at best convoluted. The infiltration of the Fleet was accomplished on many levels. A generation ago the far-ranging traders of the Syndicate watched as the Alliance absorbed or conquered each culture it encountered. By its very nature the Alliance had to overwhelm or destroy every threat to its existence. The lessons of the long dark age after the fall of the Empire were still too fresh to allow for any other policy.

  To the fiercely competitive managers of the Syndicate, it was apparent that being included in the Alliance would mean the eventual destruction of their own way of life. Too many of their policies directly opposed the more liberal tenets of Alliance politics. Nor would their populations accept the structured way of life that characterized their worlds if the vista of unlimited opportunity was an alternative. While to the Alliance the Syndicate was responsible for the millions of deaths caused by Khalian raids, those raised on Syndicate worlds saw themselves as patriots using whatever they had to stop inevitabl
e Alliance aggression. They were fighting to maintain a society established over hundreds of years. If more repressive and suppressed, their citizens were also more secure, supported by the paternal family. If those in the Alliance would find abhorrent the low level of freedom of a typical Syndicate citizen, a Syndicate resident would be no less repulsed by the poverty and even hunger allowed by the laissez-faire policies of the opponent. Each side saw the other as evil. Each viewed their actions as being necessitated by defense. The result was that most Syndicate spies remained loyal to their family, even after capture. Even more importantly, surprisingly few of their deeply planted sleeper agents had “gone native” and changed their allegiance to the Alliance.

  Caught in a situation that could only end in defeat, the Fleet began to react with desperate measures. With the war increasing in intensity and ship-to-ship actions growing from duels to full squadron actions, the need to find their enemy’s base of operations became imperative. The best and the newest technology was soon allocated exclusively to finding the Syndicate systems and ascertaining their strength.

  THE RECEPTIONIST facing Captain Kowacs wasn’t armed, but there was enough weaponry built into her desk to stop a destroyer. Her face was neutral, composed. If she was supposed to do anything besides watch the Marine captain, she was fucking off.

  This was like going through a series of airlocks; but what was on the far end of these doors was a lot more dangerous than vacuum.

  The inner door opened to admit a guide/escort—Kowacs’s third guide since hand-delivered orders jerked him out of the barracks assigned to the 121st Marine Reaction Company.