In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  Nodding, she moved back over to the side of the screaming mob in time to see the guards at the checkpoint, four of them, raising their weapons. Valentina waved, drawing their attention. “Be careful!” she yelled. “They’re armed!”

  A rifle barked and one of the prisoners dropped, then the other guards began firing. Every shot tore through Valentina’s heart, but she had to get close enough to make sure she could kill all four guards. Sikorsky was falling behind, clutching his ribs, and would be no use in this battle.

  Half a dozen of the prisoners had been cut down when she finally judged she was close enough. Pulling far out to one side, she leveled her submachine pistol and held down the trigger, fanning the bullets across the four guards. Two were hit in the head, the others took rounds to the chest. They were wearing body armor, so she put an extra bullet into their heads.

  Dead men tell no tales, she thought savagely. Then she fired her weapon into the air, getting the prisoners to flee back the way they had come, away from the check point and past their fallen comrades. Then she went to Sikorsky, wrapping one of his arms around her shoulders and helping him to the small military utility vehicle parked next to the gate. After putting him in the passenger seat, she used her stolen thumb and ID badge one more time to open the gate. Then she hopped in the driver’s seat and headed out of the facility, just as the alarm siren went off.

  As she was driving out, a platoon of secret police troops ran toward her from their barracks outside the compound walls. She brought her vehicle to a stop and waved their commander, a very young lieutenant, over.

  “The prisoners have escaped, and they have weapons!” she said, panicked, as she grabbed him by the lapel of his uniform. “My comrade has been shot,” she went on, jerking her head toward Dmitri, who sat beside her, moaning. “Do you have a medical kit in your barracks?”

  “Of course,” the lieutenant said, as if she were a simpleton. “Get him there and take care of him. We will take care of those scum.” He glared in the direction of the gate and the confused screaming beyond it.

  “Thank you, comrade lieutenant,” she said gratefully.

  He nodded once before taking off at a run with his men, weapons at the ready.

  Watching them in the rear-view mirror as she turned onto the road that led toward town, ignoring the nearby barracks, Valentina held back her tears as she waited for the massacre to begin.

  * * *

  The colonel and his men burst into the courtyard just as the first volley of gunfire cracked through the air and bullets whizzed by their heads.

  “Govno!” one of the men cried as he took a round in the leg. “Shit!”

  “Cease fire!” the colonel screamed at the secret police troops he glimpsed beyond the mass of prisoners who were running directly toward him and his men, only a few meters away now, screening them from the view of the other troops. “Cease—”

  Thirty-four weapons, firing on full automatic, cut down the rest of the prisoners. It was only afterward, as the men of the quick reaction platoon sorted through the bodies, that the colonel and his troops were discovered.

  They were the only ones other than Morozov himself who knew of the secret orders regarding the Confederation spies, and the secret died with them. By the time anyone in authority realized the two high-value prisoners were missing and had not been followed, it would be far too late.

  * * *

  Valentina drove through the city, using the intrinsic authority of a secret police vehicle to bypass the normal traffic stops and other encumbrances Saint Petersburg drivers normally had to contend with. She was headed toward where she had originally landed a week, a lifetime, ago. Having lost her microcomputer when they were captured, she had to reach the cache of equipment she had left behind: it contained a backup secure transmitter with which she could communicate with the fleet.

  “How do you do it?” Sikorsky said. He had been quiet for a long time after their escape. She had thought it was simply from the injuries he had suffered which, while certainly serious, did not appear to be life-threatening. From the tone of his voice, however, it was clear that he had also been doing a great deal of thinking.

  “How do I do what, Dmitri?”

  He turned his face, now covered with bandages she had applied from the vehicle’s medical kit, and gave her a cold, appraising look. “How do you live with yourself, after doing such a thing?” He looked away. “You knew those poor fools would be slaughtered,” he went on quietly. “They never stood a chance. You used them. Even Medvedev, pig that he was, was nothing more than a tool to you. And that is all I am, as well.”

  She bit back her emotions. Focus on the mission, she told herself, knowing that there was almost certainly a special spot in Hell waiting for her for all the things she had done. Medvedev certainly did not bother her conscience. And sending those prisoners to be used as cannon fodder was not the worst of her misdeeds, nor — if she survived — would it be the last. What Sikorsky had said about himself, if anything, hurt far worse. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was.

  “We had no choice, Dmitri,” she told him bluntly. “And what did you think was going to happen to those people, anyway? That the secret police were going to suddenly forgive them and let them go? They were all dead men and women who happened to be still breathing. Every one of them was bound for the grave.” She paused a moment, trying to convince herself that it was all true. Even if it was, it would still be a huge burden on her soul. “If there had been any way for me to save them without endangering my mission, Dmitri,” she finally said, “I would have. If we had been given more time, and I had more information to make a better plan, things might have been different. But...” She shook her head helplessly.

  Sikorsky said nothing, but simply stared out the passenger side window.

  Sighing, Valentina glanced up to the clear blue sky. “I only hope we’re not too late,” she whispered to herself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Li’ara-Zhurah stood beside Tesh-Dar, who sat in the command chair of the assault fleet’s flagship. Their force, fifty-seven ships headed toward the human planet of Saint Petersburg, was not nearly as large as the one used against Keran, where the Empire’s warriors first engaged in battle with the humans. Unlike the attack on Keran, which was intended to frighten the humans, to shock them into action that would make them a more potent and effective enemy, the attacks here and against several other human systems were to be long-term battles of attrition. The Empire would allow the bloodletting here to go on for cycles before the humans were finally extinguished from this world. In this way a great many warriors could be blooded to bring honor to the Empress.

  And in that time, or the cycles that would come after, when the Empire attacked yet more human worlds, perhaps Her Children would find the One whose blood could sing, the One who could save them all from extinction.

  Throughout the assault fleet, now was a time for contemplation. All the preparations for combat had been made, and the warriors and shipmistresses were ready to open the great battle that lay ahead. Anticipation swirled in their blood like a hungry predator in a deep ocean, but it was yet far from the surface, barely registering on their consciousness. Instead, they turned inward, reflecting on their lives, their sisters, and their bond to the Empress.

  Li’ara-Zhurah closed her eyes, seeking to shed the last remains of the melancholy that had plagued her since Keran. It no longer held sway over her heart, but she was determined to expunge it from her soul: she refused to shame Tesh-Dar’s legacy by being anything less than completely worthy of the honor that the elder priestess sought to bestow upon her. Relaxing her mind and body, she gave herself up completely to the power of the Bloodsong. She lost her sense of self in the ethereal chorus from the trillions of her sisters. It was a timeless, infinite melody containing every emotion her race could express, and running through it all was the immortal love of the Empress.

  As she felt the great river gently wash away the last of the pain
and uncertainty from her soul, she suddenly sensed something that had not been there before, a new voice in the chorus of souls. She gasped at the power of this new voice, at the purity of its song as it joined with the many others of its kind. Opening her eyes wide with wonder, she looked down at her body, gently placing a hand over the armor protecting her abdomen.

  There, in her womb, her child’s spirit had awakened.

  She felt someone touch her arm, and looked up to see Tesh-Dar, smiling at her.

  “Her Bloodsong is powerful, child,” Tesh-Dar said proudly, “much like her mother’s.”

  Li’ara-Zhurah could only nod her head, still overwhelmed by the sensation of a second spirit singing together with, yet unique from, her own. A girl child, she told herself. Thank you, my Empress. She knew now that she would bear any male children that might result from future matings, that her earlier misgivings could not deter her honor and duty. Yet she was thankful that this, her first, was a female child. A part of her yet hoped that this child would be sterile, that she would not have to endure the agony of mating. Regardless, Li’ara-Zhurah realized that she would cherish her daughters, of black talons or silver, fertile or sterile. She would bear any male children that fate demanded of her, but in her heart of hearts she would never consider them sons. They were tools necessary to preserve the Empire, but no more. It was part of the heart-rending tragedy that was the Curse, the final act of a heartbroken First Empress.

  Beside her, Tesh-Dar’s heart swelled with love and pride: Li’ara-Zhurah’s Bloodsong was strong and pure, just as that of her newly awoken daughter. Soon, once Li’ara-Zhurah’s role in opening the battle at Saint Petersburg had played out, Tesh-Dar would take her to her appointed nursery world to give birth. From there, she would lead Li’ara-Zhurah to the temple of the Desh-Ka, just as Sura-Ni’khan had taken Tesh-Dar many cycles ago. Once she had bequeathed her powers to her young acolyte, Tesh-Dar would spend her remaining days helping Li’ara-Zhurah learn the full extent of her powers.

  In one sense, Tesh-Dar was saddened that she would be diminished once she and Li’ara-Zhurah performed the ritual that would make the young warrior high priestess of the Desh-Ka. No longer would Tesh-Dar be able to call upon the powers she had inherited from Sura-Ni’khan; she would still be a force to contend with in the arena and in battle with the humans, but only because of her great strength and skill with weapons. No longer would she be able to walk through walls, or cast herself into the air and float along as she willed, or see far beyond the senses of her body with her second sight. All these things that she had come to treasure, would she lose.

  Yet part of her also yearned for release from the crushing sense of responsibility she bore upon her shoulders. For nearly a hundred cycles now had she worn the rune of the Desh-Ka upon her collar as high priestess, and her soul was weary. To spend the remainder of her days teaching Li’ara-Zhurah in the ways of the Desh-Ka and helping the tresh at her kazha — including, she hoped, Li’ara-Zhurah’s daughter, should the Empress bless it — to become warriors were her only ambitions. She had always thought she would die in battle (And that may yet come to pass, she thought), but she would welcome a quiet death in a warm bed of animal hides just as well. She was the supreme warrior of a race that lived for battle, but she would not be disappointed if, like Pan’ne-Sharakh, she could live out her remaining days among the arenas of the kazha.

  Sighing in contentment, her hand on Li’ara-Zhurah’s, she watched the ship’s displays as her fleet moved inexorably closer to its objective.

  * * *

  Sato sat rigidly, strapped in his combat chair on Yura’s bridge. Beside him, in a special sheath the ship’s engineers had fixed to his chair, was his katana. Left to him by his grandfather, the weapon had been with him during the most traumatic moments of his life. He knew in his heart that he would die with it in his hands, fighting the Kreelans. For a warrior, he thought, was there any other way to die?

  “Transpace sequence initiated,” the navigation computer announced. “Normal space in ten seconds...five...four...three...two...one...now.” The main bridge display suddenly resolved into a panorama of stars, with Saint Petersburg’s sun a blazing white disk off the port side. “Transpace sequence complete.”

  They had jumped into the system very close to the planet of Saint Petersburg, barely outside the orbit of its moon. If the task force received the intelligence information they were expecting about the nuclear weapons, they would deploy the Marines or conduct an orbital bombardment. Or both. If they didn’t get the information, they would sail directly to Riga, which lay further in-system.

  It was just a question of waiting.

  “Jump engines off-line and respooling for contingency jump,” the bridge engineering officer called out. In case the task force got into too much trouble, the ship would be ready to jump out on thirty seconds notice. “Engineering is ready to answer all bells, captain.”

  “All ahead, one quarter,” Sato ordered. “Keep us in tight formation, helm.”

  “Inter-ship datalink acquired, captain,” the young tactical officer announced, and information on the nearby planets and ships suddenly blossomed into life on the display. The sensors of all the ships in the task force were linked together, with each ship sending what it “saw” to the other ships. The datalink would do the same for targeting information, allowing the task force to fight as a tightly integrated weapons complex, rather than individual ships. It was a wonderful system, but the Kreelans had proven at Keran that it could be disrupted, with devastating effect. Since then, while it was still used on a regular basis, every crew and squadron trained to function effectively without it.

  “Any hostiles?” Sato asked, carefully filtering the tension from his voice.

  “Negative, sir,” the tactical officer reported. Unlike Sato, his voice wavered slightly, betraying how tense he was. Like most of the crewmen aboard Yura and the other ships of the task force, this was his first combat patrol. “I see three Saint Petersburg coast guard cutters in low orbit, but that’s it for ships in the order of battle database. Everything else is either a freighter or an unknown. None of the vessels has changed course or activated additional sensors. No new emanations from the planet or the moon. There’s no reaction at all that we can see.”

  Sato frowned. Something was wrong. Any planet, particularly now that humanity was at war with the Empire, would react to a fleet of warships appearing in their system. They would be insane not to.

  He stared at the display, searching for clues. The ships of the task force appeared as blue icons, while every other ship in the system was painted in yellow: not hostile, but not confirmed as friendly, either. If a ship was later confirmed to be a friendly vessel, it would change to green on the display.

  And that’s not bloody likely, Sato thought grimly as the Confederation task force moved in closer to the planet.

  * * *

  Valentina sped through the forest as fast as she dared. If the fleet had stayed on schedule, they were already in-system, waiting for her signal. She was late.

  “Damn it,” she muttered venomously as she gunned the vehicle across a small creek, the oversized drive wheels clawing for purchase in the soft soil of the opposite bank. The distance from the road to where she had buried her cache of equipment had seemed much shorter when she had walked into the train station after she arrived. They had made good time getting here, thanks to everyone’s fear of anything having to do with the secret police, but these last few kilometers had been nerve-wracking.

  Then she saw it. She had buried her equipment container near a dead tree that had been split by a lightning strike. “Slava Bogu,” she said. “Thank God.”

  “God has nothing to do with this,” Sikorsky said as she pulled the vehicle to a stop.

  Ignoring him, she jumped out and ran to the spot, seven paces due south from the trunk of the tree, where she had buried her gear. The vehicle they’d stolen had no utility tools like a shovel, so she simply dropped to her knees and
began to claw at the ground. “Help me,” she pleaded. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  Sikorsky simply stared at her for a moment. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he got down on his knees and began to dig.

  In five minutes they pulled a cylindrical container about as long as Valentina’s arm and as big around as her leg from the ground. Sikorsky put his hand on the small control panel that was inset into the casing.

  “No!” she cried, batting his hand away.

  “What?” he asked angrily. “I help you, and this is—”

  “It’s booby-trapped, Dmitri,” she explained quickly as she moved her hands in a peculiar way over the casing, pressing gently at several points. “The access panel you see here is a fake. If you’d tried to open it that way, it would have exploded and killed you. And me.”

  With a faint popping sound, the cylinder opened. She reached in and extracted a black device that was as thick as her little finger and fit neatly in her palm. Swiping a finger across one edge, the face lit up in a small display.

  Sikorsky noticed that the finger she had used to touch the device had come away bloody.

  “It’s validating that it’s my DNA,” she breathed as the face of the device suddenly glowed amber. Then she said in English, “The standard four square is hex. Copernicus. Execute.” Glancing up at Sikorsky, she explained, “It’s a randomly generated code phrase. That, plus my voice print and DNA will enable it.”

  The face of the device suddenly glowed green. There were no numbers or other data displayed, just a monochrome green.

  Closing her eyes in concentration, Valentina began dictating a stream of numbers that would tell the fleet about the hidden nuclear weapons facility and where to find it.

  * * *

  “We are taking a tremendous risk, comrade.” Korolev’s voice was soft, but the threat was clear.

  Marshal Antonov nodded. Despite Korolev’s implicit threat, he was not nervous. It was not that he doubted what would happen to him if his plan failed, it was simply that he knew his plan could not fail. “It will work, comrade chairman,” he said confidently. “As long as our friends in the secret police managed to do their job.” He shot a sideways glance at Morozov, who sat quietly at his place at the table. “The Confederation ships that just arrived will either surrender or be destroyed.”