“Got her eddress?” Liol asked from the side of his mouth as he watched her walk away.
“Liol, that’s a voidhawk ship-tunic. Syrinx doesn’t have an eddress. So how are you?”
“Absolutely fine.” Liol reversed a chair, and straddled it, arms resting on the back. “This is party city for me all right. I think I’ll move Quantum Serendipity here after the crisis.”
“Right. Haven’t seen much of you since we docked.”
“Well hey, no surprise there. That Dominique, hell of a girl.” He lowered his voice to a throaty gloating growl. “Game on, five, six times a night. Every position I know, then some that’s got to be just for xenocs.”
“Wow.”
“Last night, you know what? Threesome. Neomone joined in.”
“No shit? You record a sensevise?”
Liol put both hands down on the table, and stared at his brother. “Josh.”
“Yep.”
“For Christ’s sake take me with you.”
* * *
Kerry was the first planet, the test. Catholic Irish-ethnic to the bedrock, its inhabitants gave the priests of the Unified Church a very hard time. Stubbornly suspicious of technology, it took them a half a century longer than the development company projected to reach full technoindustrial independence. When they did achieve it, their economic index never matched the acceleration curve of the more driven Western-Christian work-ethic planets. They were comfortably off, favoured large families, traded modestly with nearby star systems, contributed grudgingly to the Confederation Assembly and Navy, and went to Church regularly. There were no aspirations to become a galactic player like Kulu, Oshanko, and Edenism. Quiet people getting on with their lives. Until the possession crisis arrived.
The planet was seven light-years from New California, and worried. Their Strategic Defence network was the absolute minimum for a developed world; and combat wasp stocks were never kept very high; maintenance budgets were also subject to political trimming. Since the crisis began, and especially post-Arnstat, Kerry had been desperately trying to upgrade. Unfortunately their industrial stations weren’t geared towards churning out military hardware. Nor were they closely allied to Kulu or Earth who did produce an abundance of such items. The Edenists of the Kerry system, orbiting Rathdrum, lent what support they could; but they had their own defences to enhance first.
Still, went the hope and reasoning, that’s the benefit of being galactic small fry, Capone isn’t going to bother with us. When it came to the effort of mounting a full scale invasion along the lines of Arnstat they were absolutely right. Which is why Al’s sudden change of policy caught them woefully unprepared.
Twelve hellhawks emerged five and a half thousand kilometres above Kerry’s atmosphere, and fired a salvo of ten (fusion powered) combat wasps each. The bitek craft immediately started accelerating at six gees, flying away from each other in an expanding globe formation. Their combat wasps raced on ahead of them, ejecting multiple submunitions. Space was infected by electronic warfare impulses and thermal decoys, a rapidly growing blind spot in Kerry’s sensor coverage. Submunitions began to target sensor satellites, inter-orbit ships, spaceplanes, and low orbit SD platforms. A volley of fusion bombs detonated, creating a further maelstrom of electromagnetic chaos.
Kerry’s SD network controllers, surprised by the vehemence of the attack, and fearing an Arnstat-style assault, did their best to counter. Platforms launched counter salvos of combat wasps; electron beams and X-ray lasers stabbed out, slashing across the vacuum to punch submunitions into bloating haze-balls of ions. Electronic warfare generators on the platforms began pumping out their own disruption. After four seconds spent analysing the attack mode, the network’s coordinating AI determined the hellhawks were engaged in a safe-clearance operation. It was right.
Ten front-line Organization frigates emerged into the calm centre of the combat wasp deluge. Fusion drives ignited, driving them down towards the planet at eight gees. Combat wasps slid out of their launch tubes, and their drives came on.
The AI had switched all available sensor satellites to scanning the frigates. Radars and laser radars were essentially useless in the face of New California’s superior electronic warfare technology. The network’s visual pattern sensors were being pummelled by the nuclear explosions and deception impulse lasers, but they did manage to distinguish the unique superhot energy output of antimatter drives. The ultimate horror unchained above Kerry’s beautiful, vulnerable atmosphere.
Unlike ordinary combat wasps, a killstrike didn’t eliminate the problem. Hit a fusion bomb with a laser or kinetic bullet, and there is no nuclear explosion, it simply disintegrates into its component molecules. But knock out an antimatter combat wasp, and the drive’s confinement spheres will detonate into multi-megaton fury, as will as the warheads.
As soon as the launch was verified, the AI’s total priority was preventing the antimatter combat wasps from getting within a thousand kilometres of the stratosphere. Starships, communication platforms, port stations, and industrial stations were reclassified expendable, and left to take their chances. Every SD resource was concentrated on eliminating the antimatter drones. Weapons were realigned away from the hellhawks and frigates, and brought to bear solely on the searing lightpoints racing over the delicate continents. Defending combat wasps performed drastic realignment manoeuvres; platform-mounted rail guns pumped out a cascade of inert kinetic missiles along projected vectors. Patrolling starships accelerated down at high-gees, bringing their combat wasps and energy beam weapons in range.
The hellhawks fired another barrage of combat wasps, sending them streaking away from the nebulous clot of plasma which the initial drone battle had smeared across the sky. They were aimed at the remaining low orbit SD platforms shielding the continent below. Apart from activating the platforms’ close-defence weapons, there was little the network controllers could do. Hurtling towards the planet, the frigates began to diverge, curving away from each other. Nothing challenged their approach. The continent was completely open to whatever they chose to throw at it.
As the antimatter exploded overhead in a pattern that created an umbrella of solid incandescent radiation three thousand kilometres across, they made a strange selection. Two hundred kilometres above the atmosphere, each warship flung out a batch of inactive ovoids, measuring a mere three metres high. Their task complete, the frigates curved up, striving for altitude with an eight-gee acceleration. A second, smaller salvo of antimatter combat wasps was fired, providing the same kind of diversionary cover as they’d enjoyed during their descent.
This time, the invaders didn’t have it all their own way. The number of weapons focused on, and active within, the small zone where the frigates and hellhawks were concentrated began to take effect. Even Kerry’s second-rate hardware had the odds tilting in its favour. A nuclear tipped submunition exploded against one of the frigates. Its entire stock of antimatter detonated instantaneously. The radiation blaze wiped out every chunk of hardware within a five hundred kilometre radius. Outside the killzone, ships and drones spun away inertly, moulting charred flakes of null-foam. Exposed fuselages shone like small suns under the equally intense photonic energy release. To those on the planet unlucky enough to be looking up at the silent, glorious blossoms of light during the first stage of the battle, it was as though the noon sun had suddenly quadrupled in vigour. Then their optic nerves burnt out.
Two of the hellhawks were crippled in the explosion, their polyp penetrated by lethal quantities of gamma radiation. One of the frigates was unable to handle the massive energy impact. The dissipation web beneath its hexagonal fuselage plates turned crimson and melted. The patterning nodes facing the massive explosion flash suffered catastrophic failures as the radiation smashed delicate molecular junctions into slag. The fusion drives failed. Plumes of hot vapour squirted angrily out of emergency vent nozzles. Inside, the crew charged through their contingency procedures, desperate to sustain the integrity of the antimatter
confinement spheres in their remaining combat wasps.
None of their Organization colleagues went back for them. As soon as the eight remaining frigates reached a five thousand kilometre altitude, they jumped outsystem. The hellhawks followed within seconds, leaving Kerry’s population wondering what the hell had happened. Behind the shrinking wormhole interstices, the black eggs thundered earthwards with total impunity. SD sensors never found them amid the electronic disorder. People on the planet couldn’t see their laser-like contrails against the dazzling aftermath of the orbital explosions.
They fell fast before decelerating at excruciatingly high gees in the lower atmosphere. Sonic booms rocked across the sleepy farmland, the first indication that anything was wrong. When the rural folk started to scan the sky in mild alarm, all that was to be seen were chunks of flaming debris streaking down from the battle—to be expected, claimed those who knew something of such things. The eggs reached subsonic speed a kilometre above the land. Petals flipped out from the lower half, presenting a wider surface area to the air, doubling the drag coefficient. At four hundred metres, the drogue chute shot up. Two hundred metres saw the main chute deployment.
Two hundred and fifty of the black eggs thudded to ground at random across an area measuring over three hundred thousand square kilometres. The petals failed on eight, while a further nine suffered chute failure. The remaining two hundred and thirty three produced a bone-rattler landing for their passengers, bouncing and rolling for several metres before they came to a halt. Their sides slit open with a loud crack, and the possessed stepped forth to admire the verdant green land they had volunteered to infiltrate.
* * *
The hellhawks arrived back at New California thirty hours later. They didn’t even get a hero’s welcome. The Organization already knew the seeding flight had been a success; information from the infiltrators had already squirmed its way back through the beyond.
Al was jubilant. He ordered Emmet and Leroy to put together another five seeding flights immediately. The fleet crews and asteroids cooperated enthusiastically. The success was nothing like as momentous as the Arnstat victory, but it kicked in a resurgence of confidence throughout the Organization. We’re a power again, was the shared opinion. Beefs and recalcitrance sloped away.
The Varrad discarded its fantasy starship image as it approached Monterey. It slid over the docking ledge pedestal and slowly sank down, radiating a desultory relief.
You did well, Hudson Proctor told Pran Soo, the hellhawk’s resident soul. Kiera says she’s pleased with you.
Commence nutrient fluid pumping, Pran Soo said flatly.
Sure thing. Here it comes. Enjoy.
Hudson Proctor gave a short command, and the fluid surged along the pipes and into the hellhawk’s internal reserve bladders.
Two of us were exterminated, Pran Soo announced to the other hellhawks. Linsky and Maranthis. They were irradiated when Kerry’s SD network took out the Dorbane. It was awful. I felt their structure withering.
Price we pay for victory, Etchells said swiftly. Two of us, against an entire Confederation planet taken out.
Yeah, said Felix, who possessed the Kerachel. Kerry had me real worried. When it comes to drinking contests and pub brawls, they’d got us beat every time.
Keep your Goddamn pinko loser opinions to yourself, Etchells sneered back. This was a concept-proving mission. What the fuck do you know about overall strategy? We’re the hard edge of operations, the cosmic shock troops.
Give it a rest, you boring little prat. And don’t pretend you were ever in an army. Even armies have a minimum IQ requirement.
Oh yeah? What you know. I killed fifteen men when I was in combat.
Yeah, he was a nurse. Couldn’t read the label on the medicine bottle.
Careful, shit-for-brains.
Or what?
I’m sure Kiera would be interested to know about this sedition you’re spreading. See what a little fasting does to your attitude.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU BOLLOCKBRAINED NAZI REDNECK MORON.
The general affinity band fell silent for quite some time.
Were you listening to all that? Pran Soo asked Rocio on singular engagement.
I heard, the Mindori’s possessor replied. I think things might be starting to slide our way.
Could be. I’m sure each of us can do simple maths. Two of us per soft-target planet. When we start hitting hard targets, Kiera’s going to have a full scale strike on her hands.
Which she’ll win unless we can provide everyone with an alternative food source.
Yeah. How’s it going?
I have been tracking the Lucky Logorn, they’re almost back at Almaden.
You think this Deebank guy will go for our pitch?
He was the first to offer us a deal. At least he’ll listen to what I suggest.
* * *
The First Admiral had stayed away from the CNIS secure laboratory ever since the incident in court three. Maynard Khanna had been a damn fine officer, not to mention young and personable. The boy would have gone a long way in the Confederation Navy, so Samual Aleksandrovich had always told himself. With or without my patronage. Now he was dead.
The funeral ceremony in Trafalgar’s multi-denominational church had been short and simple. Dignified, as was fitting. A flag draped coffin, the enduring image of military service for centuries, placed reverently on a pedestal before the altar by the Marine dress guard. It was intended as a focus for their honour. But Samual had thought it looked more like a sacrificial offering.
Standing in the front pew, mouthing the words of a hymn, he suddenly wondered if Khanna was actually watching them. Information gleaned from captured possessed indicated those ensnared in the beyond were aware of events inside the real universe. It was a moment of profound spookiness; he even lowered his hymn book to stare at the coffin in suspicion. Was this why the whole funeral ritual had started back in pre-history times? It was one of the most common cross-cultural events, a ceremony to mark the passing of life. The deceased’s friends and relatives coming to pay homage, to wish them well on their way. It would be reassuring for a soul, otherwise so naked and alone, to gain the knowledge that so many considered their life to be worthwhile.
The remnants of Maynard Khanna’s body mocked the notion of a fulfilled existence. Young, tortured to death, his ending had been neither swift nor noble.
Samual Aleksandrovich had raised his hymn book again and sung with a vigour which surprised the other officers. Perhaps Khanna would witness the mark of devotion from his superior officer, and draw some comfort from the fact. If it made a difference, the effort should be made. Now Samual Aleksandrovich was having to confront the cause of his regret. Jacqueline Couteur was still possessing her stolen body, immune from the usual laws that would deliver justice upon such a treacherous multiple murderess.
He was accompanied by Mae Ortlieb and Jeeta Anwar from the Assembly President’s staff, as well as admiral Lalwani and Maynard Khanna’s replacement, Captain Amr al-Sahhaf. The presence of the two presidential aides he found mildly annoying; an indication of how his decisions and prerogatives were increasingly coming under political scrutiny. Olton Haaker had that right, Samual acknowledged, but it was being wielded with less subtlety as the crisis drew out.
For the first time he was actually thankful for the Mortonridge Liberation. Positive physical action on such a massive scale had diverted the attention of both the Assembly and the media companies from Navy activities. The politicians, he conceded grimly, might have been right about the psychological impact such a campaign would create. He’d even accessed a few rover reporter sensevises himself to see how the serjeants were doing. My God, the mud!
Dr Gilmore and Euru greeted the small elite delegation with little sign of nerves. A good omen, Samual thought. His spirits lifted further when Gilmore started to lead them along to the physics and electronics laboratory section, away from the demon trap.
Bitek Laboratory Thirteen was alm
ost the same as any standard electronic research facility. A long room lined with benches, several morgue-like slabs arranged down the centre, and glass-walled clean rooms at one end. Tall stacks of experimental equipment were standing like modern megaliths on every surface, alongside ultra-high-resolution scanners and powerful desktop blocks. The only distinguishing items the First Admiral could see were the clone vats. Those you normally wouldn’t find outside an Edenist establishment.
“Exactly what are you demonstrating for us?” Jeeta Anwar asked.
“The prototype anti-memory,” Euru said. “It was surprisingly easy to assemble. Of course, we do have a great many thoughtware weapons on file, which we’ve studied. And the neural mechanisms behind memory retention are well understood.”
“If that’s the case, I’m surprised no one has ever designed one before.”
“It’s a question of application,” Gilmore said. “As the First Admiral pointed out once, the more complex a weapon is, the more impractical it becomes, especially in the field. In order for the anti-memory to work, the brain must be subjected to quite a long sequence of imprint pulses. You couldn’t just fire it at your opponent the same way you do a bullet. They have to be looking straight into the beam, and a sharp movement, or even an inappropriately timed blink will nullify the whole process. And if it was known to be in use, retinal implants could be programmed to recognize it, and block it out. However, once you hold a captive, application becomes extremely simple.”
Mattox was waiting for them by the last clean room, looking through the glass with the air of a proud parent. “Testing has been our greatest stalling point,” he explained. “Ordinary bitek processors are completely useless in this respect. We had to design a system which duplicates a typical human neurone structure in its entirety.”
“You mean you cloned a brain?” Mae Ortlieb asked, a blatant note of disapproval in her voice.
The Night's Dawn Trilogy Page 290
