The content of Walsh’s communique had been another matter. Walsh forthrightly volunteered knowing Victorious was a “Centaur” vessel now controlled by K’vithians—and just as baldly denied any human involvement.
“You may not know whom to believe and what to do,” Walsh’s message had concluded. “There is only one way to find out.”
So here (in an undisclosed location) he was—a clone of him anyway—still waiting to find out.
The human helmet was metal and opaque for three quarters of its circumference, and it blocked most of Gwu’s eyes. Each time it wobbled on her conical head, one tube or another, whether for water or food paste or medicine, jabbed her. Her head fur stood on end, drawn by static electricity to the plasticized fabric lining the helmet. She stood in a wiffelnut grove T’bck Ra had once reported free of K’vithian sensors.
She found the microphone. “This is K’choi Gwu ka, in human terms the captain of this vessel. To whom am I speaking?”
Although the helmet earphones were tuned to human auditory response, the voice in her ears was clearly of the Unity. “There are two of us. Speaking to you through translation is Dr. Arthur Walsh, a human. Providing that translation is myself, a clone of T’bck Fwa. The original T’bck Fwa remains on Earth as trade agent to the humans.”
Could it possibly be? “One, four, nine, sixteen. What comes next? Who was the ka of the Unity in 8546?”
“Twenty-five and L’fth Pha.”
Correct and immediate responses. Whomever translated was in or very near the ship. “Are there no tests for me?”
“There is no need. The human network giving me access also links many other helmets. Through their helmet cameras, I watched you enter the trees. I see your crew-kindred at work.”
“This is Art. Now that everyone is introduced, we have urgent decisions to make.”
What besides the violence that wracked Harmony could be urgent? As yet another explosion shook the ship, the torn bulkheads and fire-seared decks of her imagination were more real than what little could been seen out the helmet by her one unobstructed eye. “This ship cannot be destroyed.”
“We’re here to free our friends, not damage your ship!” Art said.
Her hearts ached. Could one be accomplished without the other? “T’bck Fwa, assume there is some way we can help the humans. What is your advice?”
“My sandbox has full connectivity to the improvised human network aboard Harmony. The largest group of humans is surrounded and badly outnumbered. The smaller group is not yet surrounded, but will be soon. The humans tell me they will not prevail without help. Perhaps the crew-kindred’s intervention can make a difference; of course I do not understand military matters.”
Of course. She was ka. She must decide—also with no understanding of military matters.
If she allied with the humans and they jointly prevailed, perhaps the crew-kindred could later communicate home—perhaps even go home. If K’vithians prevailed and the ship survived, there would be many more years of travel, to be followed by a lifetime of captivity—but again the theoretical possibility of an opportunity to communicate home. But if battle destroyed the ship, who would survive to communicate with anyone? How could she possibly predict an outcome or weigh the consequences?
A sudden realization made her rigid. “T’bck Fwa, what did you call this vessel?”
“I called it Harmony, ka. That was the name given in a partial message received via InterstellarNet. Is that not correct?”
Gwu allowed herself to hope. “What action was taken with that information?”
“It was transmitted to the Double Suns via InterstellarNet. An earlier message had already reported my inference the so-called Victorious was a Unity vessel.”
The burden of decades fell away. No longer need she subordinate all else to a possible message home—that task was done. The welfare and wishes of the crew-kindred now came first. What course of action would they choose? She had no doubts.
“Dr. Walsh. We will fight alongside your people.”
CHAPTER 39
Blam!
The detonation reverberated across the farm. Chunks of metal whistled through the air, embedding themselves in soil and trees. Which shrapnel came from blown-out storage-room walls, and which from the sheet steel that had leaned against the improvised explosive to channel the blast, was not immediately obvious, nor relevant.
Even pacifist herbivores knew about blowing up tree stumps. The Centaurs had ample fertilizer and volatile hydrocarbon solvents to fashion a decent-sized bomb, for which a bottle of acetylene/oxygen mixture ignited with a spark made a practical high-shock detonator. In Eva’s ‘bot’s-eye view, smoke billowed into the breached corridor on the perimeter of the prison area. Sulfur-tainted air was unavoidably infiltrating the Centaurs’ area, but fans appeared to be pushing most fumes away from the hole. She wasn’t clear who T’bck Ra was, but he, she, or it was properly managing ventilators and dampers to temporarily maintain positive air pressure on the Centaur side of the rupture.
“Go, go, go,” shouted someone. The ringing in Eva’s ears scrubbed any individuality from the voice. Around her, angry Centaurs ripped out and smashed Snake spy sensors. As quickly as she could struggle into her pressure suit, Eva followed a team of Centaurs with breather masks and Molotov cocktails into the breach.
Blam!
Combat-armored Snake flinched in the IR ‘bot’s-eye views Helmut monitored, but their attention remained on the current firefight with the special-ops team. A few Snakes turned back to investigate the unexpected blast at their rear.
In another mind’s-eye window, his perspective hurtling from ‘bot to ‘bot, forty or more speeding Centaurs approached from amidships. Their furious, many-limbed, many-jointed gait was bewildering to behold. They careened along on four or more tentacles, clutching rag-stoppered bottles, welding gear, crowbars, and other improvised weapons. More equipment hung from not-quite backpacks and utility belts. Hundreds of flailing limbs, brightly illuminated by dozens of hot flames flaring from the nozzles of welding torches, covered every nearby surface in thousands of writhing shadows.
Curvature of the corridor undid the theoretical longer reach of firearms and lasers. At some shout or gesture Helmut must have missed, Centaurs began touching their torches to dangling rag fuses. He watched in awe as limbs at least a meter-and-a-half long hurled Molotov cocktails. There were high-pitched screams among the explosions. Flames splashed and spread.
An already chaotic situation dissolved into sheer madness. Charges and countercharges by special-ops forces, Snakes, and Centaurs. Snake reinforcements rushed in from somewhere the ‘bots had yet to establish a presence. Centaurs and the now-freed human prisoners—that emerald-green spacesuit was Corinne!—firing weapons scavenged from the fallen. A bloody sortie launched by the Snakes defending the engine room, scarcely turned back. Another blam! from amidships, and more enraged Centaurs.
A squad of Snakes emerged from a stairwell, and charged toward Corinne and her new allies. Not my friend. Not ever again. Jaws clenched to suppress a scream of rage, Helmut took off behind them. His laser pistol scythed a beam of ruby death through the smoke.
As abruptly as the insanity began, it was over.
The main auditorium had become a temporary morgue. The sickbay was filled to capacity, mostly, but not exclusively, with Hunters. More wounded clogged the corridors nearby. Mashkith surveyed by net from the bridge, but his imagination superimposed a sickening stench of charred flesh and burning hydrocarbons. In the tactical display, expanses of Hunter and enemy control alternated across the ship like stripes on a gronthnak.
He changed feeds on another display. The bridge crew need not continuously observe seven weary and bedraggled clan prisoners, stripped of their combat armor, staring into space. Almost every sensor in the herd area had died at the start of the uprising. Having located—how long ago?—so many other sensors, they almost certainly knew about the surveillance camera in that small storeroom. The bit
of psychological warfare struck him as a human contribution. Regardless, he was glad to know his troops were safe and unmolested.
Most of the armed Hunters, led by Lothwer, continued to besiege the main body of human invaders. Some of the blockading forces occupied corridor intersections major enough to have surveillance cameras. The few faces discernable through helmet visors were exhausted. Figures slumped wearily against walls and each other. Armor and walls were scorched and dented.
Mashkith linked privately with Lothwer. “Defeat soon of main human group?”
“At your command, but not without significant clan casualties.” The netted voice was emotionless, but the caveat was unlike his lieutenant. In translation, an immediate victory would be very costly.
If the present situation was untenable, what were their options? The clan must retain control of key parts of the ship, including the bridge, engine room, and launch bay—and the fully fueled and armed warships there. They needed also to hold the armory, ample food and water stores, and the family dormitories. Defending more territory than that would only increase casualties. “Consolidation appropriate?” Mashkith asked.
“Possible,” begrudged Lothwer. “Risk of enemy encouragement.”
Heads swiveled on the bridge at Mashkith’s frustrated snarl. How could humans and herd become any more emboldened? He linked Rashk Keffah and Firh Glithwah into the consultation. “Goal: prudent minimization of clan casualties. Proposal: concentration of resources at critical locations.” He ran through his list of must-control regions.
“Also the farm zone,” Keffah suggested. The recommendation must have been difficult to make, reminding all of the breakout that had occurred on her watch. Not that any of them had anticipated the sudden, aggressive turn in the herd’s behavior….
“For now, not required,” Mashkith decided. Leaving those decks uncontested would facilitate repairs that benefited all three species. “Herd cleanup of its own mess.”
“Then what?” challenged Lothwer. “Enemy domination of amidships. Stalemate?”
“No,” Mashkith corrected. “Unaffected: ship’s acceleration and departure from Sol system. Enemy surrender inevitable once takeover of Victorious impossible. Our tasks: readiness for their certain desperate attacks. Conservation and positioning of our resources preparatory to their defeat.”
He redirected the discussion back to defensible zones. They adjusted the list of must-hold areas, adding a few crucial comm and computing nodes and some strategically placed passageways. More difficult was planning disengagement from the forward human troops and finding a safe way to funnel them aft. “Agreement?”
“Agreement, Foremost.” “At your command.” And from Lothwer, a reluctant, “Acknowledgement.”
“All troops below deck forty, to defense of engine room if possible,” netcast Mashkith. “Firh Glithwah in command in that zone. Main battle force, execution of disengagement under Lothwer’s directions. All others below deck twenty, to forward rally points, now.”
Rotten-egg and just-lit-match smells permeated the Centaur zone, even decks away from the blast zones. The breaches were sealed, and filters had scrubbed out much of the sulfur compounds—but anyone foolish or curious enough to forgo a breathing mask or pressure suit coughed in helpless, racking spasms. The wounded and those who treated them stayed inside room-sized, Centaur-provided oxygen tents.
Art was among those walking the aisles of the improvised infirmary, attempting to project an optimism he did not feel. A smile here, a hand squeezed or shoulder patted there—it was all he could offer. The UPIA medic was good, with an implant full of medical expertise, but too many of the wounds were beyond treatment with her limited supplies. At least the Centaurs had medical gear.
Eva was in a makeshift bed near the back, sedated. Skin-growth-stimulating nano-patches encased a badly burnt arm and shoulder. “I thought I’d never see you again,” Art said. Just expressing the thought was painful. He bent over, brushed aside uneven bangs, and kissed her forehead.
Then he rushed off to where those who knew what they were doing had congregated. Chung observed silently, both legs in casts. He had shrunken into himself, and seemed to have aged decades in the days since Art had last seen him. Carlos was comparing notes with marine officers, special-ops forces, and a few Centaurs. “What’s happening?” Art whispered to Helmut.
“The succinct version is: We stopped losing. It’s a start.”
Swee, with his usual quiet efficiency, had already interfaced a standard display to the human tactical network. Gwu scanned the holo periodically, although no serious changes in status had occurred in more than a ship’s watch. Together, the humans and crew-kindred occupied the ship’s middle decks. The K’vithians ruled the bow and stern. Both sides distrusted the central core and its elevators—with doors on each level, the elevator shafts were difficult to secure. Anything military confused Gwu, her kind having outgrown the need for such an institution many generations ago, but the humans’ ongoing status review made one fact plain. Altering the present state of affairs would be costly in lives for both sides.
“Which leaves us where?” she finally asked.
The senior UP soldier seemed not to appreciate the interruption. Major Dmitri Kudrin was a burly fellow with a weak chin, blue eyes, prominent nose, and black, brush-cut hair. Beyond removing his helmet, he had remained in battle armor.
“Which leaves us, ma’am, on our way to Barnard’s Star.”
Her tentacles yearned to knot in frustration. She resisted the urge. “If the crew-kindred understood the plan, we might be able to help.”
The human called Carlos Montoya cleared his throat. The relationship between Montoya, Kudrin, and—were there one or two ambassadors?—had her entirely confused. “Plan A was to capture this ship by getting our soldiers aboard. Plan B, proceeding in parallel, exploited Plan A’s combat as a diversion. Once the main attack sufficiently distracted the enemy, a second team was to surprise and overpower the engine-room staff. With the engine room under our control, we hoped to bypass bridge controls and return this ship to Sol system. Plan C is to return to Sol system, humans and Centaurs alike, in captured warships and lifeboats.” Carlos pointed in the holo at the main landing bay, deep within the K’vithian forward region of domination. “Casualties will be extreme if we must fight that far forward—if it can be done at all. Worse, the bad guys could easily thwart us by launching the ships themselves. Are the lifeboats also in this forward bay?”
“No, the original lifeboats are deployed across Harmony. Starting from the bow, here, here, and here.” Gwu extended several limbs into the holo as she spoke. Someone, she could not tell whom, evoked a tiny green ship icon wherever she pointed. Many lifeboat bays were within the human area of control, most of the rest no more than a few decks away. “And finally, here.
“There is a problem, however. The Foremost commanded that the lifeboats’ fuel be removed. That was a one-time task, and simpler than constantly guarding the lifeboats.”
Kudrin tipped his head. Gwu had no idea if the gesture meant anything. “Ka, can your people check them out? Maybe Mashkith lied.”
We are unwarlike, not stupid. “The Foremost has been known to deceive, but not in this case. Members of the crew-kindred have already confirmed the absence of onboard fuel. They confirmed also that key components were removed from the lifeboats’ long-range radios.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Carlos said. “On to Plan D. Plan D is to cut off the ship’s engines, by wrecking them if necessary. The United Planets has been gathering a fleet. It should be large enough by now to take on Mashkith’s warships. The fleet will launch once we radio that we’re ready for rescue, and UP observatories confirm the drive has been killed.”
Behind the war council Swee settled to the deck, surrendering to the urge to knot tentacles. Gwu envied him. “I do not understand. If military superiority is possible, why was this not the first plan?”
“It was too dangerous.” This time Arthur Wals
h, his very pale hair unmistakable, took the question. “Harmony is moving fast enough and leaving at such an incline to the ecliptic plane our ships can’t carry enough fuel to catch up and make it back. They must refuel from supplies already aboard this ship. If the battle went badly, or”—he glanced at his feet—”Harmony were destroyed, there would be no way home. Plan D relies upon the K’vithians surrendering an intact ship.”
Put that way, Plan D seemed desperate indeed. “With Plan D, you try to raid and wreck an area you were unable to capture.” More humans studied their feet. “Antimatter containment is in the engine room, including the antimatter removed from the lifeboats. We carry far more antimatter than destroyed Himalia. An attack into the engine room is madness.”
As was the unfolding future: Two armed groups, apparently closely matched, competing for all the years between here and K’vith over control of oxygen and food and shipboard energy. Into the lengthening silence, Gwu asked, “Is there a Plan E?” No one answered her. “I may have one. T’bck Ra, are you there?”
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