Kingdom's Swords

by David Sherman

  Corporal Doyle was as frightened as he'd ever been in his life. Check that, he'd never been so scared before. Not even when he'd been one of the eight Marines who had to face hordes of fierce warriors on Elneal. That time, nothing seemed to matter because he knew deep inside that he was dead anyway. Besides, he could see the hordes of Siad warriors.

  Here, though... Here he couldn't see anyone. Here, a Skink—they really were Skinks, weren't they?—could be right next to him and he wouldn't know it until the thing popped up and killed him.

  M Company had been hit from behind. Doyle knew that. He knew that Kilo Company was hit from the front. He saw a pattern developing—the next attack would happen on Company L's right flank. He was on the right flank! That meant the next contact would be on him! And he couldn't and wouldn't see the Skinks until they fired!

  Corporal Kerr saw the same pattern. Though he thought the pattern was more happenstance than deliberate, he also expected the next contact to come on the right flank. He was concerned, but not unduly so. His first combat after returning from rehab was against the Skinks on Waygone. He remembered very clearly how the acid from their weapons ate through flesh and bone. But was that more terrible than the plasma bolts fired by the Marines' blasters? Only in kind, not in degree. And their weapons, at least the ones they'd used on Waygone, were short-range—he peered into the swamp—not that the shortness of range mattered much here. The Skinks had been relatively easy to kill—if a blaster hit anywhere on one of them, it went "poof," vaporizing it in a flash of light. As fierce and fanatical fighters as the Skinks were, they weren't hard to beat. The other two companies got hurt as badly as they did because they were surprised by Skinks who were willing to die in their attacks. Third platoon, Kerr was convinced, was more aware of what they were up against and less likely to be taken by surprise.

  But what had Kerr concerned was that the Skinks seemed able to sense where the Marines were. He didn't think they saw in the infrared the way the Avionians did, nor did he think their eyes gathered light more efficiently. No, he didn't think it was a visual sense that allowed them to detect the Marines. Neither did he think they used a form of echo-location: they weren't that precise in knowing the Marines' location. The Skinks must have some sort of sixth sense...

  Kerr shivered.

  Lance Corporal Schultz tamped down all thought of who the Skinks were, the hideousness of their weapons, and how they could know where chameleoned Marines were. If he had thought of those things, he would have had to remember how badly the Skinks had shaken him on Waygone. Not that he'd been aware of it at the time; then he'd been too busy fighting and staying alive. He hadn't known how badly the Skinks frightened him until Company L was on its way to the quarantined world called Avionia and they were briefed on their mission. When he learned they were on their way to protect aliens from humans, his reaction had almost gotten him into serious trouble with Gunny Bass and Top Myer. At that time, he thought all aliens were evil and had to be exterminated. Actual contact with the birdlike sentience on Avionia convinced him otherwise. Or so he thought. Now they were facing Skinks again, and he knew he was up against a fearsome opponent.

  Schultz concentrated his awareness on the fact that there were beings in that swamp who wanted him abruptly and violently dead, and if he wanted to remain alive, he had to find and kill them first.

  "RIGHT!" The voice that shouted the warning over the platoon circuit was almost drowned out by the crack-sizzle of blaster fire that accompanied it.

  "Echelon right!" Corporal Kerr shouted. His fire team, still on the point, had continued responsibility for the front even when they faced the danger on their right flank. He dove into the mud under a bush a couple of meters away and swept his blaster from side to side, looking for a target along its barrel as it moved. As he looked he spared a quick glance at his HUD to make sure Doyle was moving to the right of where he'd been. The HUD display showed Doyle taking position almost as sharply as Schultz. Now the three of them were at an angle and could shoot to both the platoon's front and side without having to shoot over each other.

  To his right, Kerr heard the cracks of blasters and could see steam rise from blaster strikes on foliage and mud. He thought he saw the fading afterimage of the flash made by a hit Skink.

  "Second squad, volley fire, ten meters!" Sergeant Bladon ordered.

  Kerr pointed his blaster at a bushy shadow ten meters away, where someone could be hiding, and fired a bolt at it. Steam rose, but there was no answering flash from the bush. He shifted his aim to the left and fired again. He saw a bolt from Doyle's blaster strike a couple of meters away from his aiming point. Keep it up, Doyle, he thought, you're doing fine.

  "Second squad, up five," Bladon ordered. Kerr shifted his aim five meters deeper into the swamp in the disciplined fire pattern the Marines used when they couldn't see what to shoot at.

  "Second squad, heads up," Staff Sergeant Hyakowa's voice came over the comm. "Guns are joining you."

  "Kerr, I see you," Corporal Stevenson said. "Got you, Chan." The assault squad's second team dropped into place between the two fire teams.

  "Where do you want it?" Sergeant Kelly, the assault squad leader, asked.

  "Join my volley," Bladon replied. "Second squad, up five."

  The bolts from second squad's ten blasters fired deeper into the swamp, but were almost lost to view in the flash-flash-flash of the stream of bolts from the two assault guns as they stitched bolts along the squad's entire front and beyond. There were no answering flares.

  "Up five," Bladon ordered.

  Twice more they lengthened the range of their volleys without seeing or hearing any indication of a hit foe.

  "Cease fire!" came Gunny Bass's command. "Third platoon, cease fire. Report."

  "Doyle!" Kerr said.

  "H-Here."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I-I think so."

  "How's your batteries?"

  "I'm—I'm all right."

  "Schultz!"

  "Okay. Enough ammo."

  "Second fire team, no casualties. Batteries all right."

  "Roger, Kerr." The other two fire teams also reported no casualties and sufficient battery power remaining.

  "Effect?" Bladon asked.

  Kerr hadn't seen sign of damage inflicted on the enemy from his position. Neither had Corporal Chan.

  "MacIlargie saw one and shot it before it opened fire," Corporal Linsman reported.

  "Hold your position," Bass ordered. "First squad's coming through for a sweep."

  A moment later first squad came through second squad's line and advanced into the still-steaming killing zone. When they passed through the steam it blocked them from view, though they maintained constant comm. In fifteen minutes they were back, after finding nothing more than the scorch mark from the Skink MacIlargie had killed.

  The battalion's advance resumed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lewis Conorado could not sleep. He was thinking about Marta. Always before, their separations had left him missing her and the children terribly for the first few hours. Then, very quickly, he'd be absorbed into the myriad details of commanding his company, and thoughts of his family would sink into the recesses of his consciousness. But this time it was different, because of the anger of their parting, and because there was so little to do on board the Cambria to occupy his mind.

  The other passengers, it seemed, adjusted quickly to the enforced idleness. Captain Tuit did offer each of them—at their own risk, of course—the opportunity to be placed in stasis for the entire voyage, but all declined. Only the most advanced stasis units were designed to prevent the skeletomuscular problems that sometimes developed after long periods of unconsciousness. The Cambria's units were the old-fashioned kind, designed to stabilize a person who'd experienced severe trauma, and only until definitive medical care was available. None of the passengers on this voyage wanted to risk the months of physical therapy that would be required on Earth to get their atrophied musc
les working again. But the Cambria carried a vast array of entertainment resources, from physical exercise rooms to virtual reality chambers where her passengers could refight the Battle of Hastings or have sex with anything their fertile imaginations could devise. Most, however, preferred entertaining themselves in the company of their fellow passengers with card games, conversation, tours of the ship's unrestricted areas, and the like.

  "The hour is now 3:57 A.M.," a tiny female voice whispered as Conorado wearily turned onto his other side. The onboard computer system, dubbed "Minerva," or "Minnie," by the crew, could sense when the compartment's occupant was awake, but as long as he was physically inside his sleep module, all it would do was softly announce the time. He had considered turning that feature off, but after years of paying very strict attention to the time of day, he realized he'd be uncomfortable not knowing what time it was. He sighed and decided to give up. With a tired groan, Conorado swung his feet onto the floor. As soon as his legs cleared the edge of his bunk, the lights and various utilities went on. "No coffee and turn the music off," he said. The music he'd selected to start each day was "Bonnie Dundee," on the pipes and drums, as once played by the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards.

  "Ship's status?" the Minerva asked.

  "Not right now." Conorado had set that feature so he would not have to listen to the long recitation of the Cambria's operational status. That was required listening for each crew member, but still, when he wanted to know about the ship—which he often did because it was his nature to want to know what was going on around him—all he had to do was ask.

  Captain Tuit would be on the bridge, listening to his music and drinking his coffee. Conorado and the old navy man had hit it off immediately, and during the last two weeks they'd spent much time together, reminiscing about past voyages, deployments, and the colorful people they'd known in the Confederation's service. Conorado slipped into his clothing and stepped out of his compartment. As soon as he was through the portal, everything back inside went dead, to lie silent against his return. He turned up the companionway toward the bridge, half a kilometer forward.

  A starship in the "night," or the time when most of her crew and passengers would be sleeping, was a fascinating world. He walked slowly along the companionway, savoring the comforting sounds of a vast machine working perfectly. He stopped suddenly. "When do we reach Siluria, Minnie?" he asked.

  "Eight days, standard, Captain Lewis Conorado."

  Conorado decided to have some fun with her on the long walk to the bridge. "Are the whatsits and the thingamabobs in order, Minnie?"

  "I am sorry, sir, please repeat the question. And, sir? Please call me ‘Minerva.’"

  Conorado smiled. "What's the price of fish in Denmark, Minnie?"

  "Please bear in mind this data is more than one year out of date," Minnie began immediately, "but depending on species and size, the average prices obtained on the Copenhagen market are as follows..."

  Minnie's voice was soft and feminine and reminded Conorado a bit of Marta. "Thank you," he said when she had finished reeling off the desired information.

  "You are welcome, sir. But sir, you asked a question earlier that I was not able to answer for you. Would you please rephrase it so I may be of service to you?"

  "Forget it."

  "I am sorry, sir, but it is impossible for me to forget anything."

  "Okay. When's the last time you got laid, Minnie?" It just popped out.

  "I do not understand that question, sir," Minerva responded, a note of perplexity in her voice, "and besides, that was not the one you originally asked."

  "I withdraw both questions."

  "Thank you so much, sir," she replied. Conorado raised an eyebrow at the response; he thought he heard relief in the damned thing's voice!

  Captain Tuit was not in his customary position when Conorado stepped onto the bridge. The only officer present was the systems engineer, Miss Lenfen. "Really, sir," she said as soon as Conorado walked in, "you shouldn't try to confuse Minerva like that."

  Conorado mentally kicked himself. He should've known someone would be monitoring the system. He was embarrassed. "Well, I'm sorry, Miss Lenfen," he smiled, "but I really did want to know when we'll reach Siluria."

  Lenfen's cheeks reddened. "Well, I don't mean to sound bitchy, Captain," her cheeks got even redder, "but you know, Minerva's my responsibility and, well, I feel, um, ‘proprietary’ toward her. Would you like some coffee?"

  "Sure. When's Hank, er, Captain Tuit due back?"

  Lenfen smiled as she handed Conorado a steaming mug of coffee. "We call him Hank all the time. He's not feeling well and is resting in his stateroom."

  "Well, I can't sleep. Mind if I keep you company for a while?" He had not noticed before, but even in her formless jumpsuit, Lenfen was a remarkably pretty woman. "My name is Lewis but I prefer Lew." He held out his hand.

  "I'm Jennifer but everyone calls me Jenny." She took his hand.

  Her hand in his, Conorado was suddenly and poignantly reminded of his Marta. "Well," he said, squeezing her soft hand briefly and then letting it go, "where are you from?"

  Marta Conorado decided to spend a few days in New Oslo. She had not made up her mind what to do about her marriage to Lew. The longer she remained alone in their apartment, the more confused she became. One moment she started to call the flight operations office at Mainside to book herself out on the next Earthbound vessel, but the next instant she wasn't sure she could do it. So she decided to visit New Oslo and forget about everything for a while. The Conorados were not rich by any means, but they had saved, and she could afford to luxuriate for a few days in the finest hotels and restaurants the capital city had to offer. She might even go skiing.

  The Family Morale and Recreation office at Mainside had regular flights to New Oslo and other places on Thorsfinni's World, so with little effort Marta was able to book herself out the following morning.

  The Trondelag Arms had a nice room available when Marta checked in. She was familiar with New Oslo from when they had lived there. Of the many places the Conorados had been stationed as a family, she liked New Oslo best. The climate, temperate in the summer months, was always bracing, and the 'Finnis, an industrious but fun-loving people, always made good company. Besides, the pace of life in New Oslo was invigorating, everyone intent upon the business of the day, working hard and enjoying it, but then when it came time to relax, they did so vigorously. Just the atmosphere to take her mind off her marital troubles for a while, she thought.

  Since her flight arrived in the early afternoon, Marta decided to try a hot bath before dining at her favorite restaurant, the Svalbard. As she soaked she dozed. At one point she thought Lew had come into the room. She awakened with a start. She reflected wryly that she just couldn't get him out of her mind.

  The meal was excellent, served with the flair that made the Svalbard one of the prime dining spots in the city.

  Outside, she huddled into her furs against the penetrating cold. But she felt warm and content. She had not once thought of Lew during the meal. She started walking back up the street toward her hotel when someone seized her by the arm. Startled, she whirled to see a man, a big man, who began shoving her down the street. His grip tightened and hurt her. She opened her mouth in angry protest.

  "Keep quiet and keep moving," the man said in the 'Finni dialect.

  During the time she had lived in New Oslo, Marta had picked up quite a bit of the language, but her first reaction to his words, which she understood perfectly, was to blurt out in English, "What the hell...?"

  From behind them came shouting. "Halt! Or we will shoot!" Marta assumed it was a police officer. Passersby slipped and slid in the snow to get out of their way, and bystanders shouted and pointed at the pair as they stumbled quickly down the sidewalk and into an alley.

  The man only tightened his grip and shoved her along more forcefully. She felt something cold and hard pressed into the flesh just behind her left ear. "Keep moving and keep still," t
he man said in unaccented English, "or I'll kill you too."

  While the City of God sect modeled itself on the Puritans of the seventeenth century, they had no prejudices against the technology of the twenty-fifth century. Entirely the opposite, in fact. The memory of Cotton Mather, one of the most famous of all the American Puritans, was highly revered by the City of God. Mather, a member of the British Royal Society of his day, wrote prolifically on natural science and philosophy and was respected by his non-Puritan contemporaries for his wide-ranging knowledge and active curiosity about the things of the visible world. Subsequent generations came to despise him and Puritanism in general because of what he and they believed about the invisible world, which to Mather and his coreligionists consisted of demons, devils, familiars, and witches, all of which filled the air of New England, whispering into the ears of unsuspecting believers the joys of serving the devil.

  While the leaders of the City of God no longer believed in witches, they had a deep and abiding faith in such things as nuclear physics.

  The bomb the Army of Zion's team on Siluria had built under the supervision of their leader, Epher Benediction, was a very simple affair but more than capable of rendering the spectacular results he wanted. It was easy to obtain the necessary components on a place like Siluria. That particular device consisted of one kilogram of Plutonium 239 encased in a one-inch-thick sphere or tamper of Uranium 238. The bomb itself was a hollow cylinder containing two elements of fissionable material. Its total weight was a bit more than ten kilograms, or less than twenty-five pounds. Upon detonation, the resulting explosion would be equivalent to thousands of tons of conventional explosive; not much by the standards of the destructive weapons of the day, in fact quite primitive, but set off in the Cambria's propulsion unit, the explosion would light up the night sky of the entire Western Hemisphere of Old Earth. That was what Epher Benediction and his companions wanted.