Extremis (23 page)

“Greetings, Dominant One,” said Heruvycx. “We have analyzed the latest reconnaissance probe findings and are ready with a report and recommendations.”

“Excellent,
arnhahorrax
.” Ultraz studied the holo display, recognizing the warp chain its human discoverers had named the Bellerophon Arm.

His attention was particularly focused on the Tisiphone system, nine warp transits up the chain from Bellerophon, and the starless warp nexus BR-07, eight warp transits up and then one transit off into a spur.

It was at those points that the Tangri possessed warp connections with the Bellerophon Arm and the human polity called the Rim Federation that claimed it. Those connections had long since been known, and attempts had been made to exploit them, through the New Hordes (a fiction invented for the purpose of assigning blame for raids that failed—a ploy that would not have fooled anyone but a mental defective or a human politician). But unfortunately, the human admirals had not proven susceptible to such subterfuges. They and their considerable fleets had been a troublesome impediment. Now, however…

“Ever since receiving your policy guidance,” said Heruvycx, as if reading Ultraz’s thoughts, “we have continued probing those warp points as instructed, to determine whether the Rim humans in the Bellerophon Arm have withdrawn their strength to deal with the new prey animals that have occupied the Bellerophon system.”

Ultraz gave a gesture of approval. The appearance of the new arrivals at Bellerophon—through normal space, of all the unheard-of things—had burst open the entire strategic picture and spawned a whole new range of possibilities. After much debate, the options of allying with one or the other of the factions in the new war—for example, allowing the humans access to the Arm through the two warp points—had been rejected. The advantages had not been commensurate with the risks, not to mention with the sheer revulsion aroused by the unprecedented thought of allying (however insincerely) with prey animals. Instead, it had been decided that the Tangri would take advantage of the Rim humans’ sudden inability to learn what was transpiring in the Arm beyond the Bellerophon system itself. In fact, the Tangri would reinforce that ignorance by declaring neutrality (a typically gutless human concept) and closing their borders. And then they would begin to implement their long-standing ambition by seizing the Rim’s Treadway system and everything beyond it, thus securing all the open warp points of the Arm. Afterward, they could begin to work their way down the Arm toward Bellerophon itself.

Heruvycx indicated a display screen. “These, Dominant One, are the vessels the Rim humans had deployed in the two systems in question at the time our policy was first put into effect. Since then, as instructed, we have sent reconnaissance drones through the warp points at regular intervals.”

Ultraz gestured his understanding. One of the fundamental facts of interstellar travel was that only a fairly substantial physical vessel could transit a warp point. There could be no nonmaterial transmittal of information through one. For centuries, this had meant that anyone passing through an unexplored warp point (or one with enemies waiting on the other side) had been going in blind.

New columns of figures appeared on the screen. “These are the corresponding figures from the later drones, keyed by date,” Heruvycx explained. “You will note that there has been little if any rotation among the picket vessels. Instead, they have become steadily less numerous as the larger ship types have begun to depart. Since these systems were never protected by any hull heavier than a light cruiser, the current patrol forces
are composed almost entirely of very light units.”

“Yes, I see all this.”

“Dominant One, these data indicate that the Rim humans are coming under increasing pressure from their enemies, so that they must call on all the forces they can scrape together, even at the cost of inadequate picketing. In the opinion of the Confederation Fleet Command staff, this suggests that the time is growing ripe for us to make our move.”

“Furthermore,” Scyryx put in, “if the new prey animals are, indeed, advancing up the Arm from Bellerophon, we will be well advised to act without unnecessary delay. The more systems they conquer, the fewer easy conquests will be left for us.”

“That is so, Dominant One.” Agreeing with Scyryx obviously caused Heruvycx physical pain.

Ultraz considered for a moment. “Very well. I concur, and I do not believe there will be any serious dissent among the
arnharanaks
. Indeed, many of them have been chaffing at what they consider our overcaution. If there is any disagreement, it will be dealt with.” Ultraz left it at that, without going into what substances some of the
anaks
or Horde leaders used in place of brains. He had long since identified all possible sources of opposition and had arranged in advance for those sources to be humbled in personal combat on the
arnharanaks
floor, in the fine old tradition of Tangri parliamentary procedure.

“Thank you, Dominant One,” said Heruvycx. “In anticipation of your decision, we have prepared orders for the redeployment of our fleets.”

“Good. I leave matters in your hands,
arnhahorrax
.” Ultraz got up off his framework. The staffers rose and then quickly dipped into the departing submission gesture while tucking their
kyeexes—
short-handled ceremonial glaives—well behind them.

Of course, Ultraz reflected, the real challenges to his talents lay ahead. The long-term policy could not be plotted out in advance, for it would depend on whether the humans or their new enemies won their war, and on how badly the winners had been weakened by their victory. Flexibility and adaptability would bear cultivating.

But Ultraz was not worried. A predator who blindly pursued a rigid course of action was a predator who did not live long enough to pass his stupidity on into the gene pool. So there were no such among Ultraz’s ancestors.

7

Decrees of the Very Small

How wayward the decrees of Fate are;
How very weak the very wise,
How very small the very great are!
—Thackeray

Aeolian Lowlands, Icarus Continent, Bellerophon

Alessandro McGee stared down the Serrie sight now mounted on a Rimstar Rangemaster hunting rifle. Chambered for the same 8.5 mm ammunition he had been using during his training visits to Upper Thessalaborea, this rifle was semiautomatic and optimized for long-range accuracy. And McGee was very pleased with the picture he saw in the scope.

The two Baldies who had been coming here every day for the past week had returned in their floater: a mixture of VTOL and ACV vehicle fused into a smoothly wedgelike fuselage. They had walked away from their craft, comparing data from their forearm computers with what was apparently written on a human paper map they had commandeered, and upon which they’d been scrawling notes for the past two days. Today, they occasionally pointed at the nearby bluffs, the marshland about half a kilometer farther on, and then back in the direction of Melantho, some eighty kilometers to the south. If Sandro had been a betting man, he’d have pegged them as surveyors, assessing water tables and flow patterns—and he was pretty sure he’d have won that bet.

But today was going to be these surveyors’ last day on the job. He muttered to Wismer, who was spotting for him just two meters farther along the ridge line, “I make that 620 meters, wind 4.8 kph from north west north.”

Wismer looked down his range-finding binoculars again. “I confirm that.”

McGee double-checked that the Serrington Arms scope showed the same range and windage information and then carefully pressed the data-accept button in a recessed port on the left-hand side of the weapon’s closed action. “I’m on internal processing,” he announced.

“Acknowledged. Wind-change reports only, now.”

McGee settled in behind the braced weapon, firmed his fingers around both the grip and forestock, and partially floated it off its rest: he wasn’t lifting its weight so much as adjusting the rifle’s orientation by the faintest slivers of a single degree. He drifted it in the direction of the Baldy who was closest to the vehicle, let the scope’s crosshairs slide to a stop on the alien as he held the map steady against the wind. His fellow-surveyor came closer—

—
perfect,
thought McGee. “Check?” he muttered.

Wismer, who had just moved a wayward leaf away from the bushes under which they were concealed, nodded. “Data steady.”

McGee let the crosshairs drift up toward his target’s head, centering on the large eye that was fixed where the upper bridge of the Baldy’s missing nose should be. He squeezed the trigger.

He didn’t watch to see what happened to that one: that was Jonathan’s job. Instead, McGee immediately drifted the crosshairs over to the other Baldy and put them a bit behind the front of his face.

When the second alien saw his companion go down with a bullet through his primary eye, he flinched back reflexively—and right into McGee’s crosshairs.

As McGee had anticipated. He squeezed the trigger, and this time he watched. For the sheer vengeful gratification of it.

In the split second that the bullet took to reach its mark, the Baldy blinked and seemed to realize that he/she ought to hit the deck. But the alien wasn’t fast enough: the bullet went into its head just between the lower margin of the large eye and the upper corner of the somewhat smaller and more rudimentary left-hand ocular organ.

Like the first Baldy, this one fell without a sound.

As McGee and Wismer had learned and expected from over twenty prior ambushes and assassinations, the floater immediately lifted up and started orbiting the site where its two passengers had been slain. How each Baldy machine knew when all its operators had been killed was still a mystery: the aliens didn’t seem to be equipped with any personal biomonitors or transponders. But up it went. And, if Baldy was following his security-response SOP, high-speed defense sleds would be on-site within ten to eleven minutes. So there was no time to waste. McGee wriggled out of his position, stood, and prepared to head down the slight slope to chase after the pearl of great price.

To chase after the map.

The map was the mission’s objective—and possibly the Rosetta stone they needed to begin cracking Baldy’s language and his signals. The Baldy computers were as unfailingly unintelligible as the transmissions they emitted. The Resistance’s central—and decidedly ad hoc—technical intelligence team (reservists all, but some damned smart ones in the mix) had pulled apart a number of Baldy computers in painstaking detail. In addition to a completely different approach to IT architecture, the team also found some subsystems that seemed vaguely analogous to transmitters but didn’t seem to send anything—although they powered up whenever the rest of the system sent information, either by wireless, long-range transmitter, or hard link. God only knew what these mysterious subsystems were, and they gave no clue to their operation, except that they were always quiescent in the presence of humans. However, they seemed to automatically power up when Baldies approached and either sent some undetectable signal to, or involuntarily attracted the attention of, their most proximal masters.

Ah, but the map. For days, the Baldies had been scribbling on it—and a purely written form of their language seemed to offer a better chance at identifying some linguistic constants, some common ground upon which the new communication team could build at least a crude, working Baldy vocabulary. That the Baldies rarely used purely textual sources, and even more rarely uttered any sounds, made the overall challenge just that much more difficult. Which made this map a potential gold mine.

“Sandro,” called Wismer as McGee finished scrambling out of the brush that was their overhead cover.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve got to go. Now.”

Sandro had started heading down the slope, but now slowed a bit. “Yeah, just as soon as I—”

“Sandro.” Wismer used that flat, level tone of his, which meant he had a must-hear message to relay.

McGee turned. “What’s up, Jon?”

“Base. We’re to head back. Immediately.”

“But the map could—”

“They know about the map. I told them. They want us back now. We’re to leave the map and make it back to HQ with all possible haste.”

Bloody hell,
thought McGee,
this isn’t like Cap Peters.
Well, “Cap” was Lieutenant Peters, now—but either way, the Old Man always knew what he was about. McGee sighed, turned, looked back downhill.

The wind caught the map, floated it up as if to torment McGee, and then pushed it onward as it gusted toward the marshlands.

“Sandro?”

“Yeah,” said McGee, stalking back up to the observation pit to break down his rifle, “I’m coming.”

* * *

Resistance HQ was located in what had been a corporate hidey-hole and was therefore not indicated on government maps nor contained in any official directories. Although never a lively place, it seemed more subdued from the moment they arrived. Located directly under a multipurpose materials-processing complex—which saw a heavy and steady stream of traffic varying from bulk containers to trash movers—the gray walls of the complex seemed grayer somehow, as if the color had rubbed off on the HQ staff and standing units.

Moving through the somber corridors with Wismer, McGee offered up the glum joke, “Who died?”

A voice behind him observed, “There are things worse than death, Tank.”

McGee turned and saw Harry Li lounging in a doorway. “Light Horse, what’s going on arou—?”

But Harry just shook his head. “You’re not hearing anything from me, Sandro. But come see me after you get briefed—and if I don’t get a visit from you soon, then I’ll come looking. Promise.” And he rolled off the doorjamb, back into the room, and was gone.

“What the hell?” wondered McGee aloud.

Wismer’s lips were tense and narrow. “Let’s just get to the CO’s office, Sandro.”

They did, but once there were redirected to the smaller of the two adjoining conference rooms.
Must be a general briefing of senior NCOs
, McGee thought—but then why had Jon Wismer been included in the summons?