In Her Name: The Last War (97 page)

“Lavrenti,” the president of Riga answered cautiously. “This contact is a bit...unusual, is it not?”

“It is,” Voroshilov told him bluntly. “Valdis, have your military people been monitoring what has been going on in-system?”

Roze hesitated a moment, clearly wondering if Voroshilov was trying to entrap him. Then, thinking better of it only because he knew that Voroshilov was a man of honor, even if the Party he served held such a quality as a vice, he said, “Our astronomers noted that there were two energy spikes that conform with nuclear detonations in space. Other than that, we have little to go on: we were totally cut off from the datasphere a few hours ago. And, as you know, we have little in the way of sensors that can see in-system.”

Voroshilov frowned. He had repeatedly argued with Marshal Antonov to upgrade Riga’s defenses, but he had steadfastly refused, even with the suggestion of keeping Saint Petersburg military personnel in charge. Now it was too late. “Valdis, we are being invaded,” he told his brother-in-law. “The Confederation reports of an alien attack on Keran were true; now they have come here. Over two hundred enemy ships are dropping troops all over Saint Petersburg, and it is only a matter of time before they come to you.”

“And what are we to do?” Roze asked hotly. “The only military forces here are yours, and are intended to keep us in our place, not to defend from invasion. We are helpless.”

“No,” Voroshilov corrected him. “I know that you have an extensive underground militia, a resistance. I recommend that you have them and as many of your people as possible evacuate the cities. From the account of the battle of Keran, the enemy seems to concentrate on the cities. I will give orders to the garrison commander that he is to place himself under your command.”

Roze scoffed. “He is a Party lapdog, Lavrenti. I know you are doing this without Korolev’s permission, and so will he. He will spit in your eye.”

“Indeed.” Turning to Borichevsky, Voroshilov said, “You will detach the destroyer
Komsomolskaya Pravda
to provide early warning coverage for Riga, on my direct orders. The ship’s captain is to place himself under the direct command of President Roze. He is also to send a party to the garrison commander and deliver my orders that he do the same. Let them understand that if the commander refuses, they are to shoot him on the spot. If the garrison resists, the
Komosomolskaya Pravda
is to destroy it from orbit.” The ships of the Saint Petersburg fleet were equipped with weapons that were designed for orbital bombardments, for occasions just such as this. “Is that clear, flag captain?”

“Perfectly, comrade admiral!”

Voroshilov nodded, and Borichevsky began barking orders to the fleet controllers. “I know that is a token effort, Valdis,” he said, “but it is all I can do for now. We have Confederation ships with us, and I will ask their commander to ensure that one of them is sent back to their government to request that supplies and, if possible, troops be sent as quickly as possible. I would detach more ships to defend Riga, but I fear we already do not have enough ships to defeat the force that faces us.”

“I...I appreciate what you’ve done,” Roze said. “You are a good man. I can imagine what it will cost you in the end.”

Voroshilov gave him a wry smile. “I have much to survive before Korolev can shoot me,” he said. “Good luck, Valdis.”

“You, too, Lavrenti.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The two ships, joined now by the grapples Li’ara-Zhurah’s crew had fastened to the human vessel, turned slowly together in space like dreaming lovers. In her armored space suit, she led her surviving warriors to the Messenger’s ship. She ignored the spectacular scenery around her: the millions of stars, the brightly colored disk of the human planet below, and the shimmering spears of flame that were the hundreds of assault craft penetrating the planet’s atmosphere. She had seen things like these before at Keran, and shut them from her mind: they brought her only unpleasant memories.

The crossing between ships was merely a matter of jumping across the few body lengths of space separating the vessels where the hatch opened. The hulls would have been even more closely bound were it not for the profusion of unsightly antenna arrays, turrets, and various other protrusions with which the humans chose to encumber their ships. 

Had they been making a combat boarding, she would have simply found a patch of hull and burned a hole through it to the interior compartments, but that was not an option in this case. She had no idea where the Messenger might be inside the ship, and thus had to exercise caution. 

Instead, they moved across the hull of the Messenger’s ship toward one of the holes that had been blown in it by the attacking human vessels. The damage there was already done. She led her warriors inside the blasted compartment, noting that it had contained the force of this particular shell’s explosion: there were no major breaches in the interior bulkheads or the hatch. She approached the latter, carefully placing a boarding airlock — essentially a double membrane with sealable flaps down the middle — around the scorched hatch coaming. The edges stuck to the metal with a molecular glue that fused the membrane material to the steel. 

Once that was accomplished, she stepped inside the airlock, sealed the membranes behind her, and then carefully cut a small hole in the hatch with a small cutting torch. The membrane suddenly inflated with a loud pop as air from the other side of the hatch flowed through the hole she had cut, pressurizing her side of the airlock. She used the torch to cut the hatch’s jammed lock, then swung it open to reveal a red-lit corridor beyond. 

Darting her head through the hatch to check in both directions, she saw that the way was deserted. “Come,” she told her accompanying warriors, “we must move quickly now.”

After gratefully shedding her armored suit, she stood guard while her warriors entered through the double airlock in pairs. In a few minutes, all had entered the ship. 

“Which way, mistress?” one of the warriors asked. Li’ara-Zhurah was the only one among them who had ever been on a human ship, another of her experiences during the battle of Keran. 

Li’ara-Zhurah considered: they had entered the hull roughly two-thirds of the way aft. If this ship was anything like the ship she had boarded at Keran, they were near the engineering section. The command deck, which is where she assumed the messenger would be, should be somewhere forward of that. The corridor they were in ran fore-and aft. “This way,” she said, leading them in the direction of the bow, the front of the ship. 

At the first turn, they came upon several humans who lay slumped against the walls and sprawled on the floor. All had vomited profusely, and had blood streaming from their mouths. She did not have to see their faces to know that the Messenger was not among them: she had never seen his face, and had only heard his voice the one time over the radio. Yet she knew instinctively that she would recognize him when she saw him. It was a paradox that she did not understand, nor did she try to: it was as elemental to her as breathing.

One of her warriors raised her sword to kill the humans, but Li’ara-Zhurah signaled with her hand to leave them be. “Leave them,” she said as she moved onward. “We must find the Messenger.”

They moved forward as fast as they dared in the eerie red lighting, skirting around the many damaged areas of the ship. The passageways were filled with swirling smoke and the bitter reek of burned metal and plastic, along with the stench of bodies that had lost control of their digestive systems. Li’ara-Zhurah momentarily regretted leaving her vacuum suit behind, for her species had an extremely acute sense of smell, and the stink was nearly overwhelming. 

They came upon more humans, unconscious or dead in the passageways. She surmised that those whose stations were out here, close to the outer hull, must have absorbed a great deal more radiation than those further in toward the ship’s central core. She prayed to the Empress that the Messenger had been deep in the ship, protected as much as possible.

Descending a ladder, she suddenly came face to face with two humans who, if not healthy, were nonetheless able to move about. They stared at Li’ara-Zhurah, and she stared back as her warriors quickly formed up behind her. The humans began to edge backward, eyes wide with fear.

Suddenly, they turned and began to run away, screaming in their native tongue. Three of her warriors instantly had
shrekkas
, deadly throwing weapons, in their hands ready to throw, but she said, “No! Follow them, for they may lead us to the Messenger. Let any humans alone unless they resist or interfere.”

Her warriors obeyed, putting away their weapons as Li’ara-Zhurah led them quickly along the path taken by the screaming humans, who shuffled down the passageway, their bodies too weak to carry them faster.

As they passed an open doorway, an unexpected
boom
filled the passageway and one of her warriors was flung against the opposite wall, a massive hole punched in her chest armor. Three of her other warriors pounced on the human, one of their warriors in vacuum armor, and slashed him to pieces before he could fire another shot.

They encountered more humans in what Li’ara-Zhurah could only think of as a bizarre situation: here they were, warriors of the Empire, marching by the humans in the haze-filled passageways, holding their swords toward the aliens to ward them off, but otherwise offering to do them no harm. Except for one more of the armored warriors, who was killed before he could attack, the humans shrank back and offered no resistance. Li’ara-Zhurah knew this was not because they lacked the warrior spirit, but because their bodies were so weakened from radiation poisoning that most of them could barely move.

At last they reached what she hoped was the command deck. Forcing the door open, she surveyed the humans within. Four of them were conscious, all of them staring at her in amazement; the rest were unconscious or dead, sprawled on the deck. Of the four, one held a weapon, a pistol, pointed at her chest. 

The Messenger.

She knelt to the deck before him and saluted, bringing her left fist against her right breast. Normally to salute one not of the Way was forbidden, but a Messenger was an exception. Her warriors in the passageway did the same.

As they did, the Messenger spoke in words that she could not understand.

* * *

“Bogdanova,” Sato croaked, “are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Sato was afraid he was having a hallucination.

“If you mean a bunch of Kreelan warriors, sir,” she replied, shivering from the pain in her abdomen and the fear of seeing Death kneeling a few meters away, “then yes, sir, I am.”

“None of you move a muscle,” Sato ordered. He held his sidearm, unsteadily pointing it at the lead warrior. It felt incredibly heavy, and he was sure that if he tried to fire it the recoil would send it flying from his hand. 

The Kreelan simply knelt there, head bowed, and made no move to attack.
I’m either incredibly blessed or incredibly cursed
, Sato thought tiredly. He almost wished the warrior would kill him with the sword and get it over with. It would be better than the agonizing death he faced from radiation poisoning. He lowered his weapon and let it fall to the deck. He simply had no energy left to fight. All he wanted was to try and save his crew, but knew that virtually all of them were going to die, no matter what happened. The ship’s surgeon had analyzed the radiation absorption data, and they had all absorbed far more radiation than he had initially believed. More than any of the anti-radiation medicines carried by the fleet could deal with. That was before the surgeon himself had collapsed into a coma.

“What do you want?” he asked the warrior. He knew she would probably not understand him, but it was all he could think of to say.

She tentatively raised her eyes, as if she was in awe of him, and then gracefully came to her feet. The other warriors behind her remained on their knees. Approaching him slowly, her head again bowed down, she knelt before him in his command chair. Then she removed a smooth black tube, about as long as her forearm and as big around, from her belt. It looked much like the black scabbard for his sword, and Sato imagined it was some sort of weapon, something special just for him. He nodded, relieved.
It will be over soon
, he thought. He tried to focus his last thoughts on Steph, calling up an image of her in his mind, but even that much effort was too much. He simply sat there, staring at her as she opened the tube.

What he saw inside was not at all what he expected.

* * *

Li’ara-Zhurah had to concentrate on holding her hands steady as she opened the special vessel containing the healing gel. She wished that she could speak with the Messenger, to reassure him that she meant him no harm. She hoped he would remember the healing gel, for she knew from Tesh-Dar’s recounting of their first contact with the humans that all of them had been treated with it. Normally it was physically bound to a healer until just before it was used, but this was an unusual circumstance, and a vessel such as this could preserve it for a period of days before the gel, a living symbiont, perished. 

As she opened the top, revealing the swirling pink and purple mass inside, she glanced up at the Messenger. Even without understanding human body language, she could tell that he was repulsed by it, feared it. She paused, unsure of what to do.

* * *

When he saw what was in the tube, Sato instinctively pushed back in his command chair, his eyes wide with revulsion. He would have tried to turn and run, anywhere, but his body was far past that now. He doubled over, his abdomen a writhing mass of pain as he vomited again. The only thing that came up was blood, and the pain was excruciating. Clasping his arms around his stomach, gasping in agony, he passed out, collapsing into the Kreelan’s outstretched arms.

* * *

Li’ara-Zhurah gently caught the Messenger as he fell, writhing in great pain, and she gently laid him onto the deck. “Alar-Chumah, Kai-Ehran!” she called. “Assist me!”