The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack (30 page)

English sprinted for Tamarack’s corpse and picked up the dead sergeant’s plate-like magnetic charge. “Let’s set this and blow this place,” he said to Sawyer through gritted teeth, finally feeling weasel damage where his arms and legs had taken it.

But there was enough adrenaline in him to hold off the worst of the pain. When he came down from the exhaust well of the second ship, Sawyer was right there, weapon ready, standing guard over him. And he had tails from dead weasels in his belt. There must have been a dozen.

English wasn’t about to argue over whose tails those were going to be. He had a company to care for. He was going to get lots of grief for going into this action the way he had, instead of staying in the damned egg truck. He could hear it now. But then, to hear it later, he’d have to live that long.

He let Sawyer run point for him, and they did the last destroyer, while the recon boys formed up there and held off what was beginning to become serious opposition: weasels in gun trucks, weasels with plasma rifles. The only break the Ninety-Second got was that the weasels were afraid to fire on their own ships, here where there was so much fuel around

“Time for a diversion.” English didn’t know he’d spoken on the all-com; he was thinking out loud.

“Let’s blow one fighter, and run like hell toward the other end of the line,” Sawyer replied. And, suddenly on a private channel: “It means leaving Tamarack’s body, but they don’t get any deader. We’ll give him all these tails you and me got today. Dumb ass, stopping to count coup in the middle of an op like this.”

“Yeah, well, we did that too. Okay; let’s let him stay.” The privacy channel wasn’t monitored for the record. “Call roll and form up while you’re movin’, guys. Blow 13-Zed, once everybody’s accounted for. To X point,
now!
”

Everybody moved. On his visor display, it was like watching a space battle. The blips that were the Ninety-Second found their way around the blips that were the enemy, and the ones that weren’t moving, well . . . they were dead.

You had to play it that way, in the dark against these odds. English gave a five-second warning when the fighter was going to blow, and everybody hit the deck. He could see the results on his scanner.

The blow was hotter than he’d counted on. It shook the ground and taxed his helmet’s polarizing capability. His breathing apparatus went up a notch in tone, and began to filter in earnest.

There was no time to worry about what was happening back there, among the enemy ships. There was only time to pray that everybody alive made the X point, and to call the APC.

That APC was going to move a hell of a lot faster than they were, summoned on the emergency freq English was using: “Dropmaster, this is a Nonstandard Pickup, Immediate. X Point precalibrated. Move!”

If they got out before the burning fighter blew, and ignited another, and then another, English would call it a win.

If they were still running for cover when that chain reaction caused one of the destroyers to blow prematurely, English wouldn’t be counting anything.

God, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It shouldn’t be happening. But those damned weasels left their fuel tanks too close to—

English almost stopped running, despite the display grid on his visor which told him he was just keeping up with his men, and plotted the relative times to the X point of every moving blip in his company. He almost stopped, because he’d just realized that those fighters were being fueled up for something, loaded and armed and being readied for some kind of scramble.

Did that mean word of the Alliance strike had leaked? Were the big guns pointed skyward with nukes up their spouts? If so, it was going to be one hell of a bang before the smoke cleared.

He could hear his own breathing now, labored despite his respirator, as he charged toward the X point, the place where recon had melted the fencing once they’d taken down the power grid.

It was an easy out, and he was halfway through it before he stopped. Panting, holding a plasma rifle that read empty, though he couldn’t remember shooting it anywhere near that much, he froze there. As if he had all the time in the world, he counted his remaining corpsmen.

Besides Tamarack, they’d lost three others, one from recon. Not great, but pretty damned good.

He said, “Sawyer, it’s all yours. Get ’em on board the APC. I’ll catch up if I can. But don’t wait more than five minutes, and not that long if it starts looking like a cook-off to the AI.”

And he started walking away, then trotting, back toward the egg truck.

“Sir? Hey, English—what the fuck?” Sawyer was coming after him.

English didn’t turn or slow. “I forgot my o.t.s. agent,” he said into his privacy com channel.

“The hell you did,” said Sawyer, and clipped him in the small of the back with the butt of his rifle. “Sir,” Sawyer added as English fell, stunned, and the other man gathered him up.

Consequently they were both facing the landing pads when the fighters began to blow, spewing purple and gold and orange fire in oily clouds full of radioactive filth from their weapons.

English’s anti-radiation meters began to beep, telling him to get the hell out of there before his suit couldn’t handle the load, and throwing up numbers as, to how long before his equipment overloaded, and blacking out his faceplate. Then his weapon began to heat so badly in his hands that he had to drop it before it melted, and the shock wave hit everybody, knocking them to the ground.

It was a crawl-for-your-life situation, and the Ninety-Second did just that, English bringing up the rear. He’d wanted to go back for Milius, he really had, But without a suit in the kind of firestorm this was shaping up to be, she needed more than a friendly marine to assure her safety.

She needed an act of God.

Admiral Meier stared out at the landing field. Ships of every size rose at careful one-minute intervals and disappeared into the purple sky.

The Khalia, still far from beaten, had already reappeared in other sectors with even bigger fleets comprised of new ships. The Alliance’s neighbors were also mobilizing, seeing the opportunity to take advantage of the Fleet’s distraction.

Most of the Fleet was either defending the frontier or searching for the Khalian home worlds. Every other ship that could be found was busy rallying every Alliance planet to the cause. The scout corps had been doubled and the search for lost colonies had taken on a manic air. Their first reports were on his desk. Some pretty strange planets had already been discovered, many capable of valuable contributions. The Alliance was going to need every resource it could gather.

As he watched a wing of exploration scouts rose in unison. Statistics said one of them would not return, would be lost among the countless unexplored stars within the three-thousand light-year sphere claimed by the Alliance.

Grand Admiral Meier lifted his glass of Michigan wine and saluted them. Smythe had given him a case the day before in honor of the victorious action off Bethesda. The admiral offered to the dwindling ships the traditional toast of his home world: “Good luck and may the gods guide you.”

FROM THE TIME
that the Celestial River carried us from the Source to this place, we have lived in the ways of our ancient laws, revering the Books that were given to us for wisdom and our welfare. We have kept to the ways from the Founding, and adhere to them as we have been instructed to do, for to do less would endanger our lives, every one of us.

The days of our coming are lost in antiquity, but there are High Caste families on Durga who count back their station for more than a hundred generations, and whose Founders are listed among those in the Sacred Passenger Manifest. It is that sacred writing, those telling of the years of the Founders, which shows that they were yet older than their venturing on the Celestial River, which flows from Janja to Durga and to the Realms of the Gods. The sacred writing states that at the time of setting out, the number of years was counted at 2144. We know that we have been here, on Durga, longer than we lived at the Source, nourished and sustained by the holy waters of Janja. We passed a short time in that holy place, and then were sent out on the Celestial River.

While some have insisted over the centuries that those were mystic numbers, not intended to relate to actual years, there are others who say that they must be regarded as accurate, for accuracy is stressed in the Sacred Maintenance Codes. Others have debated that in that most sacred of places, a year was measured in other terms than what we use now. There has never been debate over the numbers, for they are A.D. numbers, and therefore known to be Above Doubt.

It was stated in the Contracts that there would be Visitors from time to time who would aid and guide us in our work here; sent out from the Source, they were to be our inspiration, avatars of the High Gods who would mark our progress on this world and judge our acceptability to return to the Source, for the Oldest Text has promised us that we will all return to the Source.

Over the generations, many have despaired and taken to strange worship because time went by and no Visitors came. No avatar approached us to show us our way. Those of High Caste said it was because time was less important to Gods, and that the battle which has raged among them forever must still continue. The Oldest Text, the
Beved Hajit,
tells of wars and more wars fought among the Gods, Who are in eternal conflict. It was known that we were sent upon the Celestial River in a time of crisis and that Janja sent out thousands of her children on similar voyages, though what became of them only the Gods know.

Thus, when Visitors finally arrived, three years ago, there was delight and consternation among all the Castes of Durga. These Avatars landed near Kel, which is one of only three cities that must be rebuilt. Most of the High Caste said it was because Kel was their principal city, but those who serve in the temples of the Gods were not as certain, and spent hours in meditation and trials to determine the import of this momentous event.

The Scribe of Ajna set down all that he heard, which was spoken through a spirit kept in a box; this spirit knew the tongues of all places, or so it claimed. The Visitors learned from this spirit many things, and informed the Visitors of the things the Scribe revealed.

Thus the Visitor who held the spirit-box addressed the Scribe in this way.

“We are from”—there followed the name of a God we had not heard before, the God Fleet, or a similar name—“and we’re looking for lost Earth colonies.”

The Scribe replied, “We are not lost. This is Durga, where the All-Mother Janja sent us.”

“They look human, Commander,” said one of those Visitors accompanying Him. He had two Attributes in his hands, but neither were as yet familiar to any of us.

“Can we get a fix on the language?” the Visitor addressed as Commander asked His underling.

“We can try,” answered the underling. “We’ll get some representative recordings and see what they can do with it back at Records Central.”

Now the Scribe of Ajna realized that the title of the Visitor was significant, for only an avatar of the Highest Gods would be addressed as Commander. He also sensed that the wars between the Gods was part of the issue, for the protective garments these Visitors wore was surely armor. He knew it was not acceptable to ask questions of these great beings, and so he waited in respectful silence until they would once again address him.

“What place is that?” the avatar Commander required to know a short time later.

The Scribe of Ajna knew that he was being tested, for surely the avatar Commander was aware of where He was. “This is the city of Kel, which was rebuilt but three years ago. It is the two-hundred-ninth rebuilding of the city.”

“That’s a city?” the underling inquired.

“Kel is one of the three great cities that must be rebuilt,” said the Scribe.

“Must be rebuilt,” the Commander said, stressing the importance of what the Gods command. “What are the others like, do you think, Spandril?”

“I wouldn’t like to guess, sir,” he answered.

“I suppose we’d better find out,” the Commander said, and once again addressed the Scribe of Ajna. “There are six of us. Is there someone here in charge?”

“There are High Caste living here at Kel, and there are the servants of the Gods in the temples. Any of them would be honored if you spoke to them, Commander.” The Scribe touched all seven of his fingers together at the fourth joint, raised them to his forehead and bowed, showing the greatest reverence.

“Weird-looking, isn’t he?” asked the underling of the Commander.

“Are you Zivi or Vizna?” the Scribe dared to ask, then bowed over, his head touching his knees in shame for-the great error-he had made.

“I am Horder. I have five men with me other than Spandril here,” said the Commander, looking about at the walls of Kel. “Can you imagine living like this?”

“It looks like a pretty harsh world, Commander,” said the underling.

“Better stow it, Spandril. We may need help from these . . . people.” The Commander calling himself Horder stepped nearer to the Scribe, who trembled at His presence, for he had read of the caprice of the Gods when they change their Aspects in their dealing with men.

“Tell me, O Commander, O Horder, what I am to do, and I will obey at once.” He remained bent over, hoping that the avatar of the God would not strike him down for his insolence. He did not recognize the name of the avatar; this meant that either a new God had risen or there were other faces to the Gods than the ones in the sacred texts we have preserved.

“I need to speak with whoever’s in charge here.” The spirit box made sounds like our carrion birds, but continued to take in and give out words. Clearly the God manifest in the spirit-box did not want to encumber itself with a more usual incarnation. This puzzled the Scribe who had never known a God to choose such an unlikely form.

“The High Caste assemble each day at sunset to make offerings to Durga so that She will favor us while we are under her Dark Face.” The Scribe regarded the Visitors and waited once more for them to make a decision.

“It’s bound to be a couple hours, sir,” said Spandril. “We could check back with the Fleet, tell them what we’ve found.”

“Good idea,” seconded the Commander. “You,” he addressed the Scribe. “Tell your superiors that we will be back shortly. We have to . . . make our reports.”

The Scribe did not quite understand what this meant, but he knew he would not be permitted to question a God again, and so he raised himself up and bowed again. “I will do it, O Horder.”

“Why does he act like that?” Commander Horder asked.

“You know what primitives are like, sir,” Spandril said, indicating the chariot in which they had descended from the Celestial River. “They’re apt to misinterpret everything.”

“Do you think we’re in any danger?” Commander Horder asked, watching the Scribe closely. The Scribe kept himself bowed and submissive through this scrutiny, trusting that he would not be struck down at the God’s whim.

“I doubt it, sir,” Spandril answered. “This guy looks too respectful to cause you any harm.” He motioned toward the Scribe with one of the mysterious Attributes he held.

“Maybe,” Commander Horder said, taking a few steps back. “You tell them we’ll be-back shortly before sunset.”

“A most auspicious hour,” the Scribe was bold enough to reply, his ‘bow deeper than ever.

“Yes,” said Commander Horder uncertainly. “Watch the rear, Spandril.” He turned back toward His chariot, His assistant coming behind him. Just before He entered the chariot, He looked at the Scribe once more. “There’ll be four of us.”

“You’re going to leave someone behind?” asked His assistant.

“Just in case,” the God Horder replied enigmatically. “We don’t know what we’re getting into in this place and—” The rest was lost as-the spirit-box was taken within the chariot once more and Its accommodating flow of words was cut off.

The Scribe hastened away from the chariot and went to his temple where he prostrated himself before the largest of the statues of his God Ajna. He kept at his prayers and meditations for some little time and then went, as he had been ordered to do, to tell the Highest Caste what he had learned.

Admih was the one who met the Scribe and received him with interest. “What God has come?”

The Scribe raised his head an. addressed Admih. “He has named Himself Horder and is called Commander. He is clearly of the High Gods. He has said He is from the Fleet.”

Admih looked to his fellows, the Thirty-one Highest Caste who were descended in direct line from the Founding. According to the Sacred Passenger Manifest there had been well over two hundred at the Founding, but Durga is not an easy place and many of those lines had been lost with time. These of the Highest Caste were all that were left in Kel; they were terribly aware of their diminishing numbers. As all of us could remember a time when there were more, those of the Highest Caste felt this more keenly than any. “This God,” said Admih. “What does He offer us?”

“He has not said,” the Scribe told them.

“Surely we must not ask until His identity is known,” said Derir, who was growing so old that he could no longer sit upright but was curled over in an ever increasing bow. “To do otherwise would court disaster.”

“Derir is right,” said Kazei. “Whoever this God is, He will not reveal His gifts until we have learned His rightful identity.” He wore his four crisscrossed strands secured at the front of his chest with an ancient medallion which had been in his family since the Founding. Its purpose had long been forgotten, but it was venerated for its origins.

“You may be right,” said Admih, who would serve as head of the Highest Caste until the year. “We must not act too hastily or we will have cause to regret it.”

“There is also the matter,” said Gazili, who had seven children and was considered the most fortunate of all the Highest Caste, “that we are of Durga. Durga has many faces and we hope that She will keep only her most pleasant toward us, for She is unforgiving.”

All of the Highest Caste nodded, and the Scribe of Ajna bowed his head, knowing it would be wrong to speak unless in answer to their questions.

“This God, this Horder, what, again, did he say was his origin?” Muthali asked, raising up his grizzled head to look at the others of the Highest Caste.

“He said he was from the Fleet,” answered the Scribe.

“The Fleet,” mused Muthali. “If we understood that word, we would know what we deal with.” He looked at the others and they shared slow nods of agreement.

“Fleet means swift,” the Scribe dared to say.

“Yes. So the God is from swiftness,” said Admih. “Swiftness. A strange Attribute to select, and therefore a telling one.” He approached the altar by the door, prostrated himself before it, and began to recite his prayers, for even the Highest Caste have Endless Prayers which they chant all through their lives.

“Fleet. Swift. Speed.” Derir ticked off the words on his seven fingers. “What God would select those Attributes for His avatar? It is not what we expected.”

“Gods are not expectable,” Muthali said, reminding them of their shared puzzle. “To expect Them to be is to make Them less than Gods.”

The others gestured agreement.

“When are they to return?” asked Gazili. “We must be prepared to receive Them when they return.”

“Shortly before sundown,” said the Scribe. “They will speak with you.”

The Highest Caste were more apprehensive than they cared to admit or reveal. One of them joined Admih before the altar and the drone of two Endless Prayers filled the room.

“Sundown is growing near,” announced the youngest of them, the frail youth Telo, who had kept his place at the far end of the room. “What must we do?”

“Prepare,” answered Bezin. “We are honored by the God Who is Fleet, and we must show our understanding and appreciation.”

“Provided we do not offend Durga,” they were reminded by Gazili. “This is Her place and we are Her people before all other Gods. She is Mother of All.”

Again there was solemn agreement among the Highest Caste. They made their ritual gestures of understanding and acceptance, ignoring the Scribe until finally Bezin spoke once more.