Earth Strike (10 page)

The close passage was far too fast-moving for merely human reflexes. Allyn’s fighter AI controlled the target acquisition, lock, and firing, but she was riding the software through her internal link, providing a measure of human control behind the lightning-swift reflexes of the AI computer. Through that link, she could feel the flow of quantum-based fuzzy logic, the sparkle of equations and angle-of-attack, the bright clarity of computer-enhanced sensory input.

For a brief instant, the asteroid filled her forward field of view, a vast, dark blur rendered almost invisible by its tightly closed gravitic shielding. Her AI continued, with superhuman speed, to focus on a single, thread-thin line of a target. Gatling projectiles slammed across the enemy’s shields to either side…and then, with startling suddenness, the shield collapsed, revealing a backup shield just beyond. The AI shifted aim slightly and began hammering at a second, reserve wave guide…and then at a third when the second shield collapsed as well.

How many reserves were there? Something the size of an asteroid could carry a
lot
of layered wave guides, with only the outer two functioning at any given instant. So little was known about Turusch combat doctrine and the engineering details of their warships. All the Dragonfires could do was continue to hammer at any targets that presented themselves to the fast-shifting perspective of the passing fighters.

The actual close passage lasted perhaps two and a half seconds; it felt like
much
longer. Subjective time slowed for a pilot linked in with her tactical computer in a way that had nothing to do with the time dilation of relativistic travel, and everything to do with the sheer volume of information flooding through her neural pathways.

Her Starhawk had just passed the Turusch ship, was traveling tail-forward now as its nose continued to pivot on the enemy, when a final wave guide vaporized and a last-rank gravitic shield failed.

“Soft target!” she yelled over the comm link, as she triggered the last two of her Krait missiles. For the briefest of instants, she could see a gray and powdery landscape pocked by immense craters, the towers of communications and sensor arrays, the dull-silver domes of weapons turrets and gun positions.

Blue Five was too close to the enemy shields.

“Blue Five!” she yelled over the comm. “Change vector!”

Then white light engulfed her forward sensory inputs, filling her universe with raw, star-hot fury. The blast wave—a shell of hot plasma racing out from the surface of the Turusch asteroid ship at tens of kilometers per second—struck her vessel
hard
, smashing her to one side and putting her into a helplessly out-of-control tumble.

More blast waves followed, a succession of them as the other Dragonfires hammered at the opening with nuke-tipped missiles, and then as incoming warheads from the fleet found the suddenly revealed weakness.

But Allyn had lost consciousness with the first savage impact.

26 September 2404

Tactician Emphatic Blossom at Dawn
Enforcer
Radiant Severing
0032 hours, TFT

Tactician Blossom felt the rumble of successive nuclear strikes pulsing against the rock shell of the
Radiant Severing
. Turusch physiology was extremely sensitive to both air- and ground-borne vibrations and the shudders were painful—the equivalent of blasting a shrill noise into a human’s ear.

The gravitic shields were failing, the enemy’s nuclear munitions getting through.

In point of fact, the
Radiant Severing
’s command centers were buried deep within the mass of nickel-iron that formed the huge vessel’s body. The enemy fleet could pound them for
g’nyuu’m
on end and not reach the ship’s deepest recesses.

But the shields would begin to fall one after another now, as each failure uncovered another line of shield wave guides exposed on the planetoid’s surface. Eventually, all surface structures would be reduced to radioactive debris; the
Severing
would be blind and deaf with its sensor arrays vaporized, helpless with its weapons destroyed, trapped immobile with its drive projectors inoperative.

“
Kill!
” its higher self screamed, but the middle self overrode the instinct-laden surge of raw emotion.

“Swing to new heading,” it ordered the
Severing
’s helm control, adding a string of coordinates. “Accelerate to deepest reach. Pass orders for the rest of the fleet to fall back and cover.”

“The enemy may pursue,” Blossom’s tactical coordinator, its second-in-command, told it. “Our power reserves are low, the damage to our shields severe.”

“They will not pursue,” Blossom replied, the statement arising jointly from both its low and middle minds. “The enemy is focused on protecting, perhaps recovering its colony on the planet surface. When we return with reinforcements, we will find the enemy long gone.”

The system
would
soon be within Turusch tentacle-grasp, of that Emphatic Blossom was certain. The tragedy was that they’d not been able to cripple the enemy fleet as planned…most particularly that their fighters had not been able to win through to the enemy fighter carrier and destroy it. Such a blow might well have wrecked the enemy’s offensive capabilities in this sector for
g’nyi’nyeh
to come.

But if the enemy force was still more or less intact, so too was the Turusch battlefleet. The
Radiant Severing
was not in contact with the other ships. One of the shields had collapsed. The nuclear fury unleashed within the next few seconds against the planetoid’s surface had vaporized laser com projectors and radio antennae. But as the command vessel withdrew, the other Turusch ships would fall back to protect it.

“Accelerating,” the tactical coordinator announced.

Blossom’s higher self writhed in an agony of angry frustration.

Marine Sick Bay
Eta Boötis IV
0056 hours, TFT

Gray came fully awake with a rush of panic.
Get them off me!
…

But the “they” were gone. He was floating in air, face up, staring up at the glow panels overhead, heart pounding as fragments of memory clawed at his mind. The scream rising in his throat choked off short. He tried to sit up, and failed.

His eyes opened and he looked up into a metallic nightmare. A robot had emerged from a cabinet in the wall and was hovering above him, all metal and plastic and huge, cold lenses for eyes. The remaining panic induced by the local fauna transferred itself to something more immediate—the looming presence of the medical robot. He screamed, tried to lash out against the thing, but his hands were trapped.

“Whoa. Take it easy there, zorchie,” a voice said.

Blinking, he tried to focus on his surroundings. He was in a small, metal-walled compartment, floating above some sort of grav bed. An older man in Marine combat utilities stood nearby, watching, his arms folded. A younger man, also in utilities, sat at a nearby workstation.

Abruptly, the robot folded itself back into its cabinet.

“What…happened?…”

“You got picked up in the desert by a SAR,” the standing man told him. “You remember anything, son?”

There were memories, yes, but they were broken and chaotic. He remembered running through a barren, night-cloaked landscape, remembered the flickering movements at the corners of his eyes, the gathering shadows following his trail.

He remembered sensations of drowning as the shadows covered him, gnawing at his environmental suit, the terror, the rising panic. He remembered peeling them away by the handful, as more attached themselves to him…and more…and more…

“Those…things…”

“Shadow swarmers. The SAR crew said if they’d been ten minutes later, they’d have breached your suit.”

Gray allowed himself a long, shuddering breath.
Safe
…

“Thank you,” he said.

“Hey, don’t mention it, zorchie.” The man grinned. “You people have been up there saving our sorry asses. It’s the least we could do in return!”

The fact that the man had called him
zorchie
—Marine slang for a gravfighter pilot—suggested that he was an officer. An enlisted Marine, Gray thought, would never have called a naval officer zorchie to his face.

He heard a subdued click, and his hands and arms were free. Gently, he drifted down until his back was against a firm, foam-padded surface.

“Doing our job…sir,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Trevor Gray, VFA-44, the Dragonfires.”

“We know,” the man said, as Gray tried to sit up again and, this time, succeeded. “We downloaded your ID when you came in. I’m General Gorman. Welcome aboard.”

And the man was gone. He didn’t
leave
; his image flickered and winked out, and Gray realized that the base CO had just paid him a visit via holo projection.

“Does your general always holo-down to chitchat with Navy pilots in sick bay?” Gray asked, looking around.

The man at the console turned and grinned at him. “Not usually, sir. But we’ve all been praying so damned hard to the God of Battles to send us some help, maybe the old man just wanted to come down in person—or in holo, anyway—to see if you were for real.”

“Any word on what’s happening up there?”

“You think they tell
us
anything? Last I heard, the bombardment of the perimeter had stopped, and that’s about all I care about right now.” He extended a hand. “I’m Bob Richards, by the way. HM1.”

Gray touched palms with Richards, and the circuitry imbedded in the other man’s hand lit up Gray’s in-head display. According to the data cascade, HM1 Richards was a Navy hospital corpsman assigned to the FMF, 1
^st
Marine Expeditionary Force, as part of the attached medical unit. Interesting. He’d been born and raised in the Orlando Arcology, which meant he was from the Periphery back home. As always, Gray waited for the reaction—the faint frown, the loss of interest—as the other person saw
his
personal data.

For once, there was no visible negative reaction. “So you’re from the Periph!” Richards said, brightening. “Manhattan?”

“What’s left of it. You’re from Orlando, I see.”

“Yup. High above millions of hectares of prime sea-bottom real estate. Your handle, ‘Prim.’ What’s that?”

Gray made a face. “Short for Primitive.”

“Don’t like machines, huh?”

Gray glanced back at the sealed cabinet. “No.”

“You’ll get used to it. That was just Medro.”

“Medro?”

“Medical robot. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s great at taking vitals.”

“So long as he doesn’t indulge in taking vital organs.”

Richards laughed, then got a faraway look in his eyes for a moment. “You’re married? We can let your partner know you’re okay.”

“No,” Gray said. The memory burned, and he turned his head away. “Old, old data.”

“You need to update your ID, then.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

If he could ever figure out
how
. He’d received the neural-net implants in his brain while he’d been in officer-recruit training, at the same time they’d grown the circuitry in the palms of his hands. Tam had been alive then, still, when he’d filled out the data that would be stored in his personal RAM, to be exchanged with others with the touching of the circuitry in the palms of their hands. He’d never figured out, though, how to change stored data—something the other men and women on board the
America
seemed to have known from childhood.

And he was too proud—and angry—to ask.

A chime sounded, and Richards said, “Come!”

Another man in combat utilities entered. The rank pips on his wear-stained jacket identified him as a Marine lieutenant. “How’s the patient?”

“Doing well, sir,” Richards replied.

“Outstanding.” The man offered his hand. Again, data flowed across linked circuitry, appearing in a window within Gray’s mind.
Marine Lieutenant Charles Lawrence Ostend…“Ostie”…4
^th
SAR/Recon Group…1
^st
Marine Expeditionary Force…

“You’re the guy who pulled me out of…that place,” Gray said, his eyes widening.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Then I think I owe you a drink. Thank you.”

“Damned straight you do.” He grinned at Richards. “You get all the bugs off of this guy? I don’t like bugs….”

“He’s clean.” Richards shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a problem. The local florauna can’t tolerate our atmosphere anyway.”

“‘Florauna’?” Gray asked. He’d not heard the term before.

“Ate a Boot’s native biology. It has characteristics of both flora
and
fauna, but isn’t either one, really.”

Ostend made a face. “Damned cockroaches, if you ask me.”

“
Not
cockroaches,” Richards said patiently. “
Not
insects. Not even
animals
. Something different.
Alien
.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Ostend waved aside the distinction. He slapped Gray on the shoulder. “The important thing, zorchie, is that you’re okay. Right?”

“Yeah…”

Gray wasn’t sure he liked the man’s casual familiarity. Within the curious discrepancy among ranks that had evolved out of the long history of Earth’s various military services, a Navy lieutenant outranked a Marine lieutenant. Gray was actually the equivalent of a Marine captain, one grade above a Marine lieutenant. Richards should have been calling him
sir
.

On the other hand, Gray had never cared much for the stuffy, pseudo-aristocratic demeanor of the fraternity of naval officers—one of the oldest of the old-boy networks. It was that fraternity—and sorority—that had closed ranks against the poor kid from the Manhattan Ruins and made his life hell for the past three years.
Officers and gentlemen
was the phrase they used, but it included conceited clots like Lieutenant Howie Spaas and arrogant hypocrites like Lieutenant Jen Collins. So far as Gray was concerned, they could
all
go to hell, with their “sirs” and “ma’ams” and formal military etiquette and protocol.

Ostend’s informality, Gray decided, made him uncomfortable because it was so out of place, so unexpected. It certainly was better than the usual formality.

As unexpected as General Gorman’s holographic visit a few moments before.

“Any word on the battle yet?” he asked the other officer.

“Confused,” Ostend replied. “I’ve been hearing reports come down the line from CIC, but who’s winning is anybody’s guess. Want my best guess?”

“Sure.”

“We’re kicking their alien ass. The bombardment stopped about the time the carrier battlegroup arrived, and it hasn’t picked up again. That either means we have the bastards on the run, or…”

“Or?”

“Or the Tushies are mopping up what’s left, and don’t really care about us down here at the bottom of our gravity well anymore.”

“Cute, Lieutenant,” Richards said. “Real morale-building.”

“Hey! Any time! Catch you guys later.” Ostend left.

“So…can I go yet?” Gray asked the corpsman. “I kind of want to find out what’s happening with my unit, you know?”

“Mmm…not just yet, sir. We have you scheduled for a psych set.”

“Psych.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not crazy, damn it.”

“No, but you’ve been through severe emotional trauma. Dr. Wilkinson wants to put you through a stress series…and he wants to link you in with Old Liss.”

“Old Liss? What the hell is an ‘Old Liss’?”

“Psy-Cee BA. Psychiatric computer, for battlefield application. We call her Liss for Lisa, the first of her kind.”

“A computer? I don’t want…”

“I’m afraid what you want, Lieutenant, isn’t a very high priority right now. Don’t worry, though. It won’t hurt a bit.”

But Gray had had run-ins with psych computers before.

And he was not at all eager to do it again.

Recovery Craft Blue-Sierra
SAR 161 Lifelines
Battlespace Eta Boötis IV
0104 hours, TFT

Although the news hadn’t yet reached all of the Marines and naval personnel on the surface of the planet, the Battle of Eta Boötis IV was, in fact, over.

Or, to be precise, the
active
part of the battle was over. The Turusch fleet, what was left of it, was under high acceleration, already close to light speed and still grav-boosting into the Void. The Confederation carrier group had entered planetary orbit, with fighter patrols orbiting in shells farther and farther out, ready in case the enemy tried to pull a reverse and launch a surprise counterstrike. There was also the possibility that not all of the Turusch warships had in fact left. A lurker or two might remain, powered down and apparently dead, waiting for an opportunity to draw easy blood.