Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (40 page)

“ 'Warriors of the World'?” Carpenter asked.

“ 'Winterborn'?” Miriam suggested.

“My calculations, based on spectral data from the fluorescing planets, is that the optimum tonality is soprano vocals in the key of C,” Bill said. “Damnit.”

“And that would be . . .” Miriam said, grinning.

Change in emission from artifact. Change in shape of artifact. Change in solar output.

Send warning to boarding force, prepare for attack.

“I can see when you stay low nothing happens does it feel right?” Miriam sang, soft and slow to a quiet piano and muted drums.

"Late at night

things I thought I put behind me

haunt my mind."

Long enough for the system to warm up. Long enough for the shield to stretch out, covering the star and absorbing its full energy. Then the power increased . . . 

"I just know there's no escape

now once it sets its eyes on you

but I won't run, have to stare it in the eye . . ."

Bill looked at the readouts then over his shoulder.

“Two . . . three . . . four!”

“STAND MY GROUND, I WON'T GIVE IN!”

she sang, putting every ounce of vocal energy she could into the powerful chorus as guitar screamed and drums thundered.

"NO MORE DENYING, I GOT TO FACE IT.

WON'T CLOSE MY EYES AND HIDE THE TRUTH INSIDE.

IF I DON'T MAKE IT, SOMEONE ELSE WILL . . . 

stand my ground . . ."

The window had opened up as usual but something else was happening. All of the ships in the system were now highlighted and as the beam shot out from the powerful system, one by one outlines of the oncoming fast-movers blinked and blazed, then vanished. The defenders were watching the effect of the station on the ships even as Miriam shifted back to verse:

"It's all around

getting stronger, coming closer

into my world

I can feel

that it's time for me to face it

can I take it?

Though this might just be the ending

of the life I held so dear

but I won't run, there's no turning back from here

STAND MY GROUND I WON'T GIVE IN . . . !"

“We got four of the destroyers, one of the possible troop-carriers and a piece of one of the other destroyers,” Bill said jubilantly. “And all through the power of music!”

“If anybody says anything about Muadib, I'm going to strangle them,” Miriam said.

“What?”

“Sorry, obscure sci-fi reference.”

“Okay, sir,” Captain Zanella said. “I appreciate you making my job a little easier. But I've got a question.”

“Go.”

“What are you going to do for an encore?”

“Oh,” Bill groaned. “Captain, put yourself up for punishment.”

“That was just weak, sir. You shouldn't try to get into a pun fight a cappella.”

“Speaking of weak! At least I'm in harmony with the group.”

“I think you're sounding a discordant note, sir.”

“Stop! Stop!” Miriam screamed. “You're making me want to pitch you both off the station . . . Oh my God. Now I'm doing it . . .”

Power beams used to cause excitation of gasses in the gas-giants. Task Group encountered one of the beams, either through probability error or intent, causality unclear at this time. Purpose of excitation phenomenon not understood. Unknown species probable cause of structural change and excitation phenomenon. Sentient 475-829-467-821 destroyed. Orders?

Order fleet to maneuver out of elliptic to avoid beam. Order non-sentients to assault station and destroy enemy infestation. Sonic anomaly analysis?

Gravitational waves induced sonic response in hulls of ships. Reason unknown.

Danger?

Nominal. Gravitational level too low to effect damage.

“Everything has a harmonic,” Bill said, gesturing at the station. “Even this thing does. If you get just the right harmonic, you can shake it apart.”

“And this means what?” Carpenter asked, tapping his cymbal.

“So do ships,” Bill said, gesturing at the opaque wall of the cavern. “One of Che-chee's pilots reported that he heard sounds when they were in space. I don't see this thing being only for the people inside. The best view is going to be from in space. But you're going to want to hear the concert. Space doesn't propagate sound.”

“The gravitational beams you were talking about,” Miriam said. “You think we can use those to shake the ships apart?”

“It's worth a try,” Bill said. “And, at the very least, I don't think they probably have our taste in music. Maybe if we annoy them enough they'll go away.”

“ 'Those damned kids . . .' ”

“Exactly. It worked on a neighbor when I was in high school . . .”

“Captain Weaver has something he thinks may take out some of the other ships,” Captain Zanella said. “But that's not our problem for now.”

“Our problem is an unknown quantity of Dreen that are about to board this station,” Lieutenant Ross said.

“Exactly,” Zanella continued with a chuckle. “But with the captain taking out some of their ships, I figure we've got a fighting chance. They're maneuvering to dock at the moment. Last minute suggestions are accepted.”

“Where'd we put those hibernating spiders?” Berg said, after none of the other officers spoke up.

“Like that one. Just like that one.”

“These things give me the creeps,” Lance Corporal Moorehead said.

The Marines had gathered up the hundreds of thousands of mostly quiescent space spiders in every available container and First and Third Platoons had carried them forward, scattering them along the approach corridors. Nobody knew if they'd attack live Dreen or not, but it was worth a shot. And they were great for cleaning up the battlefield.

“Just keep scattering,” Staff Sergeant Robbins growled. “And be glad it's not with your hands.”

Alpha First was the most forward team, scattering the spiders along the corridors that had been first explored, right down by the landing platform the Blade had used. Most of the teams were much farther back, in the corridors that were certain to be used to approach the control cavern. But enough gear had been left scattered on the platform that the Dreen might use it for entry so it was decided to leave a few presents behind.

“I'm just saying,” Moorehead replied, tossing spiders as he walked along. “These things are creepy.”

“And I'm just saying scatter them and shut your gob,” Robbins said. He was about fifty meters from the platform, in view of it in other words, when a shadow swept over the crystalline structure. “Scatter faster! Scatter faster!”

“Alpha First reports Dreen landing on the same platform we used,” Captain Zanella reported. “Numbers unknown. I've left sensor pods behind to try to get a count, but none on the platform.”

“Go to it, Captain,” Weaver said, looking up from his equations. “I don't think we're going to be able to anticipate the harmonics; we're just going to have to jam. I hope your troops can fight and listen to music at the same time.”

“You'd be surprised how often they do just that, sir,” Zanella said with a sigh.

“Now that Captain Weaver's given up singing, it's really not all that bad,” Lance Corporal Strait said. He was crouched at an intersection, peeking around the corner looking for the foe.

“Kinda strange hearing 'Winterborn' sung by a girl, though,” Corporal Hamilton pointed out.

“I miss the violin,” Sergeant Lyle said. “The synthetic just isn't the same.”

“Face it, nobody does 'Winterborn' like—DREEN.”

“I didn't think the Dreen played music,” Lyle said, triggering a burst of fire into an oncoming dog-demon. “I've never heard them play at all . . .”

“Third Platoon falling to secondary positions,” Captain Zanella said. “Prepare to pass them through your lines, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Berg replied. “I will not run, this is my place to stand . . .” he whispered. “Platoon, prepare to pass Third through the lines! And in the fury of this darkest hour . . .”

Report from non-sentient boarders. Moving forward in face of resistance from units identified as Species 27264. Ten percent casualties in boarding units. Ground Combat Level Four units entering combat. Organism 8139 detected on station. Per standard procedure, ten percent of combat units deployed to prevent infestation of ships. At least ten k units of 8139 detected. Organism has begun replication processes in unrecovered combat units. Organism infesting active combat units.

Dreen sentient units did not get angry. They were created without true emotions. They could, however, get frustrated. The presence of Organism 8139 would mean that the entire station would have to be laboriously swept to eliminate them before any analysis of the station could be performed. Even leaving one of the little rat-bastards on-board meant the possibility of the entire station force becoming infested. And as for Species 27264, they had caused more damage to Dreen main worlds than any four species that had been assimilated over the last ten thousand years. Finding their home planets and wiping the pestiferous race from the face of the galaxy was a Dreen priority right up there with finding the last space spider in the galaxy and crunching it underfoot.

Sonic anomalies?

Even a dispassionate Dreen intelligence could place first priority on something annoying rather than vital.

Projections from station. Unable to intercept short of capturing station and halting projection.

Order all ground combat units to assault positions of Species 27264. Ship units return and rendezvous with fleet to load ground combat units. Primary mission: Eliminate sonic anomaly.

And make a mistake when it got too annoyed by those damned kids and their caterwauling.

The space spider, Organism 8139, a biological combat unit crafted by the long defeated Nitch specifically to attack and eliminate Dreen, had been happy enough to just find the body of a dead dog-demon. The metal suit locked in final throes with the Dreen was less appealing. Only with Dreen did the space spider live to eat, only with Dreen metabolics did it get the space spider equivalent of a sugar rush. Everything else, even from Biology Four, was just survival sustenance and the organism was genetically programmed to avoid consuming anything but Dreen organics in all but starvation environments. However, when its young burst out of the creature, they found a veritable smorgasbord.

The dog-demon, per standard procedure, had been carried back to the troop carrier for processing. Its organics would eventually be used to create still more of the living combat robots.

Which meant that over a thousand units of Organism 8139 had just infected the Dreen troop carrier, a semi-sentient Dreen organism itself, from the point-of-view of a baby space spider just chock full of juicy goodness.

“Rotator gun nine down,” Gunnery Sergeant Juda reported. “Dreen at final junction two. First Platoon falling back to third positions. Multiple casualties.”

The problem with the corridors was that they had exactly no cover. The Marines had been soaking up fire in direct line of sight to the Dreen. Without the ability to stack and overwelm the aliens in the corridors, they'd also been soaking up casualties. Total Dreen numbers were unclear; they'd been destroying the sensor boxes as soon as they found them. But it was upwards of three hundred and that was just too many for the Marines to hold.

“This is where we draw the line,” Berg said over the platoon frequency. “They do not pass us, Second.”

“Dreen!” Sergeant Bae called. And then all hell broke loose.

Second, unlike the other platoons, did have cover. They had the low wall the platoon had sheltered behind on the assault on this same room. So they could pour fire into the mass of Dreen with minimal risk.

Minimal did not mean none. The Dreen were leading with thorn-throwers, dispensing with the dog-demons who had no long-ranged weapon. They also were throwing themselves into the Marine fire profligately, but that was working. Mass has a quality of its own, and the Dreen were using that quality to simply overwelm the fire of the Marines.

Berg's indicators showed Wyverns dropping off the screen one by one, each one a soldier it was his duty to love, cherish and in the end use as a human shield if necessary.

“Gunny, bring up Alpha team,” Berg said calmly. The threesome had been held in reserve. It was often said that the last person to use his reserve won the battle. Berg knew damned well that he'd just lost this one. “Captain Zanella, I have three KIA, two suit-kills. I have sent in my reserve.”

“I'm on the line,” First Sergeant Powell said. “They're not going anywhere, Two-Gun.”

As if in answer, there was a bellowing roar from down the corridor.

“These guys again,” Berg muttered.

The bellow could only have come from a rhino-tank—a rhinoceros sized and generally shaped organic tank capable of firing a plasma blast that could destroy a main battle tank. Its frontal armor was proof against any portable weapon the Marines had at their disposal and there were very few ways to get around that.

“Lieutenant,” the first sergeant said, “if you'd like a suggestion on how to take one out . . .”

“Been there, done that, First Sergeant,” Berg snarled. “This is not the time!”

Rhino-tanks were invulnerable on their front; even their eyes were deep-set in armored sockets smaller than the diameter of most bullets. But just after they fired their plasma balls, they tended to roar in what sounded to human ears like triumph.

If a suit could survive the plasma, a rare situation, a Marine could get one shot at the rhino. If he could recover fast enough from being in the near blast radius of the plasma. If he could effectively target a still small spot with all the damage his armor was going to have taken, including overload of all systems from EMP at the very least. If he wasn't baked to a crisp.

Berg had done it. Once. But it had taken using pistols, since his machine-gun ammunition had chain-exploded from the heat of the plasma. And it had very nearly killed him. And he didn't have his pistols.