Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (42 page)

“Well, among other things it's pretty,” the CO said dryly. “What happened to the star?”

“We're less sure what's going on there, sir,” White admitted. “But the current theory . . .”

“Dreen emission detected,” the sensor tech said calmly. “Multiple Dreen unreality translations. We're getting them in rapid sequence because of our approach, sir, but the count is over sixty Dreen warships . . .  Numbers and types coming up on the screen now, sir.”

The CO was glad that the need for seamen to laboriously write in the details of ships on clear glass screens was a thing of the past. Because he'd have to get half the crew in here, give them classes . . . 

“Well . . . That's a hell of a thing.”

“Sierras One through Eight are things we've never seen before,” the TACO said musingly. People reacted differently to disasters. Some panicked. Some became very calm. The tactical officer's reaction was clearly to become severely academic, not the worst of reactions for that sort of position. “The Hexosehr had, though. Sierra One is a Dreen brain-ship. Ten kilometers long, heavy weapons to size. They're considered worthy of a small fleet of Chaos ships on their own; their plasma guns and mass drivers can take out a Chaos ship at beyond even capital ship's range. Figure with us they'll be an increasing threat from five light-seconds out. Worse as we get closer, of course. The next seven are superdreadnoughts . . .”

The CO listened to it all but on another level he was drowning it out. There was no way for the Blade to take on even a fraction of this force. They mounted popguns compared to even the medium class ships in the Dreen fleet. Their most effective technique, dropping mines on the unreality node, was already moot. The Dreen were in the system.

“. . . Maneuvering to avoid the beams . . .”

“Run that one by me again,” the CO said.

“The beams from the Tree apparently took out part of the putative boarding force, sir,” the TACO said, gesturing to that part of the replay. “That was before they'd boarded. The fleet, however, is now maneuvering to avoid the beams.”

“Accident?” the CO asked.

“Since we don't know what is causing the effect, sir, that would be my first guess,” the TACO said.

“Somebody,” the CO said, “and I'll give you two guesses who it was, toss a coin, pressed the wrong button.”

“Or the right button, depending on your point of view, sir,” the TACO said diffidently. “The Tree did manage to take out some of the Dreen ships.”

“Point.”

“We have sufficient time to reach the Tree and extract any survivors. That assumes the Dreen have not taken the entire station and that the survivors can reach the ship. We may not even be able to contact them. However, in its current configuration, approach will be . . . interesting.”

“How much time?” the CO asked.

“Assuming that there is not another speed run by the boarding ships, six hours,” the TACO said. “That is the point at which the Dreen, assuming deceleration time, will be within six light-seconds of the Tree. We'll have to maneuver to avoid them, in real space, as they approach. There is a danger from fighters . . .”

“That's enough time,” Prael snapped. “I'll be on the Conn. Contact me if there are any changes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“ 'And if the paths that I have followed have tread against the flow,' ” Miriam sang, “ 'there is no need for sorrow I am coming home . . . ' There! There!”

“What?” Weaver asked, placing his hands on the strings of the guitar. “Where?”

“I saw it,” Carpenter said. “Like a figure eight between Xenon and Helium.”

“Yes!” Miriam said. “Let's try that again. From the top . . .”

“Wait,” Weaver said, looking at the screens. “There's a new ship inbound . . .  Fast. Blade's here.”

“ 'I have tasted the wisdom of divinity and the horrors of its sting . . .' ” Berg whispered.

“Sir, the XO reports that the Blade is on its way in,” Gunny Juda said. His armor was blackened from the plasma fire but if it bothered him it wasn't obvious.

“Acknowledged,” Berg said. Lieutenant Mendel had been lost in the running battle in the corridors when the Dreen had gotten a force around his platoon. The remainder of the platoon had fought its way out, with other casualties, so the CO had reconfigured the platoons. Berg now led the reconsolidated Second Platoon, consisting of the survivors from First and Second, while Greg Morris still had Third. Gunny Brunswick, the Third Platoon sergeant, had also been lost, so Gunny Vankleuren from First had taken the slot.

“Second,” Captain Zanella said. “Prepare for extraction. Third is going to cover the noncombatants; your job is to make sure the corridors are clear and make contact with the ship.”

“I'll try to find a broom, sir,” Berg replied.

“What the hell?” Prael said as the Blade screamed in at almost four thousand times the speed of light. “What in the hell is that noise?”

“That would be the song 'Return' by the band Crüxshadows, sir,” the COB said. “A Goth band based in Tallahassee, Florida, it first hit the major charts with the song 'Sophia' in—”

“Okay, COB, if you're so smart,” the CO snapped. “Explain to me how we're hearing it in space!”

“Got me there, sir.”

“Approaching warp-denial field,” the pilot said.

“Slow to normal space drive,” the CO said. “Flank speed to the shield. Damn . . .  This means . . .”

“We've managed to get secondary output from the system, Captain Prael,” Weaver said, taking a puff off of his pipe. “We really should try to hold the Tree. (Puff, puff) It's a major resource, both technically and militarily. Fascinating. Really . . .” (Puff.)

With the Blade back in the field of the Tree, the “anime zone” had reestablished. It looked to be a permanent issue.

“Mr. Weaver!” the CO barked. “There Are! Sixty! Dreen warships! Approaching! This Space station!”

“Fifty-eight,” (puff, puff). “Sixty-one originally. We got three. And with the secondary output system working, well . . . we can get more.”

“You are Basing this On Fantasy!” the CO shouted, looming over the XO. “This Is My Decision! We Are! Evacuating! Then we shall DESTROY this installation,” he added, rubbing his hands together. “The Dreen Will Never Have It! I Swear On the Blood Of Our Fathers!”

“Not so sure (puff, puff) that's possible. Bits of it have been hit by Dreen plasma, you know? (Puff . . . ponder . . . puff.) Not sure a nuke (puff) would so much as scratch it. And if the Dreen capture it, well . . . (puff, puff, grin, puff) Wouldn't want to be the feller explaining that one, by God I wouldn't.” (Puff, grin, puff.)

“Do you think that SpaceCom would be upset?” the CO said, shrinking to normal size and suddenly wearing glasses. He'd also developed a stoop and was rubbing his hands together like a squirrel. “Really?”

“Did . . . (puff, puff) Did Spruance run at Midway?”

“No!” the CO said, swelling back to his monstrous size and placing his hand on his chest.

“Did Dewey (puff . . . puff) turn away from the Spanish Fleet?”

“He wasn't outnumbered a thousand to one,” Prael said, suddenly nearly normal in appearance. “The brain-ship alone outmasses us by more than that.”

“Still,” Weaver said, puffing away and filling the compartment with smoke. “Fight the effect, Captain, but think . . . (Puff, puff, point stem at the CO) This station is a monumental victory (puff, puff) or an enormous defeat. Holding it could (puff) turn the tide of the war. Losing it (puff, puff . . . ponder) If the Dreen can learn to control stars?”

“We Cannot Defeat That Fleet!” the CO said, back in anime form.

“The Tree (puff, puff) can. Blood of my fathers and all that. Just (puff . . . ponder . . . puff) keep the boarders off if you can, would you be a dear?”

“If It! Is Falling! It Must! Be Destroyed!”

“Oh, I rather think, yes,” Weaver said, setting his pipe down. “Special munition?”

“The Largest We Have!” the CO said, nodding and holding out his hand. “The Megadestroyer Bomb! That Will Destroy A Star! We will evacuate the noncombatants. Good luck, Mr. Weaver!”

“Oh, one 'noncombatant' (puff, puff) will have to stay.”

“Who?!”

“Sou da ne bokura atarashii jidai wo!” Miriam shrilled, boucing in front of her keyboard. “Mukaete mitai ne kisekiteki ka mo ne!”

“Nooo!” the chimpanzee behind the drum set screamed, nonetheless banging away for all he was worth. “Not J-pop!”

“Load Mine Tubes!” the CO barked as the Blade made its way around the Tree and into the shadows. “Deploy All Mines As We Clear The Field!”

“Deploy All Mines!” the COB shouted. “Arrrrrh! We'll blow them to smithereens so we will! We shall sail under the Black Flag and space shall be our empire, shiver me bones!”

“Not Until We Clear The Field! You Imbecile!”

“You hurts me with those words, Cap'n . . .”

“Put Yourself! On Report!”

“Am I still supposed to put myself on report, CO?” the COB asked.

“No, but we're still dropping mines. Just as soon as we modify them a little.”

“It'll be okay,” Weaver said, uncomfortably patting the linguist on the shoulder. “Seriously. Nobody will know.”

“You could hear it through the entire solar system!” Miriam screamed. “And the Blade records EVERYTHING! Oh My God. My reputation is so ruined. I'm going to have . . . otaku!”

“Hey, I was a chimpanzee for God's sake,” Carpenter said. “And what are . . . Oh-ta- . . . whatever.”

“Anime fans,” Bill said darkly.

“Oh. Them.”

“She was playing J-pop!” Gants said, bouncing on the deck and waving his arms over his head like a monkey. Some people took longer to get over the effects of the field than others. “Sou da ne bokura atarashii jidai wo!”

“Jesus, man,” Red snapped. “Get ahold of yourself. You're embarassing me.”

Drive systems failures in Units 57,035,837 and 8,808,992. Infestation at seventeen percent in Unit 779,877. Cleaner Systems Class One through Three production initiated in all units.

Ensure uninfected conditions in Units 125,867 and 7,507,434. Dispatch to anomaly. Escort: three Class Fourteen Space Combat Units, one Class Nine. Escorts are not to enter anomaly docking bay. Begin construction of Class One and Two cleaners, enroute. Launch fighters. Twenty percent to escort boarding parties.

With the infection of the primary ground unit construction ship, Unit 779,877 which the Blade had identified as a cruiser, the entire mission to explore the anomaly and retrieve its scientific and technical data was in jeopardy. If the infestation could be brought under control, though, in time the fleet could be completely reconstructed. Well, except for . . . 

Units 57,035,837 and 8,808,992 entering retrograde orbit.

Destroy them.

There was a pause from the secondary entity that handled communications within the massive brain-ship.

Since Dreen sentients occasionally fissioned—breaking off a lower-level sentient for colonization or to create a new brain-ship—explanations were apparently in order.

When Organism 8139 consumes all functional material in the units, the organism will break out, spilling into space. The units will be on our direct course to the anomaly. Destroy them now, maximum firepower. Ensure all units of Organism 8139 eliminated.

Order sent.

“Sir, we've got two interesting things going on here,” the TACO said. The Blade had reached the edge of the warp-denial field and was shadowing the massive Dreen fleet, hoping against hope that Weaver and Miriam could figure out how to use the Tree to defeat it.

“Go,” Prael said, looking over at the boards. A number of ships had broken away from the Dreen fleet. Six of them seemed to be accelerating towards the Tree while the other two . . . 

“We've got a Dreen task group, consisting of one cruiser, Sierra 31, two troop carriers, Sierras 38 and 42 and three destroyers, Sierras 48, 50 and 53, accelerating towards the tree. The group has been designated CruRon One.”

“We need to set up to intercept that task group,” the CO said. “Get Astro started on a course.”

“Yes, sir,” the TACO said. “Message already sent to Astro, sir. The odd thing, though, is this other task group. I'm not even sure that's the right thing to call it. The Dreen fleet is in deceleration to match orbit with the Tree at this time. Two ships have stopped deceleration. That means that they will arrive near the Tree before the rest of the Dreen fleet.”

“Another attack group?” the CO asked.

“I don't think so,” the TACO said. “They simply stopped deceleration. The cruisers and destroyers have enough legs they can accelerate from their current position and still decelerate later. Not much accel, but it will get them there faster. This group is just . . . drifting if you will, sir. And on their current course they're on a retrograde orbit. Unless they get under power soon, they're going to miss the Tree and slam into the star. They are, however, pulling away from the rest of the fleet.”

“Bomb ships?” the CO asked. “A suicide run? Can the Dreen get the star to go nova or something?”

“Possible, sir,” the TACO replied. “But then why not accelerate? I think they're just . . . broken, sir. Looks like drive system failure to me.”

“Well, let's hope so,” the CO said.

“Whoa,” the sensor tech said. “The Dreen are firing.”

“On what?” the TACO said. “We're not in range.”

“Those two disabled ships,” the sensor tech replied. “Every ship is firing that has line-of-sight. Sierras 41 and 46 are gone, sir. They're just gas. And they're still pumping plasma into the area.”

“Wow,” the CO said. “The Dreen have a hell of a penalty for having a bad Eng. I need to point it out to ours. How's the modification of the missiles going?”

“Queasily, sir,” the TACO said. “But we'll have at least one spread converted in twenty minutes or so. It was a nontrivial exercise.”

“That pretty much describes everything we do, Lieutenant.”

“So how did you get the beams to work?” Weaver asked when the linguist had finally calmed down.