Rift in the Races (60 page)

For the first time in a long time, he had a creeping feeling that they really were all going to die.

In a way, acknowledging it gave him a certain calm. Fighting for one’s life takes up a lot of energy. He realized that the level of his anxiety had been inching up since the teleporter, Pingermash, had passed out. Since then, desperation had been slipping beneath his sense of calm, a silent, slow-moving invasion assaulting his usually reliable confidence. Maybe it was working with the new guy instead of having Orli at the com. Orli calmed him. Orli, for all her faults, dropped into a state of ease when the fight was really on. He’d seen it more than once. There was a lot of her father in her, despite her squeamishness about guns and constant complaining about anything related to the ship. She’d used her gun well enough when Calico Castle was in the thick of it, and she’d been a steady force fighting Hostiles here on the bridge often enough.

He liked Ensign Nguyen just fine, and the man was extremely calm and competent. But Ensign Nguyen didn’t help
him
stay calm. It just wasn’t the same. Roberto didn’t like how it felt to feel like giving up.

He also didn’t like how it felt to know he’d just nuked a thousand human lives. Him. Not the Hostiles. Not even Captain Asad. Him. He pushed the button. Part of him knew it wasn’t “technically” his fault, but he also knew it was. He denied them hope, no matter how impossible it was that many—or even any—of them had still been alive. Two taps of an instrument panel and the death warrant signed. By him. Lieutenant Roberto Levi. Murderer. That would never go away.

He tried to focus on the controls now, but he kept seeing the
Liberty
coming at them. Could see it breaking apart. Engines firing uselessly. Its life gasses hissing into a silent night. Its people too, hissing out their last screams in fear and fiery agony. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, watching the
Liberty
spinning at them, wondering if maybe the gravity wave might have skimmed passed them somehow. He could have moved the ship sooner, before. He should have anticipated that.

Then it hit him.

The gravity drives!

Of course the gravity drives. How could they all be so stupid? How had nobody thought of it before? So used to fighting everything the same old way. Point and shoot. My god, the whole fleet was filled with robotic morons, and he was the biggest one of them all.

“Captain,” he said, his body filling with a rush, “We can crush them with the gravity drives. We have to fight together anyway. Why not crush them, or just rip them apart?”

“What are you talking about, Lieutenant? We have incoming.”

Roberto saw the Hostile coming in. He paused long enough to get his rockets off and the lasers fired. His reflexes returned, his head back in the game.

“Captain, two ships could redirect their gravity fields, a pair of inversion fields, point them at the same spot right when a Hostile shoots past. We could rip them in half. Be like opening a plastic Easter egg. Or we could flip the fields and squeeze when they came through, like popping zits.”

Reflexive impatience tortured the captain’s face at first, but the idea catalyzed in his tactical mind almost immediately. He began to nod, negligibly at first, but more emphatically as each moment passed.

“That may be worth a try,” he said. “Get
Lima
back.”

“
Lima
, up,” said Ensign Nguyen.

“Captain Hawthorne,” said Captain Asad. “We’ve got an idea that might be a game changer, if you’d care to take a risk that will probably kill us all.”

“We’re all going to die, Asad,” came the reply. “Rather go out swinging.”

“Lieutenant,” said Captain Asad, the rise of his voice indicating Roberto should explain his plan.

They had to wait for another pass of the Hostile. This time one of the nukes hit its incoming projectile and turned it into silicate dust. Ensign Nguyen cheered the victory, the shot having been his.

Roberto was no longer impressed with that sort of thing. “Enough of that bullshit,” he said. “Let’s gut this fucker.” He followed up with a description of his plan, the
Lima
weapons officer picking up the thread of the idea before Roberto had it halfway out.

“It’s beautiful,” said the
Lima
’s captain when the two weapons officers had the plan worked out and the settings calculated and programmed in. “If it works, Asad, I’m buying the drinks for the rest of your natural life. I might even marry you when we get back to Earth.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Captain Asad, doing his over-starched best not to spoil her morale. “Focus, people. Let’s get this right.”

The Hostile came back for another pass.

“Do I need to get the lasers,” asked Ensign Nguyen, “while you do that? You need to give me the controls.”

“I got it,” said Roberto. “It’s all programmed. That’s the beauty of it. If this works, this shit just got way easier.”

The Hostile swept in, Roberto anticipating the shot and sending the missiles off. He was wrong. It went down and left. The
Lima’s
weapons officer had it right, however, and their lasers pushed the massive column off. Roberto didn’t have time to thank them. He was too busy watching the console.

The amber light flashed on his com at the same time the blue lights flashed on Ensign Nguyen’s. An alarm sounded, warning gravity engines had engaged without a heading. Roberto hit the override.

The engines fired, the wave as tight as possible, almost a beam, and directed at an angle back from the portside of the ship, as close to directly at the
Lima
as possible without hitting her. The computer calculated it all instantly, tracking the orb and timing the pulse, just enough for it to form.

The computers on the
Lima
did the same from their side just as the Hostile flew between the two ships. The two waves formed at once, each directed at the center of the Hostile mass, the two pulses colliding from either side of the orb. It never saw it coming. And just as Roberto predicted, it burst like a popped pimple.

Shouts went up from both bridge crews.

“Did you see that?” howled Roberto. “Did you see it? That was epic shit!”

“Lieutenant,” snapped Captain Asad. “Communicate this to the rest of the ships. Do it now. People are dying.”

It took fifteen minutes to get the concept conveyed to the rest of the fleet. Then it took nine minutes to destroy all the remaining orbs. In what was nearly as simple as the press of a few buttons, the Hostiles had gone from being almost unstoppably lethal to now nearly harmless. Not quite helpless, but pretty damn close. Even the conduit was impressed, though he shared that with the admiral reluctantly.

And better than having finally found a way to fight them effectively, it appeared as the battle was winding down that the orbs didn’t seem to realize that they were vulnerable. It was as if the message didn’t have time to get out about what was killing them each time one of them was destroyed, so the others just kept fighting. No retreat. They zipped in, one after the next, intent on making their attacks, and then they were gone. Crushed. No time to report back, or whatever it was that they did. Which meant, if it held true, for the first time in over a decade, the people of Earth might finally be able to count themselves something other than completely vulnerable.

Chapter 42

T
wo weeks to the day after having left Tinpoa Base, and a week after parting from the now cherished vision of Mistress Kettle with her fine wit, spreading bosom and spectacular culinary crafts, Ilbei Spadebreaker crested the last hill separating his eyes from the sight of the magnificent
Citadel
. Not generally one to ogle and awe about magical advances and whatever the latest and greatest feat of sorcery might be, upon seeing the massive crystal ball, he had to admit that was one incredible bit of work. Being lowborn and a blank, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of fortunes such a thing might foretell. It seemed only reasonable to assume it would see further and more profound glimpses of the future than the regular-sized spheres the mediums used, though he himself had no interest in investigating such things. Fate would bring what it brought, and that was fair enough for him.

He tapped his mule on the flanks with his makeshift riding crop, a switch ripped this morning from a tree to replace the previous one which had burned in last night’s fire after having served a tour as a cooking spit as well. “Come on, Snort, ya ornery old thing, get on down the hill,” he urged affectionately. “We don’t got all day.” The nearly skeletal donkey he had in tow protested the renewed motion with a long, low bray as the lead rope stretched between it and the mule. It stopped after only one step, refusing to budge another inch, its efforts enough to slow the steady mule for a moment. “You too, dammit, Jasper. Don’t make me carve ya up fer stew, scarce a portion as ya’d make.”

The donkey, nearly as old and stubborn as Ilbei, dug its hooves in for another pair of brays, but the superior strength of the mule won the day, forcing the spindly creature to start up again lest it be pulled over and dragged behind. It was an ambulatory drama that had been playing out between the three of them for the better part of thirty years, and as likely to take place at the next stop as it had been at the last.

Aderbury was outside
Citadel
directing the fitting of an immense crystal spike into the surface of the sphere when Ilbei rode up. The rattle of the old miner’s shovels and mining gear announced his arrival before he had a chance to call out, and Aderbury turned and greeted him with a wave and welcoming grin instead. “There you are,” said the Queen’s favorite transmuter. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

Ilbei anticipated there might be an issue with his having been absent so long. He’d left Tinpoa early, given the fleet had gone, but he was still technically under contract with Castles, Inc. which prompted him to begin a bit defensively. “I looked in at the Castles, Inc. office in Crown City when they first sent me down,” he said. “But ya wasn’t there, so I went off on an errand of my own. I hope it weren’t a problem, sir, though I expect not. What with Tinpoa mine closed just now, I didn’t figure you’d have much need—”

Aderbury raised a hand to stop him. “I’m not concerned at all, Master Spadebreaker. Only, if there was anything you needed, I hope you would have checked in with Thad.”

Ilbei’s expression grew dark, the craggy landscape of his face made severe by Aderbury’s casual disrespect for Lord Thadius’ title, superior to both Ilbei and Aderbury, and made so by his noble blood. Ilbei had no love for Lord Thadius, and he would not be intimidated by any man, but there was proper respect due. Without structure, there was no order in society.

Aderbury saw the look and apologized, knowing Ilbei well enough. “I’m sorry, Ilbei. I meant Lord Thadius. I forget how old-fashioned you are.”

“There’s a lot ta be said fer the old-fashioned ways, sir. They was good enough for an epoch afore everyone decided ta up and throw ‘em all away.”

Aderbury nodded, more to appease the trusty and reliable foreman than out of any real sense of agreement. To redirect the crusty old digger, he turned and looked up toward the massive crystal spike jutting from the side of
Citadel
and said, “Well, what do you think?”

Ilbei rocked back on his heels, head back, belly out like a counterweight as he considered it for a moment. “Depends what it is,” he answered honestly.

“It’s a spear. A diamond-tipped spear. Except it’s all tip.”

The mossy gray grizzle of Ilbei’s beard twitched as his dry lips pushed around an equally animate mustache. “I reckon it’s fine,” he said after giving it a bit more thought. “What are ya gonna throw it at, and whose doin’ the toss?”

“We are, of course, and we’re going to throw them at the Hostiles if they attempt to attack.
Citadel
will be covered with these. Like spines on a porcupine, though no one will see them until it’s too late.”

Ilbei looked up at it again, nodding slightly, politely, but his expression conveyed something more in keeping with someone who was too polite to admit to the cook that the pudding wasn’t inspired tonight.

“By Hestra and her seven-headed son but you’re hard to impress,” said Aderbury upon seeing it. “We’ve got a crew of teleporters. They can use these as easy as a conjurer throws an ice lance.”

“Ya could just get some conjurers,” offered Ilbei. “Save yerself all this.” He pointed around at all the work and the magicians helping to set the spike in place. He wasn’t being facetious. Just plain common sense. “Seems like that would ha’ been easier. As I recollect, there’s plenty a’ them folks around.”

The pained expression on Aderbury’s face made it seem as if something had just bitten him, but he did not speak the first thought that came to mind, nor did he explain that they would have conjurers
too
, with a huge reserve of water to cast ice from, two full floors of it and low-ranked teleporters tasked with resupply. Instead, he smiled and relented. Perhaps Ilbei was not the best audience for this sort of thing.