Starfist: Hangfire (42 page)

The scene was repeated throughout the area of operation, eighty of the five hundred skimmers and hovercraft in the operation shattered by explosives attached to their hulls; 160 of the thousand infantry squads were killed, 10 percent of the force was wiped out. The initial loosing of the minions of hell lasted less than two minutes.

Before all the reports of death and destruction of his soldiers even reached Archdeacon Lambsblood's headquarters, skillfully hidden doors, set into the more solid portions of ground less deep into the swamp than the infantry had gone, opened. Weapons of unfamiliar design rose on platforms from the holes. The weapons crackled when they fired, and each crackle sent an invisible crushing force into the Gabriels that couldn't penetrate the swamp as deeply as the infantry had. Their work done in seconds, the weapons were lowered and the doors closed over them, once more hiding them from any but the most carefully searching eyes. Behind them they left one-third of the operation's armored force shattered, fragments of exploded Gabriels sizzling where they landed in the mud and water.

Less than a minute after the first Gabriel exploded, orders were issued to six of the orbiting Avenging Angel squadrons to obliterate the areas around the killed vehicles. Filled with righteous joy, ninety pilots banked out of their holding patterns and sped toward the swamp, dropping as they went so they would be at attack altitude when they arrived on target. The pilots of the other eighteen squadrons enviously watched them leave.

As the Avenging Angels neared the swamp, skillfully hidden doors in the ground just inside the wetland opened and weapons similar to those that had killed the Gabriels rose on platforms, already aimed heavenward. They crackled.

Every Avenging Angel of two squadrons disintegrated.

The three Avenging Angels of one squadron that weren't destroyed in the opening volley spun about and sped away; one didn't get out of range fast enough.

Five Avenging Angels of another squadron managed to escape, and the commander of a trailing squadron spontaneously ordered his pilots to fire all their missiles where he spotted the strange weapons.

The commander's instinct was good; his squadron destroyed two of the weapons. Nine of that squadron's fifteen pilots paid for the victory with their lives.

Eight Avenging Angels of the final squadron made it through the protective fire to their designated target. They totally obliterated the ground in the vicinity of one of the killed Gabriels and destroyed one of the enemy's weapons. Then they sped on and were lucky enough to exit the swamp through an area not covered by the invader's remaining antiaircraft defenses.

"Everybody, into the water!" Second Acolyte Talas screamed when the skimmer to his hovercraft's rear exploded; he realized boats had suddenly become unsafe places to be. He was the first soldier to leave the illusory safety of the hovercraft and drop into the scummy, waist-deep water. His soldiers, having seen or heard the skimmer explode, scrambled into the water behind him. Even the boatman jumped ship.

The turgid water was almost as difficult to wade through as it had looked from the deck of the boat. It felt thicker than water had any business being. Sodden clumps of rotting leaves drifted in it, as did fragile waterlogged twigs. Things the men didn't want to think about bumped or wriggled against them as they followed their officer to the edge of the watercourse. The slurry of muck on the bottom of the water sucked at their feet and more than one boot was left behind. Intent on their officer, the men didn't see anything rise up behind them.

Second Acolyte Talas, still crying out "Follow me," reached the vegetation along the bank of the watercourse and broke his way into it. When he felt the mud under his boots begin to rise, he grasped a buttress root and stepped upward. His foot found precarious purchase on a slick root and he pulled himself out of the water. There, less than a meter away, was land. It was just a more-solid mud and didn't look very inviting, but it did appear capable of supporting a man. Watchful of his balance on the root, Talas stepped across the narrow gap and soon had both feet on the ground. Only then did he turn about to see how his men were doing.

Behind them the hovercraft was still making its way against the current; unguided, it was angling toward the opposite bank of the watercourse. But of his men, he saw none.

"Lead Sword," he shouted, "report."

The indignant scream of a swamp creature a few meters away was the only response.

"Squad Swords, report!"

Not even the swamp creature replied.

"Anybody in first platoon, sound off!" Second Acolyte Talas's voice climbed the register toward panic.

Somewhere, a swamp flier cawed, an amphibian croaked, another creature cried. Flying insectoids buzzed about, water drip-dripped, clumps of rotted leaves heavy with moisture plopped into the water.

But not one soldier from first platoon sounded off.

Second Acolyte Talas's breath came in shallow, rapid pants. He slowly lowered himself to a crouch.

His officer's sidearm shook in his sweaty grip.

He slowly became aware of a different sound, one that was neither made by the swamp creatures nor rotted matter falling into the water. It was a low-pitched, slow huffing, as though something was breathing nearby. Slowly, he turned his head to look behind him.

A creature stood a few meters away. Manlike in its overall appearance, its face was sharply convex and it had fluttering slits on its nictating membrane swept across the creature's eyes from the inner side to the outer. The teeth exposed by its evil grin were pointed. It had tanks mounted on its back. A hose led from the tanks to a nozzle in the creature's hands. Then a greenish fluid shot out from the nozzle.

Second Acolyte Talas screamed briefly.

Ambassador Friendly Creadence listened to the report of the battle with mounting horror. When Archdeacon General Lambsblood finished, the ambassador got control of himself and thought briefly.

"Archdeacon General, I thank you," he finally said. "Let me be sure of what you are asking. You lost nearly a third of your force in a battle that lasted less than ten minutes. You then withdrew from the swamp without opposition."

Lambsblood didn't reply; that was what he'd told the off-world ambassador.

"It is your studied professional opinion that the armed forces of Kingdom are not powerful enough to defeat these intruders."

Lambsblood nodded. The disgrace of his failure had him so tense that his neck audibly creaked when he bent it.

"You believe that the only way to defeat the intruders is with the aid of the Confederation military."

"Yes." The word was almost unintelligible.

Creadence turned to Bishop Ralphy Bruce Preachintent.

"Bishop, do you concur with the Archdeacon General?"

Bishop Ralphy Bruce nodded weakly. "Yes, Mister Ambassador. As much as it pains me, I formally request military assistance from the Confederation of Human Worlds in rooting out whoever it is that has invaded." He took a deep breath. "May I remind the ambassador, as a member world of the Confederation of Human Worlds, the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles has every right to make this request. And as the foe we face is obviously from off-world, the Confederation of Human Worlds is obligated to come to our assistance."

Creadence nodded. "That is true, Bishop. It is my opinion that, in accordance with law and treaty, you have the right to request military assistance, and in this instance we have the obligation to provide it. I will dispatch an urgent request today."

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."

They rose and shook hands all around. Bishop Ralphy Bruce led his delegation out of the ambassador's meeting room.

When they were gone, Creadence said to Thorogood, "This is definitely serious enough to send for the Marines."

Thorogood simply nodded.

Despite his years in the diplomatic service, Ambassador Creadence had never had to send for military assistance and didn't know what details he should put in his report. Since they only had a suspicion of the nonhuman nature of the invaders, the urgent request for Marines was vague on that point; it was necessarily vague on the size and strength of the force the Marines would face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Navy doctors determined that Pasquin's leg would have to come off below the knee. "No problem," the orthopedic surgeon at the Bethesdan Naval Medical Center's Dahlgren Surgical Clinic told him the first day he was out of stasis. "We'll have you back on active service in no time at all."

"Ma'am," he grinned up at the lieutenant commander surgeon, "I've got nowhere else to go right now."

He'd been in stasis for two months before arriving at Bethesdan. Dean and Claypoole were already back on Thorsfinni's World spreading lies. He wondered what 34th FIST had been doing while they were away. Training, as usual. The three of them had been gone long enough that there might well have been a deployment. He vowed never again to complain about Marine Corpsfield problems.

The doctor studied his chart for a moment. "You have an infantry MOS," she said, "but you were on a survey ship, the
Wanganui
? That's an odd assignment for a grunt."

"Something new, ma'am," Pasquin answered. "They were going into a sector where pirates have been operating, and we went along as Marine security for the crew and the scientists."

The doctor raised her eyebrows. "Never heard of such a thing. I wouldn't think a survey ship would have room for all your Marines."

"There were only three of us, ma'am."

"Only three, to deal with pirates?"

"Well, ma'am, if there were a lot of pirates, they'd have sent four of us to deal with them."

The doctor laughed and patted Pasquin's good leg. "Corporal, Marines make the best orthopedic patients. You don't let the bad stuff get you down. You and I are going to be seeing quite a bit of each other these next few days."

Pasquin grinned. He wouldn't mind that at all. She was not bad looking for a Squid pill pusher.

Katie had decided to remain on Havanagas. "I'm used to life here," she explained to Claypoole, "and now that the mob's no longer in control, I think I can make something of myself. They'll need someone to run the Free Library now that Mister Prost is gone. Who's better qualified than me? I'm a whore and I know books." She shrugged "But Rock, you know where I am when you're ready. All you have to do is let me know and I'm on my way."

"It may be a while," he warned her.

"I don't care, take your time. But you know, I sort of wish you'd wait until you're promoted to staff sergeant. If I have to leave here, I wouldn't mind being a Marine's wife."

"When we get married, whether I'm still in the Corps or out, you'll still be a Marine's wife, Katie."

Nast had many details to take care of on Havanagas, shutting down the families' control of operations, so he'd agreed to let Dean and Claypoole spend the time in port rather than on the
Wanganui
. They were to leave the next day. Claypoole was of two minds. He wanted to stay with Katie, but he knew his place was back with 34th FIST. Already, he was looking forward to drinking beer in Big Barb's and swapping sea stories with his fellow Marines.

Nast had given them their cover story about providing security for the
Wanganui
and warned them they must stick to it. Pasquin had been injured in a shipboard accident. Lieutenant Perizittes had filed the official accident report, and Pasquin's records would reflect injury in the line of duty. There could be no mention that they had ever been on Havanagas. "You know what happens to people who talk too much,"

Nast reminded them ominously.

Claypoole had taken that seriously—for a while. Then he went over the details of the fight at the farm, his rescue of Katie in Placetas, the fight in the Coliseum. Well, fuck you, Mr. Nast! he told himself. After what Nast had pulled on them, Claypoole resolved that as soon as he was back on Thorsfinni's World, the Marines of third platoon were going to hear about their adventures. He was tired of people telling him to shut up; he was good at performing the impossible missions nobody else would dream of taking on.

"Hey," he said, holding up a reader, "look at what I've got here!" he handed Katie the reader. A look of surprise and then deep pleasure came over her face. She leaned over and planted a very long kiss on Claypoole's lips. He was reading Canterbury Tales.

"Well, if it isn't the prodigal sons!" Top Myer exclaimed as Dean and Claypoole reported back into the Company L office at Camp Ellis. "Where the hell have you been, and where's Corporal Pasquin?"

"Security duty on a survey ship, First Sergeant!" Dean responded.

"Corporal Pasquin's in the hospital, First Sergeant! Shipboard accident. He'll be back soon, though,"

Claypoole said.

"Security duty on a survey ship?" The First Sergeant looked askance at the two Marines standing before his desk. "I never heard such crap in my life! The Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps is going to reach all the way down to 34th FIST and pick two birds like you for god-damned

‘security duty’ on a goddamned survey ship?" He held out his hand, and they handed over the crystals that contained their reassignment orders. He popped Dean's into a reader. Sure enough, there it was, along with a strong letter of commendation from the captain of the
Wanganui
.

"It was crap, Top. Dullest duty I ever pulled. Never fired a shot," Claypoole said.

Top Myer glared at the two lance corporals. He screwed up his right eyebrow. He took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. He leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke through which he regarded the two balefully. There was something mighty fishy there; he'd get to the bottom of it sooner or later. "Well," he said at last, studying the glowing end of his cigar, "next goddamned time they need someone for ‘security duty’ they damned well kin get 'em from M Company."

EPILOGUE

The Great Master sat cross-legged on a thick mat behind the low, lacquer table at the back of a large room. The rectangular gold plates that shimmered softly on his robe were worthless as armor, but that didn't matter, the ancient form of armor was ceremonial. A sword, sheathed in precious wood that curved with the blade, lay across his lap. Two Large Ones sat close to his rear, one to either side. A third Large One sat with his back to the Great Master's back. The armor the bodyguards wore was fully functional, as were the unsheathed swords they held. A diminutive female knelt at his knee and delicately poured a steaming liquid into the small, handleless cup that sat in easy reach of the Great Master.