Trial by Fire - eARC (78 page)

Urzueth emitted a faint, ululating two-toned whistle in a minor key. “First Rock-Mother,” he prayed/blasphemed. “We will have given rise to the very thing we strove to prevent.”

Darzhee Kut harmonized and watched him closely.

Mobile Command Center “Trojan Ghost One,” approaching Indonesia, Earth

“Mr. Downing, update from OPCOM.”

Good. The more we know, the better we can negotiate.
“Synopsis, please.”

“Admiral Silverstein reports that the enemy flotilla which engaged Rescue Task Force One is dead in space. He has multiple nuke-pumped X-ray laser missiles targeted on every shift-capable hull and capital ship. He will soon be handing control over to Rear Admiral Vasarsky’s Tango Echelon. He has also detached enough Gordon-class sloops to control the drones we now have covering the Arat Kurs’ orbital flotilla. Initial boarding operations are underway in both areas of engagement. He hopes they will be concluded by the time Tango Echelon arrives.”

“Then Silverstein is slingshotting out after Halifax?”

“Yes, sir, but he hardly needs to. Admiral Schubert’s first report indicates that the Arat Kur belt fleet is almost one hundred percent incapacitated. The few hulls still capable of maneuver were overwhelmed by the first wave of drones and high-yield ordnance and were destroyed. However, it is unclear if Schubert’s own boarding teams will be able to safely commandeer the remaining enemy hulls. Time to intercept is long enough that the Arat Kur might be able to regain control, necessitating their destruction.”

Downing couldn’t quite be comfortable with the report. Case Timber Pony and Case Leo Gap had worked
too
well, had been too seamless in their synergistic timing and effect. Innumerable contingency plans had been drawn up for dealing with high, partial, even low levels of success, but there had been no time to spend contemplating such a speedy and complete triumph. Something had to be amiss, about to go wrong…

“I also have reports via fiber-com in Jakarta that a mix of indigenous insurgents, infiltration teams, and tunnel rats have entered the presidential compound and provisionally secured the enemy headquarters.”

Already?
If anything, the successes threatened to get out of hand, were occurring too quickly. “Do we have reliable units inbound on their HQ?”

“Yes, sir. Pathfinder elements dedicated to that target are the Twenty-second SAS, B squadron, and A platoon of the Spetsnaz Sixteenth Brigade. Both are hitching rides with A company of Second battalion, First Air Cav.”

“Their ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

Downing looked down at his watch, did the math. That was too soon, now, given the change in plans these rapid successes necessitated. “Tell those units to orbit the compound and secure the surrounding airspace. They are to delay final approach and landing until we arrive to lead them in.”

“Sir?”

“Relay those orders, Lieutenant. I don’t want the arrival of possibly overeager elite troops to fuel the confidence—and vengeance—of resistance fighters. That could turn a nice, calm surrender into a slaughter. We will lead our elite formations in and set the tone as
diplomatic
, not military. Make sure they understand that. And tell the pilot we need to move up our ETA to Jakarta as much as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alnduul swayed gently toward him as the high-speed command VTOL bucked with a sudden surge of acceleration. “Are you quite sure that this change is safe, Mr. Downing?”

“You mean the speed of our approach?”

Alnduul’s outer lids nictated slowly. “I mean our direct entry into an unsecured combat zone.”

Downing felt a brief spasm of contempt for the Dornaani Custodian, pushed it off with a shrug. “There is some risk involved. That is the nature of war, after all.”

Downing felt as though the large, dark pupilless eyes were dissecting his words, his intents, his psyche. Then they blinked. “So it is. My apologies, Mr. Downing.”

“Your apologies? For what? For asking about the degree of risk?”

“For forgetting what it feels like.”

Downing felt his eyebrows rise. “It must be nice to live in a world where that’s something you can forget.”

“Nice? Perhaps. But worrisome, also.”

“Worrisome?”

But Alnduul had turned to look out the small window to his right, the blue and white of sky and clouds a roiling concave moiré reflected upon his eyes. Downing waited, but the Dornaani did not speak again.

Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth

“Have you contacted our ships yet?”

“We have not, Darzhee Kut.”

Urzueth Ragh moved closer to him, hummed his query softly. “I do not understand. If you are determined to keep the fleet from scuttling itself, why are you so eager to contact them with news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death?”

“Because if they hear of our capitulation without also learning that the Final Directive is rescinded, the ship masters will presume it is in effect and destroy their ships.”

Urzueth’s answering buzz was anxious. “It may occur anyhow, Darzhee Kut. If our rock-siblings are boarded before they can restore their systems, they are likely to destroy themselves, probably with humans aboard. And soon, down here, they will start finding some of our fully isolated troopers becoming sluggish, sick. And you know what they will find.”

Darzhee Kut nodded. “Within forty-eight hours, all their potential prisoners will die of a noncontagious virus that first renders them unconscious and then kills them by producing fatal toxins out of body tissue.”

“And because we have no way of reaching all of them, thousands will die within the same day or two. The humans will, as you say, realize that it is not a disease at all, but a suicide method. So let us reconsider. Why not be safe and destroy the ships, as well? If we cannot prevent the humans from discovering our planetside force’s commitment to suicide, then we might as well destroy the concrete answers the humans might find on our spacecraft.”

Darzhee Kut snapped his claws. “No. If we can keep the planetside casualties to a minimum, we can explain that the troopers who killed themselves simply feared capture and torture. We must spend all our energies striving to contact our units. To that end, ask the humans to find Riordan and bring him back here.”

“Why?”

“Because he will help us, and the humans still have radios. We can use those to contact our rock-siblings. If we can prevent even half of our units and ships from following the Final Directive, the suicides of the remainder may appear to be more an aberration than a plan.”

Urzueth Ragh’s antenna snapped erect as he spun away. “I shall inquire after Riordan with all speed.”

“Delegate Kut.” It was the first time anyone had ever addressed him with that honorific; it was thrilling and horrible at the same time.

“Yes, Communications Master T’yeen?”

“I have the ship
Greatvein
.”

“Who is on the channel? Fleetmaster R’sudkaat?”

“No, Delegate Kut. As you requested, Senior Sensor Master Tuxae Skhaas.”

“Excellent. Tuxae Skhaas?”

“Yes, Speak—
Delegate
Kut.”

“I must first sing a song of mourning. Hu’urs Khraam’s voice no longer echoes in the rocknest.”

There was a very long pause. “We are ill-fated to be alive to hear such notes, Delegate Kut.” The sorrow in Tuxae’s voice was deep and genuine.

“I have a very new song for your antennae alone, Tuxae Skhaas.”

“I listen, ready to harmonize, Delegate Kut. But your radio has very limited range, and the path of our orbit will soon carry us beyond each other’s reach.”

“So I will be frank. We must not scuttle the fleet.”

“We—have I heard you correctly, Delegate Kut?”

“You must unlearn the hymn we all sang together when we left Homenest. And you must teach this new atonality to all the other ships that you can reach: we must not follow the Final Directive.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Presidential Palace compound, Jakarta, Earth

“Trev?”

“Hmm?” Trevor Corcoran kept his eye on the scope of the Remington M167 he had retrieved from Gavin’s body.
Almost eight minutes since I’ve seen a Sloth, but I’m in no rush. Six bagged and counting. And that last one—Stosh would have been proud of that shot: four hundred eighty meters if it was a centimeter. Single round, center of mass. The bastard went down like a poleaxed ox. Welcome to Earth, motherfucker.

“Trevor.” Tygg’s voice was subtly more insistent.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“A report, Captain.”

Yeah, that’s right. I’m a captain now. Probably will keep my rank after this shindig. Glories and medals, too. O, be still my beating heart—

“Heart.” “Heart”
made him think of Opal, which made him stop thinking. When he opened his eyes, he found the view down the scope alien, strange, as if he had never seen it before. “Okay. Okay.” He blinked, felt like he was coming out of a general anesthetic. “What’s the sitrep?”

Tygg, his sand-colored beret wet and rumpled close to his head, was at his left shoulder, his eyes steady, assessing. “Best if you come down to hear it, sir.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And we can put Cruz on overwatch up here, give him the Remington. Don’t you think?” Tygg’s hand was already gently cupping the forestock of the long weapon. Trevor noticed that the Aussie’s eyes never blinked.

Trevor nodded. “Yeah—I’m done.” Tygg nodded, looked away, as if suddenly embarrassed. Trevor started down the narrow stairs that led from the small fieldhouse’s observation cupola into its shattered atrium. Faces looked up at him, looked quickly away. His impulse was equally divided between a desire to hide his own face from them and to tell them to fuck off. Frozen into immobility between these two diametrically opposed urges, he managed to simply descend, silently, into their midst.

“Reports,” he ordered.

Ayala started. “Outer perimeter secure. Our biggest problem is locals wanting to get in and trash this place. It’s pretty ugly out there.”

“What about the hunter-killer squads the Sloths sent out?”

“Scattered reports. Lots of them are still active, but running out of steam. A lot more have been wiped out. Some tried to lift their own vehicles to make a run for orbit or elsewhere. We really don’t know. Our flyboys were too busy shooting them into small fluttering pieces.”

Trevor nodded, turned to O’Garran. “Relief forces?”

“According to the latest fiber-com update, ETA is now six minutes.”

“Vertipads?”

“Secured. Lieutenant Winfield and most of Commander Ayala’s SEALs are working as cadre with ex-military insurgents to maintain a dedicated overwatch on the ’pads.”

Trevor was preparing to move on to Rulaine for the internal security report, heard O’Garran clear his throat. “Something else, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Although we’re expecting the SAS and First Air Cav to be the first wave in, according to my latest intel update, their landing has been redesignated as the arrival of a ‘high-security diplomatic mission,’ not a part of the general assault.”

“Who’s leading this diplomatic mission?”

“I have no word on that, sir. But the Confederation clearance classification is listed as 01A1B?”

Jesus.
“Sergeant, you are to send all your remaining forces to the vertipads. I want them deployed as two concentric perimeters, placements and range at Lieutenant Winfield’s discretion. And Sergeant O’Garran?”

“Sir?”

“You stay with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bannor?”

Rulaine swept an arm out over the esplanade. “Interior is all quiet. No sniping incidents, not even any thermal signatures that aren’t us or human workers. The undercover insurgents among the staff have made contact with us, confirm our suspicions that the only Hkh’Rkh left within these walls are the three we have captive and the dead.”

“And the Arat Kur?”

“Most are holed up in their billets or are back near Lieutenant Wu in their headquarters.”

“Any resistance from the others?”

“Not a peep. External reports tell the same story. The Arat Kur have ceased all offensive operations. Possibly due to illness.”

Trevor swiveled back toward Rulaine. “Illness?”

“Yes sir. Scattered intel suggests that here, and at their other cantonments, an increasing number of Arat Kur are acting sluggish, distracted.”

Caine’s voice arose, was aimed into the rest of the crowd, not at Trevor. “Those of you with the infiltration teams or the fiber-com. Did you hear anything about plans to use a chemical weapon on the Arat Kur?”

“No, sir.” Ayala shrugged. “Scuttlebutt is that no one was able to get any genetic samples of the Arat Kur.”

Caine nodded. “Yeah, I believe it. All throughout the insurgency, the exos occasionally retreated, but they never left their dead behind for analysis. The one time I saw them retreat without all their bodies, they called in an air strike and burned the
kempang
down to bedrock.”

“So the Roaches get sick. What of it?”

“Maybe nothing, Trevor—but if a whole lot of them are succumbing to some kind of disease or malaise right now, it might not be coincidence.”

“Trev.” It was Elena, her voice coming from behind, not much more than a whisper. “Caine is also the ambassador to the Arat Kur. If something’s going on, he should be back in their headquarters, staying in touch with what’s left of their leadership.”

Trevor picked up his CoBro assault rifle. “Fine. We’ll escort you to Cockroach central. Tygg, Rulaine: on me.”

Wholenest flagship
Greatvein
, Earth orbit

Tuxae kept his claws very still as R’sudkaat approached. “Yes, what is it now, Tuxae Hu’urs?”

“Esteemed Fleetmaster, I have a message from Darzhee Kut.”

“A message to me? From him? Very well. What is it?”

“Delegate Kut sends his compliments and informs you that the Final Directive has been rescinded.”

For a long moment, R’sudkaat did not move. Then he started forward, claws half raised. “Rescind the Final Directive? And since when is Kut titled Delegate?”