The Dragon Never Sleeps by Glen Cook
They were leaving VII Gemina? For Starbase? That was a surprise.
The subaltern slipped outside and took the lead. He marched them down corridors that stretched for kilometers, into visual infinity. Occasionally he zigged out and down stairwells that had not felt the tread of feet in lifetimes. Finally, he ushered them into an empty room. The subaltern said, “Wait here.” He went out with his troops.
An hour later Turtle said, “We’ve been ditched, courtesy of the Deified Makarska Vis.”
Midnight looked like she might panic. “Do you recall the way back? I do.”
“Yes. They didn’t try to be confusing.” Which was ominous.
Midnight jiggered the stretcher controls. It rose a meter. “There should be a comealong.”
“They would have used it.”
“Probably. Let’s go. I have to do something or I’ll lose control.”
“You’re doing well.”
“I do better when hysterics are a luxury.”
“We all do.” He let her manage the stretcher. He did not press. He was sure it was too late.
He kept expecting to run into somebody who would want to know what they were doing. But they encountered no sign of the builders or their heirs. Starbase, Turtle feared, was a prison where they would serve life sentences for having offended the Deified Makarska Vis.
The entry hatch was locked. As he expected. He told Midnight, “Stay here. I’ll find a way to get hold of WarAvocat.”
She had her hysterics then.
— 44 —
The spacers of House Horigawa saw something no one had seen since the days of the Enherrenraat, Guardships coming out of Starbase Tulsa, through the Barbican, in line astern, ready for war.
The news would go out. But no news traveled faster than a hungry Guardship.
— 45 —
Jo staggered into the suite’s common room, not quite knowing why she tried. She pointed herself toward the info-comm. As though that would do any good.
Vadja lay slumped over the board.
Forewarned was not necessarily adequately forearmed.
“Bastards,” she mumbled as she fell. “You’re dead meat now.”
— 46 —
Lupo was studying Web strands when the universe went white. In a voice almost sad he said, “Commence firing.” The command was redundant. The outer gun platforms would have begun firing before the corona’s light reached the asteroid. He touched his wrist comm. “Simon. Your Guardship is here.”
He stalked the length of Control, stood before the vast window facing the tag end. The rush and chatter, the wail of alarms and flash of lights behind him, did not impinge upon his consciousness. He touched his wrist again. “Our guest is here.”
There was no response from his family. None was needed.
The night donned a mask of fire. The Guardship became the brightest object in the universe.
Simon slammed to a stop beside him. “What’s it doing here already, Lupo? How did it find us so soon? Are we ready? Can we handle it? Which one is it?”
Lupo answered none of those questions. He couldn’t. “Let’s watch it on the main display. Lower the armor now,” he told a technician. He headed back the direction he had come, noting that all activity was orderly, efficient, and without panic. The technicians had their confidence. They had been through this in drills so often everything was automatic.
Tregesser tagged along, keeping quiet only because he did not want to betray frailty to his troops.
The display had reset to local. Data from every ship, station, gun platform, and observation point fed into the new picture.
“Ha!” Tregesser roared. “Ha-ha! What did I tell you, Lupo? It’s locked up inside its screen. Look at them pound that bastard.”
“Uhm. Wouldn’t you know. It’s XII Fulminata.”
“Shit! Double shit! But look at it, man!”
“Its screens are holding, Simon.”
“For how long? Eh? What’re they doing?”
Slivers had begun sliding over the surface of the Guardship, behind its screen, roilsome as maggots in a carcass.
“Launching fighters. Holding them inside the screen.”
“Why? They can’t get them out.”
A Tregesser ship, crawling the outer surface of the screen, laying down continuous fire, exploded.
“How did they do that?” Tregesser shrieked.
“He got too close, running with his own screen down. They fired a CT burst and opened a port just long enough for the shells to pass through. Our ship shaded the port.”
While Provik spoke another ship blew up. They were too eager out there. He tapped his wrist. “Allkire Verkler! Get those ships off the face of that screen or I’ll get me a new group commander.”
Another blew before Commander Verkler made his adjustments.
“They aren’t using Hellspinners, Lupo.”
“They’re not stupid. Hellspinners cause weak spots coming out.” The course the Guardship had to run was a test to destruction, a tube of ships and gun platforms. The farther it advanced into the tube, the more fire it would take.
Tregesser said, “Those fighters are like bugs on the inside of a light globe.” Then, “Hey! They’re launching.”
It was called a bubble-through launch though neither Provik nor Tregesser had heard of the tactic. It was used only by Guardships with little or no concern for living crew: I Primagenia, III Victrix, IV Trajana, XII Fulminata, others gone extremely strange. Losses in a bubble-through were heavy.
Fighters came out with their own screens maxed, osmotically. The gaps they exited never opened bigger than fighter and screen. The Guardship risked little. But fighter screens were of a lesser grade, and the ships they protected were easy targets for a moment. If they did not get through fast and start dodging, they were dead.
A lot got dead this launch.
But then the survivors were everywhere, making life miserable for the attackers, forcing them behind their own screens.
“They’re as crazy as your damned suicide squadrons,” Lupo said.
“It was a good move for them. It worked. Look. Magnum launch.”
A cloud of fighters had begun boiling off the Guardship now. Heavier riders and gunships followed. XII Fulminata was deploying everything. Soon it looked like a wad of wire mesh.
“Magnum launch indeed,” Lupo said. “You’d better send in the Po-Ticra before the heavy secondaries get maneuvering room.”
There were Outsiders who would respond only to Simon Tregesser, apparently unable to understand that Provik spoke with his voice. Lupo thought that a bad way to do business. If Simon checked out, those personal alliances became void.
This battle meant more to Simon than he would admit. He did not have to capture a Guardship to profit. Destroying one should quicken a flood of Outsider support.
They wanted to shatter Canon Rim, of course. Simon, dancing on a tightwire, hoped it would not go that far. He just wanted a lot more for him.
Lupo wondered if the Outsiders would let House Tregesser gain a Guardship. Alien and stupid were not synonyms.
He issued orders, made adjustments, examined data. “Simon. The numbers say they can’t win. They can’t even turn around. Start your call for surrender.”
“What’s that? We did it? Did you say we did it?”
“I said we’re going to do it. Unless something happens. These crazy Outsiders could screw it up.”
“Eh? Ha-ha!” The mad laughter rolled. Then Tregesser began booming his brief ultimatum.
The Guardship did not reply.
XII Fulminata’s screen began to show signs of distress. Lupo noticed, too, that the Guardship had begun to accelerate. That made no sense. Unless they had decided to rip straight through the end space.
Cold chills.
Death’s glance had passed your way, they said, when that creepy cold brushed your back.
Nova fire.
“What was that, Lupo? Lupo! What’s happening?”
<
More creepy chills. This time they lingered. He had caught Death’s eye.
“What are we going to do, Lupo?”
“You’re going to leave me the hell alone while I figure out what.” First, pull the fighters off XII Fulminata. They were not contributing much. Launch the reserve. Shift the fire of the more remote gun platforms to the new target. Have Simon throw Po-Ticra suiciders at any gap in XII Fulminata’s screen. XII Fulminata could stop them only with massed Hellspinners. Most would miss and rip more holes in the Guardship’s screen.
He executed as he thought, shifting from fighting for victory to fighting for survival.
The adjustments looked good. The numbers were iffy, but there was a chance....
Nova light.
“Are they sending the whole damned fleet?”
“Lupo!”
Provik tapped his wrist. “Family, we have to run for it. Get ready.” He watched till the ID came up. XXVIII Fretensis.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he had been expecting a third Guardship.
— 47 —
WarAvocat’s anger dwindled only because he had no time to indulge it. The moment duty failed to distract him, the rage returned.
The Deified Makarska Vis would pay.
Their conflict was the talk of the Guardship. Sympathy ran heavily in his favor. It was certain he would be reelected Dictat if he stood, and almost as certain that the Deified Makarska Vis would bow before a motion of censure from the Deified.
“Ready on all launch stations, WarAvocat.”
He surveyed WarCentral. VII Gemina was ready.
He had never felt so uncertain.
What did this crop of villains have? They always had something they thought gave them an edge. He dreaded the day when they were right.
“We have broken away.”
“Commence launch. Riders recheck your launch sequence.”
“Heavy fire ahead. No incoming.”
Verbal redundancy informed OpsCrew and ServCrew what VII Gemina and WarCrew were doing.
Tens of thousands of ears listened. Even the least member of WarCrew was awake and on station somewhere.
“Holy shit,” someone said. “Look at that.”
“That” was the sort of firestorm about which WarAvocats had nightmares.
The trap was obvious. And good. It was a sock into which momentum would carry the Guardship deeper and deeper while enemy fire grew more intense. XII Fulminata could not be seen. That Guardship was the focus of enough violence to fuel a small sun.
“We’re starting to take fire.”
WarAvocat told the WarCentral duty WatchMaster, “Someone has been getting ready for a long time. There’s no way out except through the other end. We can’t even turn back because XXVIII Fretensis is coming in behind us.”
“Can we handle it, sir?”
“We’ll find out. Maybe I should have allowed XXVIII Fretensis second honors.”
Data accumulated. The picture was not good. XII Fulminata had lost half its riders. The rest were damned unless recovered by VII Gemina or XXVIII Fretensis. XII Fulminata’s screen could take no more strain, yet it faced worse fire ahead.
“WarAvocat.” WatchMaster pointed.
A swarm of fighters had broken away from XII Fulminata, headed for VII Gemina. Other viewscreens showed hordes of fresh fighters pouring out of remote chunks of rock. The enemy was committing reserves.
The nearest gun platforms, already under fire from VII Gemina, began shifting to the incoming target.
“They’re quick,” WarAvocat said. “Bet they’ve decided to forget capturing XII Fulminata and try for us. Comm. Anything from XII Fulminata?
“No, sir.”
“That stubborn bastard.” WarAvocat examined the latest. VII Gemina would have all its secondaries away before it had to hide behind its shield. If it had to.
“Sir, their screens are as good as ours,” WatchMaster said.
“Damn!” So they were. XII Fulminata’s secondaries had not been able to silence a single heavy weapon.
VII Gemina plowed through wreckage left by XII Fulminata. “Must have done a bubble launch. The crazy bastards.”
“Don’t look like they had much choice.”
“Probably didn’t.”
Screens threw up schematics of enemy vessels amongst the wreckage. Few were not of nonhuman manufacture. Probe delivered data on species spotted in the wreckage. Few were recognized by Gemina.
They overhauled an enemy cripple of ridership size. A dozen Hellspinners whipped out. Three made contact, devoured half the vessel. WarAvocat nudged course slightly to pass a gun platform closely enough to use Hellspinners.
Its screen was Guardship quality. But it did not withstand the barrage.
VII Gemina’s interceptors met the enemy attack ships. In seconds it was obvious the Guardship had the better pilots. But the enemy had the numbers advantage.
“They’ve been getting ready for a long time,” WarAvocat muttered. Every weapon VII Gemina could target was in action. There was not yet enough incoming to mandate more than prophylactic screening.
XXVIII Fretensis broke away. WarAvocat XXVIII Fretensis assessed the situation and ordered his fighters forward to protect VII Gemina so VII Gemina could support XII Fulminata.
WarAvocat ordered, “Put out the mine cloud. If they come at us hard, we’ll run behind screen till our support arrives.”
The mine cloud consisted of explosive packets that would orbit the Guardship on attenuated grav strings.
XXVIII Fretensis began dumping velocity to deal with the enemy individually and to block access to the Web. There would be no escapes.
The senior communications officer beckoned WarAvocat. “Just got a squirt from XII Fulminata, sir. Personal for you. The signal was a mess. We’ll have it together in a minute.”
So. WarAvocat XII Fulminata deigned to speak to his auxiliaries.
Another voice: “Fighters coming in.” WarAvocat faced a screen that segmented to portray multiple attacks. “None of those are of human manufacture. Hold screen till the last second. All weapons are free.”
The fighters streaked in. Defensive fire reached out. Hellspinners rolled. One hapless pilot hit a mine. The screen snapped up at the last instant. It was too late for several eager pilots to avoid collision.
WarAvocat asked, “How many did we get?”
“Six on the screen, sir. Eight in the mine cloud. Thirteen with fire.”
“Not bad.” The enemy began sniping at the mines. They wanted room close to the shield. “Watch for Lock Runners,” WarAvocat cautioned. There would be soft spots in the shield while the Hellspinners raged.
Most of the enemy fighters, though, went on to meet those from XXVIII Fretensis. VII Gemina’s contingent were overhauling XII Fulminata, laying fire on everything in sight, doing damage wherever the enemy had his attention too obsessively fixed on XII Fulminata.
“Message from XII Fulminata is ready to run, WarAvocat.”
“Go ahead.”
It began with a visual collage showing enemy tactics, a grim variation on the Lock Runner theme. The Lock Runner would pop through and spray small caliber CT slugs. The Lock Runner would race in firing and just crash and blow up.
WarAvocat XII Fulminata was terse. “Our shield is destabilizing. It won’t hold. We’re going shitstorm. Good luck, VII Gemina. XII Fulminata out.”
WarAvocat muttered, “In character to the end.”
— 48 —
Lupo Provik cursed, exasperated. “Simon, I guarantee you I can’t pull it off against three Guardships. They’re eating us up. Will you get yourself into your damned Voyager and get out?”
Tregesser wanted to find hope where there was none.
“If it suddenly goes our way, you can turn back.?
“What about you?”
“I’m covering you, dammit! I’ll leave as soon as you’re clear. Will you go? Do I have to drag you? You want to guess what it’s going to be like here when these things realize they’re all going to die?”
“All right. All right.” Tregesser started moving. “At least we gave it a try.”
“It’ll help when we shop around Outside again. Go.” Lupo scanned his data. Half his fighters gone. Half of everything suffering at least some damage. And that damned third Guardship just cruising in, doing execution duty, blocking the escape route. No point sending the signal that would free the troops to try for the tag end. He muttered, “But we weren’t supposed to draw the whole damned fleet.”
He watched the Guardships till he received word that Tregesser’s Voyager was clear and running into the void, headed out the end space’s back door.
“Mr. Provik!” The tone jarred. It was one of total disbelief.
“What?”
“The lead Guardship has dropped its screen.”
“We broke through?”
“No sir. They shut it down. On purpose.”
“That’s insane.” He scanned the incoming data, looked for the error. It was not there. The Guardship was spewing more fire than it was taking. Its output was not falling off as it should. He checked the visual display.
Pieces flew off XII Fulminata in all directions.... He caught something, adjusted scale. “I’ll be damned.”
XII Fulminata was peeling itself like an onion, sloughing layers a hundred meters thick in chunks and sections as they were destroyed. The layers beneath were as heavily armed as those blown away.
It was depressing. They always had something more to show you.
More and more, his gun platforms were forced to waste time shielding themselves. That made it more difficult to fend off the pinpoint attacks of enemy fighters.
“Damn them. They’re as crazy as Simon’s suiciders. They just keep coming. How do you whip somebody who doesn’t care if he gets killed?”
Be interesting to find out why they valued their lives so lightly.