Extremis-ARC, page 40
Essentially nothing was known about the new breed of prey animals, beyond the extraordinary fact of their appearance after crossing interstellar distances through normal space. But certain things could be inferred. One was that, having spent some time ruling over conquered human populations, they had acquired some familiarity with the common human Tongue—Standard English as they called it. So when Atylycx spoke to them, his words would be transmitted in that beast-language.
Something else could be inferred from their conquest of Bellerophon. That they were prey went without saying; they were not Tangri, so it was a matter of simple definition. But it seemed at least possible, on the basis of performance, that they were somehow less preylike than the humans, and that they had instincts that might make them easier to deceive with a pretense of alliance. At least it was worth a try.
And if it didn’t work…Atylycx shifted his gaze from his main fleet to a second cluster of burgundy icons, on the opposite side of the planet. Cruisers, and ships comparable to what the humans called fleet carriers.
The Tangri had developed strikefighters just in time for the Shiratsuuk Horde’s blundering incursion into the human system of Lyonesse almost two centuries earlier. Atylycx sometimes wondered why his race still used them. After all, modern naval developments—improved defensive screens, reduced relative speed and maneuverability advantages over larger warships, more deadly anti-fighter shipboard weaponry, and all the rest—had robbed the fighter of the terror-weapon status it had once enjoyed. And the Tangri physiology had never been well suited to it.
But maybe that last was part of the reason. All Tangri fighter pilots used the drug sacaharrax to make what they did tolerable. It was quite effective. It was also quite addictive. And its side effects included a shortening of life. All of which created a cult of the fighter pilot as doomed hero, cheerfully accepting a short but glorious life like a brief but intense flame. The consequent mystique was sunk too deep in Tangri myth to be easily uprooted.
And in this case, it might prove very useful. A simple mental calculation showed that, by the time he was done with his prepared speech, those carriers would be sweeping around the limb of the planet on their current orbit, coming in astern of what seemed to be the rather unwary formation of yellow icons, in perfect position for the classic fighter tactic of attacking in the blind zone of spatial distortion created by ships’ drives. Then, if the speech proved unavailing, a sudden launch…
“Raise the leader of these prey,” he commanded.
Yes, he thought as the image appeared on the com screen. Bipedal, like most prey animals that had somehow stumbled onto to use of tools. And even uglier than the humans, in their repulsive hairlessness. (Atylycx stroked his own auburn pelt with unconscious complacency.) And the large central eye between the two smaller ones was truly repellant. Nevertheless…he launched into a well-rehearsed speech.
Arduan SDH Shem’pter’ai, Main Van, Expeditionary Fleet of the Anaht’doh Kainat, Treadway System
Narrok listened to the intricate and repetitive jabber that was pouring out of the alien’s wide mouth. And these creatures were, indeed, startlingly alien compared to the humans—alien in their quadrupedal and distinctly predatory physiology, as well as their actions. “They are communicating in the human tongue?”
“In English. Yes, Admiral. I think they presume we must know it, too.”
Although the language still sounded like hyperactive gibberish to Narrok, he could assess the expressive posture of the alien. The creature speaking had been caught off guard by the Arduans’ arrival, perhaps—but it was still collected, measured. There was no evidence of utter shock or alarm. “They didn’t expect to meet us in this system, or in this way, but I think these creatures have heard of our existence.”
“That would be my conjecture, Admiral.”
“Which may also explain their presence here, as well—and the methods they are utilizing to ‘subdue’ this planet.”
(Perplexity.) “Admiral?”
“I refer to their use of nuclear warheads against the surface.”
“Yes, sir—but still, I do not understand how this leads you to deduce that they are only here at Treadway, and using these weapons, because they know of our existence.”
“Reason it through, Fleet Second. If these creatures have heard of us, it means they have also learned that the humans are now struggling against a massive, unexpected invasion that has cut off this arm of what they call the Rim. Like the pack predators this race obviously descended from, they have discerned that Treadway—and systems like it—are now the weakened members of the humans’ interstellar herd. According to their nature, these predators, smelling an easy kill, have attacked in force.” He looked at the screen and the strange, long-headed creature still babbling and gesticulating there. “And so, with the humans removed or subjugated, this would be the face of our new neighbors.”
Narrok felt the effect of that observation ripple through the selnarm on his bridge: all of a sudden, the humans looked neither so alien nor repulsive, by comparison. “Have you a translation yet, Intelligence Prime?”
“Pending, Admiral. But Tactics and I have noted an interesting—development—in the alien fleet.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
Tactics came forward, and compelled the holoplot to shrink inward; slightly more of the space surrounding Treadway came into view. Out near the far shoulder of the planet, in a tight retrograde orbit, a large number of medium-sized craft—cruisers and carriers, from the look of them—were tucking around the far side of the mottled globe.
“If they keep that heading, Admiral—”
“They will come upon us from the rear, just by remaining in that orbit. Yes, I see it, Prime. Tactics, are our twenty rearguard SDHs still trailing the van at twenty light-seconds?”
“As per your orders, Admiral.”
“Excellent. They are to hold position and maintain cloaks.”
Intelligence shifted; his selnarm was cautious. “Admiral, I do not mean to presume, but wouldn’t these creatures expect us to have a cloaked rearguard? It is, after all, our standard fleet doctrine.”
“Yes, but they do not know our doctrine. And unless their reports of us include a complete description of how our selnarm functions, and how we use it in battle, it is not a tactic that would naturally occur to them. The limitation of fully cloaked ships for other races is, after all, that they can neither receive nor send signals through the cloak they project. But this has no effect upon our selnarm, and so we can summon our cloaked ships to engage at the precise moment when it would be most advantageous for them to decloak.”
“But this plan presumes, Admiral, that these creatures have sensors that are unable—or at least unlikely—to see through our cloaking technology.”
“True, and a well-considered point, but I note with interest how close we approached before these creatures detected our presence. I conjecture that their sensors are somewhat less sophisticated than ours—or the humans’. From what little data we have, I would speculate that their ship-design philosophy emphasizes speed and simple, overmastering firepower, but at the cost of more sophisticated ancillary systems. Does that match your current assessment, Sensor Prime?”
“Yes, sir. From what we have seen of their sensor probes, their odds of detecting our cloaked ships would be small. Perhaps very small.”
Tactics sent (accord, admiration). “Any orders to the cloaked rearguard, sir?”
“Yes. Apprise them regarding the fast force of unidentified ships that are apparently working their way behind us, using the planet as a screening mass. Send the relevant telemetry and all the data we have on each craft, but inform the commander of the rearguard that we in the van will give no sign of our awareness when these ships approach us. However, the rearguard must be ready to act in concert with us at a moment’s notice.”
“Very good, sir. But what kind of coordinated action are you anticipa—?”
Communications’ selnarm cut through Tactics’s. “We have a translation, sir—crude, and only a summary.”
“Share it, Prime.”
“They announce themselves as the race the humans call the Tangri, Admiral. In short, they bid us welcome. They observe we have a common foe: the humans. Pardon, I correct: the ‘weak and irresolute’ humans. The Tangri commander indicates that he has already eliminated the Rim Federation naval complex on the planet.”
“Which our intelligence indicated was unarmed, did it not?”
“It did so indicate, sir. He therefore invites us to discuss our common interests. He is proposing an alliance, from the sound of it. And he suggests we could certify and celebrate that alliance by continuing to subjugate Treadway together.”
“He proposes a joint administration of the planet?”
“No, Admiral. He is requesting that we join him in the continued bombardment of the surface. He has gone so far as to provide targeting coordinates for the humans’ most populous—and undefended—cities, sir.”
Narrok felt his blood pumping hard and fast behind all three eyes. So, the spade-toothed Tangri commander is offering me the unsurpassed delights of joining him in the decimation of a planet of civilians—of mothers and young, of the old and the weak. And if I am too—unenthusiastic—in my response, he has sent a poisoned dagger around the planet to strike me in my uncooperative back. Oh yes, one could hardly ask for more charming allies—
The communications prime pulsed (reminder, pardon) as he prompted: “The Tangri commander is awaiting your response, Admiral.”
“Is he?” Narrok looked up at the expectant alien face staring at him from the communications screen. “Then here is my reply. Operations, fleet signal: all units, flank speed and transfer fire coordination to datahub vessels. Data hubs, once you have acquired target lock on the Tangri flagship, the order is: all weapons, open fire.”
Tangri SD Styr’car’hsux, Raiding Fleet of the Dagora Horde, Treadway Orbit
Atylycx staggered back to the feet from which he had been thrown by the latest and worst of the rapid series of concussions. The teeth-hurting squeal of the damage-control signal made it hard to think. So did the reddish mist of fury through which he scanned the readouts. The outside viewscreen had shut down automatically at the intolerable glare of antimatter annihilation from the missile-storm that lashed his fleet.
“Are the carriers in position yet?” he demanded.
His flag captain, as humans would have called him, looked even more shaken than Atylycx felt. “Almost, Fleet Leader.”
“I don’t want to hear that ‘almost’ shit! Order them to launch right now!”
“At once, Fleet Leader!” The flag captain turned to obey, looking into the holo display…and his voice trailed to a halt before he had finished speaking the order.
“What’s the matter with you?” Atylycx bellowed, swinging around. Then he followed the flag captain’s gaze.
Astern of the burgundy icons of his carriers and their cruiser escorts, a cluster of twenty yellow lights had sprung into being. The readouts showed the indicia of heavy superdreadnoughts.
Tangri CVL Anyx’hrruzn, Raiding Fleet of the Dagora Horde, Treadway Orbit
Squadron leader Rytaz settled his body onto the framework that allowed a Tangri—however awkwardly—to pilot a fighter. It should have been uncomfortable, but Rytaz didn’t care. Not with the sacaharrax singing in his veins. He luxuriated in it, as immune to discomfort as he was to the thought of defeat. He strapped himself in, waiting to launch first, as it befitted a squadron leader to do.
A voice punctured his euphoria—a panicky voice, aborting the countdown and ordering an immediate launch. He still didn’t care—the sooner the better! An opening dilated in front of his fighter and he stared down the long tube of the launch catapult at the few stars visible in the black circle that was its far end. Then the electromagnets kicked in, and he was pressed back against his padding, the walls of the tunnel seeming to rush backward. Yes, this was better than possessing a female…even an unwilling female.
But then, for the second time, something was wrong. The launch tunnel shuddered slightly, and behind him was the glow of an explosion.
Still the catapult continued to fling his fighter forward—just ahead of the flames that burgeoned astern, seeming to pursue him.
The fighter cleared the tunnel and was abruptly in space. Ordinarily, at that moment, Rytaz would spend an instant of sacaharrax-enhanced exaltation among the stars. But for a split second, his gaze went to the view aft…only to see the carrier breaking up in a holocaust of secondary explosions. And before that split second was over, a jet of superheated flame shot out of the launch tunnel’s mouth, consuming Rytaz and his fighter like a moth caught in the flare of a blowtorch.
Rytaz would never know it, but his was the only Tangri fighter to get clear of its carrier that day.
Tangri SD Styr’car’hsux, Raiding Fleet of the Dagora Horde, Treadway Orbit
Atylycx tasted blood as his teeth gashed the inside of his mouth in his impotent rage.
He had watched as the last of the burgundy icons of his carriers and cruisers flickered out, caught between the totally unexpected cloaked rearguard of SDHs and the units—roughly a third of the enemy’s main force—that had turned back to form an anvil for the rearguard’s hammer. As he had watched, the other two-thirds of that main force had inflicted significant losses on his fleet. And now, both hammer and anvil were turning about and coalescing into a single weapon that could have but one purpose.
At least, he reflected, forcing his paralyzing rage to ebb, he must have the advantage of speed. Those SDHs putting out such devastating missile salvos were larger than anything he had, and Tangri ships were built for fleetness.
He needed it now.
He spoke over his shoulder to the flag captain without looking at him. “Set a course for the Tisiphone warp point. Get us out of here.”
Arduan SDH Shem’pter’ai, Main Van, Expeditionary Fleet of the Anaht’doh Kainat, Tisiphone Orbit
Five days after chasing the last of the Tangri out of Tisiphone’s orbit—and system—Narrok stared down through a half meter of glassteel at the blue-white world and reflected that the humans had misnamed it. The planet should simply have been called “Typhoon.” The observation deck of Narrok’s orbiting flagship Shem’pter’ai afforded him an excellent vantage point from which to watch no less than five hurricanes bluster around and against one another like five enraged and overstimulated yihrts in rutting season. And, as with yihrts, the gargantuan tempests of Tisiphone were only interesting when observed from a great distance: he had lost three shuttles to a brace of thrashing monsoons, 200 kph winds, intermittent waterspouts, two immense tornadoes, and ferocious near-ground windshear.
But, he reflected, those three losses had been arguably the most productive of the campaign thus far. Because those shuttles had all been lost on a mission of mercy. Scattered among the most remote archipelago of this ninety-two-percent-water world, a number of small human communities had been compelled to seek higher ground at the approach of this multi-celled storm front. Their homes and goods washed away by a sequence of cyclones that were severe even by Tisiphone’s standards, the locals had called the main continent for help. However, Tisiphone’s civilian air assets had already been crippled by Tangri strikes, since the Tisiphonian Air Militia had operated its fighters out of the co-located—and pulverized—spaceport. The haggard remains of Tisiphone’s air services were both scattered and grounded by their own meteorological challenges.
At which point Narrok had offered to intercede on behalf of the endangered humans: he would provide air transport for the necessary humanitarian aid. He had sent ten shuttles planetside to carry survival shelters and comestibles to the stricken pelagic communities. The human freight handlers and relief coordinators, waiting at the edge of the airfield’s main tarmac, had gazed, silent and suspicious, at the “inscrutable” Arduans who landed at their savaged spaceport, loaded the rescue shipments into their bays, and flew off into the growing thunderheads.
Three of the shuttles ended their journey as debris at the bottom of Tisiphone’s endlessly roiling seas. But the other seven got through and delivered enough needed supplies to allow the stricken communities to weather what was left of the storm that had isolated them from the rest of the world.
And in the days that followed, there were two sea changes. One involved the weather: the storms became squalls, which died down to calm and bright skies. Almost as though they were announcing, and an omen of, the second sea change: that which involved the human attitudes toward the Arduans who had come to Tisiphone. Although invaders, they had also shown compassion, and Narrok had been determined to shape his actions to meet the crudely phrased assurances he had given the humans during their surrender proceedings. However, the change in human attitude had not ultimately been effected by the seven shuttles that had pushed through the storms to bring succor to the human survivors. Rather, it was the three shuttles that the Arduans had lost in the attempt which had clearly purchased the changed opinion of their unwilling hosts.
Narrok stared down into the southern hemisphere of Tisiphone, the spawning ground and creche for the planet’s worst storms: a new one—a tight, angry white spiral—was being born as he watched. Against this turbulent backdrop, the strange social calm of this one planetary occupation, secured by the death of six Arduan pilots striving to help humans, only further underscored and proved Ankaht’s mounting evidence (which Narrok received through Mretlak’s surreptitious updates) that humans feared death so intensely because, for them, it was final. When they discarnated, they did indeed tumble, dwindle, into the oblivion that was xenzhet-narmat’ai. So when three Arduan shuttle crews tumbled down to their own temporary deaths in an attempt to save a few thousand horrifically finite human lives, many of the inhabitants of Tisiphone became less overtly hateful and began to consider the few Arduans who passed among them with stares that were more curious than hostile.
