Extremis (51 page)

The looting had been disappointing. This had been a small base, whose unimportance was reflected in the fact that it had been unarmed. The landing parties had had fun—Atylycx had even permitted himself the indulgence of joining in himself—but had garnered little more than the minimum loot required to qualify this as a worthy raid. And now that the shuttles had returned, bearing the blood-sated but somewhat surly raiders, the bombardment had followed as a matter of course. After all, there was no reason
not
to do it.

His reverie was interrupted by the voice of Hurvaz. “Your pardon, Fleet Leader,” he said, making the submission gesture, “but a large incoming force has been detected.”

Atylycx restrained his instinct to snap his teeth and perhaps deal a buffet for the interruption. Hurvaz was the intelligence officer—a position whose importance was reluctantly appreciated among the Tangri—and his news was vital.

“Humans?” he demanded, already striding toward the navigational holotank.

“No, Fleet Leader. From their energy signatures and other indicia, that can be ruled out. So—with only slightly less confidence—can the possibility that they belong to any of the humans’ allies.”

“Would you then conclude that they belong to the newly arrived prey animals here in the Bellerophon Arm?”

“I would stake my life on it, Fleet Leader.”

“You just have.” Atylycx glared down at the holo simulation of Treadway and its immediate vicinity. Its scale had been expanded to include the newcomers, approaching the planet where his own main fleet lay in orbit, marked by burgundy icons. The yellow dots of the newly arrived fleet, supplemented by ever-more-detailed readouts on a board overhead, showed a formidable force, but not an overwhelming one. At any rate, Atylycx was not alarmed. This contingency had been foreseen and preparations made for the inevitable encounter.

“Prepare the translation program, Hurvaz.”

“At once, Fleet Leader.” Hurvaz turned to a figure that crouched in the background—a figure with the drab harness and ethnic features that denoted
zemlixi.
He snarled a command, and the functionary scuttled off, with the instinctive cringe of his kind.

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 de-cloak.”

“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 data-hub 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.