The Lost Stars: Shattered Spear (32 page)

He and nearby rocks bounced as something big hit and exploded where Rogero had transmitted from. He felt both relieved and annoyed. Did the aliens think he was amateurish enough to have stayed in that spot? It was nice to be underestimated, especially when it kept you from being killed, but also insulting.

The enigmas had shifted their focus and were concentrating their fire on the area where the Syndicate soldiers and citizens were located. They were probably still getting some data from infected systems over there. Maybe they also thought they should focus on the larger group, though most of the Syndicate presence was civilians who posed no threat to the enigmas.

Nearing the edge of the chaff field, Rogero saw his display begin updating rapidly as his armor systems reestablished links. His forces
were all moving, the majority north toward where the enigma hatch was located. Most of First Company, still under the drifting chaff, could not be seen, but intermittent detections of some showed them sliding sideways into the blocking positions that Rogero had ordered.

The Syndicate troops couldn’t do the same, he knew. The Syndicate didn’t want workers thinking for themselves, so Syndicate ground forces were required to carry out detailed plans. With many supervisors dead and countermeasures blocking net links, Syndicate-trained soldiers would be without any explicit instructions on what to do. If they moved, it would be a mob movement.

But, Rogero knew, when under fire and not knowing what to do, the average soldier would stay under cover. Which meant he shouldn’t have to worry much about the Syndicate ground forces for a while.

“That is one BFH,” an awed voice cut across the command circuit.

Annoyed again, this time by the undisciplined message on a critical circuit, Rogero was preparing to chastise the offender when someone else answered. “Yeah. Biggest hole I ever saw.”

His display was updating again as information flowed in from the battle armor of the soldiers who had reached the near edge of the enigma hatch. Rogero stared in disbelief at the small section of arc that filled the upper part of his helmet’s display. He pulled back the scale. He pulled it back again.

Twenty kilometers across. The enigma hole was twenty kilometers from side to side.

Rogero ran past soldiers who were lying or kneeling in covered positions, ran until he reached the edge of the hole and could peer across it and partway down.

It felt like looking into space from a hatch on a spacecraft.

“Send a probe down it,” Rogero ordered one of his scouts, his message now able to go out through the unit net and therefore not broadcasting his position to the watching enigmas.

The scout pulled back an arm and hurled a probe out into the hole.

The probe, designed to be nearly invisible to defensive sensors, had barely begun to drop when an enigma weapon speared it and turned it into falling junk.

“Drop the next one instead of throwing it,” Rogero said. Maybe the enigmas had spotted the motion . . .

A scout extended an arm holding a probe, only to have the probe shot out of her grasp and two other enigma shots slam into her lower arm.

As a medic dashed to the wounded scout, she wriggled back from the edge. “That didn’t work, sir,” she got out between teeth tightly clamped against the pain.

“This time I want every scout to launch a probe simultaneously,” Rogero ordered.

The probes arched out over the hole. Rogero’s systems registered dozens of shots coming out of the hole, and every probe went dead.

“Sir, we try to go over that edge, they’ll take us apart,” the scout commander reported. “It must be too easy for them to spot movement against the edge of the opening or above it.”

“Try sending down gnats,” Rogero said.

“It’ll take a while for gnats to drop far,” the scout commander cautioned.

“I know. But they’re one of our stealthiest scout methods. Let’s see what they can do.” The gnats were the size of insects, with limited capability and range, but they were very hard to spot.

What they could do, Rogero quickly learned, was go silent when barely inside the hole as something knocked out every gnat.

It didn’t take any particular sensitivity to the mood of the soldiers around him to know that none of them wanted to follow the probes or the gnats down that hole. They might follow him, Rogero thought, if he led the way. But since he would clearly die within a second or two of doing so, they were unlikely to follow him far.

They had a way down into the enigma base, but it was a death trap.

And they had yet to see a single enigma, or even any of the launchers raining death on them.

Another wave of enigma fire swept over, this time concentrated around the rim of the vast hole. Chaff filled the air as battle armor once again tried to protect the men and women wearing it.

Rogero looked upward through the haze of countermeasures, wondering whether the battles in space were going any better for humanity than the one down here.

LEYTENANT
Mack had only been with Midway’s mobile forces since he and his ship had been captured at Ulindi not all that long ago. It had been a pleasant surprise to learn that it was possible to fight for reasons other than avoiding court-martial and execution by your own side. He had genuinely enjoyed his time working with people like Colonel Rogero.

“All good things come to an end,” Mack observed as he looked at his display.

The troop transport HTTU 332, along with Midway’s other troop transport, was accelerating for all they were worth away from the planet where Rogero’s soldiers had been dropped. Mack had taken Rogero’s advice and directed both transports to chase down the vector of Midway’s warships, reasoning that even though they had no chance of catching up with the friendly forces, it was at least movement in the only direction that offered any hope of survival. A few light minutes ahead of them were the Syndicate troop transports which had fled earlier, and much closer were the Syndicate freighters, which were
lumbering desperately after the transports they had once accompanied but falling farther behind with every meter covered.

The maneuvers might have worked to keep the transports and the freighters safe. Might have, except for the thirty-three enigma warships that had spat out of a massive hole that had appeared on the surface of the planet. Those warships, once clearing atmosphere, had lined up on direct intercepts with Mack’s transports, and beyond them the Syndicate freighters and transports. And, being considerably more nimble than the big transports, the enigmas were making up the distance fast.

“Should the crew abandon ship?” his senior specialist asked.

Mack sighed and spread his open hands in the age-old gesture of frustration. “You saw when they destroyed the Syndicate flotilla what they do to escape pods. We might as well die in what comfort this old ship offers.” HTTU 332 had only been manufactured a year earlier, but since the life span of troop transports during the war was usually measured in months, that made 332 an old lady by the standards everyone used.

The senior specialist rubbed two fingers of one hand on her new insignia that marked her as a Midway forces specialist rather than a Syndicate worker. “I didn’t really look forward to deciding who got to go in the escape pods,” she admitted.

“The Syndicate told us to just line the people up and have them count off from a random start point,” Mack reminded her. “Evens go, odds stay.” The Syndicate, having calculated that on average a transport ship lost half the crew before being abandoned, only provided enough escape pods for the half of the crew that was assumed to still be alive. “I was an even, once.”

“Me, too. I still remember the ones who were left behind. Didn’t want to see that again.” She checked her own display. “We’ve got less than an hour before they catch us. Those freighters up ahead have less than that. We’re going to be passing them soon.”

An alert sounded, causing the specialist to shift her attention. “The
pirate’s forces have changed their vector. Instead of going after our flotilla, they’re now on a direct intercept with us as well.”

Mack shook his head at his display, watching the arcs of the paths of ships through space converging on his own ship’s projected movement. After so many near misses and so many escapes, this situation offered no hope at all. He wondered why he felt numb instead of frightened. “They’ll get here about the same time the enigmas do. We should start a pool on which side kills us.”

“What’s the payoff?” the specialist asked.

“Bonus time off, at a future date to be determined,” Mack said.

That got a tense smile from the specialist. The Syndicate liked to offer awards exactly like that, awards that often never actually got awarded. “I’ll let the crew know.”

He glanced her way, feeling the need to say something. “I’ve always treated the crew as decently as I could.”

“Yes, sir, you have, and the crew appreciates that.” She managed another rigid smile. “You never would have died at the hands of your own workers.”

“That’s something, I guess.” No one knew how many Syndicate supervisors had been killed by their own workers, but the fact that the Syndicate officially denied it ever happened was a clear indicator of how often it did take place. A minor, fixable problem would have resulted in huge crackdowns that caused at least as much trouble as the problem they were designed to fix. But a big problem that couldn’t be fixed by a crackdown had to be wished away, declared not to exist, even if the hatches to supervisors’ staterooms were armored and alarmed and the supervisors always carried hand weapons.

Mack made a show of relaxing back into his seat, trying to fool himself as well as any members of the crew who could see him as he gazed at the display where two strong forces were racing to see which would be first to get close enough to destroy his ship. He hoped whoever managed it would then be destroyed by the other side.

*   *   *

“FIFTY-ONE
of them,” Marphissa said, her voice bleak “With the thirty-three that popped out of that planet we now face more enigma warships than we did before that Syndicate flotilla sacrificed itself.”

“We have the battleship,” Kontos said.

“Damn Imallye. Instead of helping us, she’s helping the enigmas. Does she actually think they’ll be grateful and avoid destroying her afterward?”

“She must know better,” Kontos said. He gave Marphissa a questioning glance. “We think Imallye’s behavior is crazy. Would the enigmas? Given what they have seen of humans?”

“They probably consider it to be typical human behavior,” Marphissa said. She frowned at him. “Are you thinking that maybe Imallye is playing a deeper game than it looks? President Iceni suggested the same to me. No one knows, though, and the Imallye I talked with at Moorea seemed to be absolutely serious. I have no doubt that she would have destroyed
Manticore
if she had caught us.”

“Several more hours and we’ll find out for sure,” Kontos observed. “If she wipes out our transports on the way to catch us, that will make it clear that she means every word she said. Or she might bypass them and keep us guessing.”

“If she messes with us any more I swear that I will make it hurt when I kill her,” Marphissa grumbled, then refocused on the enigmas up ahead. The enigmas were coming to meet her flotilla straight on, probably intending to wipe out this force just as they had the Syndicate flotilla. It was possible that they would dodge at the last moment, though, intending to lure the two remaining human flotillas into combat with each other so they could finish off whoever survived that fight. Marphissa had no intention of permitting that. She would force a clash with the enigmas long before Imallye could come into contact, dealing with one implacable enemy at a time.

*   *   *

BRADAMONT’S
plans to deal with the small Syndicate force at Midway that was bigger than her own received a rude interruption when another alert sounded.

“We have just detected the arrival of another Syndicate formation, this one at the hypernet gate,”
Manticore
’s senior watch specialist reported. “One heavy cruiser, two light cruisers, and five Hunter-Killers.”

“They’ve now got us outnumbered two to one,” Diaz said. He didn’t sound despairing about that. Instead, he seemed irritated at the enemy’s moves.

“I’ll have to change Kapitan Stein’s orders,” Bradamont said. She had to think before touching the proper comm controls. The Alliance always positioned that particular control
here
and the Syndicate always put it
there
. That was aggravating enough with physical controls, but especially maddening with virtual controls that the Syndicate Worlds had programmed in such a way that they couldn’t be customized.

“Kapitan Stein,” Bradamont sent, “cancel your previous orders to join up with us. You are to instead close on and shadow the Syndicate flotilla that arrived at the hypernet gate. If you have the opportunity to hit part of that flotilla without risking your entire force, do so, but avoid a straight-up engagement that might wipe out both that flotilla and your own formation. As long as you are close enough to hit them, that Syndicate force will have to spend its time worrying about what you’ll do rather than pursuing its own mission.”

She paused before ending the call, then decided what to say. “To the honor of our ancestors and for the people of Midway, Bradamont, out.”

That new ending phrase, combining that of the Alliance and of these men and women from Midway, got her approving looks from the crew members on the bridge and a surprised smile from Kapitan Diaz. “You’re becoming one of us, Captain!” he said. Then the smile faded, and Diaz nodded toward his display. “What will we do?”

“Keep them busy, Kapitan,” Bradamont said. “Repeated firing passes. They’ll keep trying to arrange those passes to hit us hard with all of their advantage in numbers, and we’ll keep dodging their attacks and trying to hit portions of their formation with everything that we’ve got. We need to wear them down and keep them busy.”

“I understand and—” Diaz broke off the old Syndic reply to an order and gave her a glance. “Yes, Captain.”

She nodded firmly back at him. Bradamont knew Diaz well enough by this time to know that he realized how hard their task would be. Kapitan Stein could afford to make a few mistakes because the Syndicate flotilla from the hypernet gate roughly equaled her own force. But the Syndicate flotilla that she and Diaz were dealing with had enough superiority in numbers that a single mistake might result in a disastrous encounter.

And there would be far too many opportunities for such a mistake over the next few days as Midway’s forces tried to wear down the Syndicate attackers.

*   *   *

COLONEL
Rogero watched from a distance as carefully placed explosive charges toppled large rocks into the massive hole that was the exit hatch for enigma warships from their buried base. The rocks, all located near the edge of the hole, tipped over and were gone, plummeting into the dark soup below and vanishing from Rogero’s sensors.

He and numerous scouts had extended whip-antenna-like surveillance probes from the shoulders of their uniforms so they could watch the rocks fall. The probes, limited in their capabilities by small dimensions meant to prevent them from being spotted, should have been able to get a decent look down the hole. But something not far inside that hole was blocking every bandwidth the probes could normally see.

“No reaction,” reported the commander of the combat engineer detachment that had toppled the rocks.

“I noticed,” Rogero replied. The enigmas had shown an extremely impressive ability to spot and almost instantly destroy anything from Rogero’s force that could either attack down the hole or provide any information about what might be beyond that murky shroud of concealment. Using the rocks had been an attempt to see if a volley of useless decoys could divert the attention and the fire of the enigmas enough to get something else down the hole, but the aliens had simply ignored the rocks.

He hoped the rocks would at least break something when they hit the bottom, however far down that was.

His soldiers had been pinned down for several hours now, their numbers being slowly whittled down by the unremitting barrages of the enigmas, which alternated unpredictably between periods of minor harassing fire and shorter but far more intense torrents of incoming weapons. The medics, moving despite the risks, were keeping as many alive and capable as possible, but they couldn’t do miracles.

Rogero ran down the status of his soldiers, studying the data that scrolled past on his helmet display. Everyone was running low on active countermeasures, and other critical elements like power and water were being steadily depleted. The enigmas weren’t showing any signs of suffering from limited supplies, though, especially when it came to expendable munitions. Either they had immense stockpiles in place underground, or they had already set up the means to manufacture replacement weapons at a rate that could sustain these continuing barrages.

“Colonel?” the commander of the engineer unit called. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Are you angling for a promotion or a court-martial?” Rogero asked. This was the sort of situation that called for dark humor.

“Not me, sir,” she denied. “Neither one. The aliens must have a way to close this hatch, but they haven’t done it.”

“Which means?”

“Which means they want to leave it open, and its being open is why we’re here around it, sir.”

He got it. “It’s bait. They left open a huge door, ringed with defenses. And like moths drawn to a flame we’ve been sitting here.”

“Yes, sir. You know I’m no coward, sir, but I think they want us to charge down that hole. I don’t think we should.”

“I was coming to the same conclusion.” Rogero studied his display again. Scouts moving cautiously about the area had failed to spot any other openings into the base. There must be other hatches, there must be vents of some kind, but none had been found. Whatever the enigmas had placed beneath the soil was blocking the scout sensors as effectively as it had the sensors on the troop transport. He couldn’t order the engineers to just dig down at random spots. That would generate enough activity that the enigmas would quickly detect it and destroy the diggers.

His soldiers had finally been able to find and destroy a few of the launchers being used to rain death down on them, but only a few. The enigmas had proven as good at hiding launchers as everything else.

They’re better than us at this,
Rogero realized.
Or so different that we don’t know how to handle it. I can’t even get into their base to attack it.

He glanced upward again. The battle armor sensors had spotted the destruction of some large ships close enough to the planet that they must have been among those that had landed people here. Were all of the transports already gone? Would there be any pickup if Rogero called for evacuation now?

Space battles took time. He knew that. If the Kommodor beat their many enemies in space, she would come get Rogero and his troops afterward. And staying here in the meanwhile was simply wasting the lives of his soldiers.