The Ninth: Invasion (54 page)

A foul odor wafted past them as the transport came to a stop.  The troopers quickly got off the transport and took their positions, reinforcing the line.  They didn’t even seem to notice the smell.  Vincent was unable to get used to the horrible smell of decay.  Ever since the dreaded Citadel had imbedded itself in the world they had been under constant attack.  Day and night the tripods rushed them without pause.  There was no time for proper burials.

The bladed tripods were always just a few pace away.  If a single section hesitated for a moment, the entire line would fall.  There had only been one small respite fifteen days ago, when a CI super freighter pelted the Citadel.  It had slowed the advance of the tripods, but even it couldn’t stop them completely.  The rest hadn’t been long as only a few hours later another Citadel chased off their temporary guardian.

“Glad you could join us, Navy boy,” Gazsi shouted as he fired his rifle rapidly at something on the horizon.

“Would you stop calling us that?” Doyle said irritably as he took a position in the line.

“Just because you got lucky and took down one of these things doesn’t make you one of us,” Gazsi said, focusing on the approaching enemy.  “You’ve still got some growing up to do, Navy boy.”

“What’s the situation?” Vincent asked.

“They’ve kept up the pressure, but it isn’t as rough as it should be.  They are holding back some of their numbers for another surge.  It’s going to be a bad one.”

Vincent took his word as fact and took his position on the line.  The sight stunned him momentarily.  As far as the eye could see where dead black metallic hulks.  Uncountable hordes of dead tripods lined the horizon, giving the ground a black craggy appearance.  Thousands of the black forms raced toward them, their blades sending massive sparks flying as they sliced through the corpses of their fallen.

For hours they held the line, taking down the advancing tripods.  The sun set as the destruction continued unabated.  Vincent hoped that Gazsi was wrong for once, but knew better than to give into false hope.  Memories of the day receded as they fought deep into the night.  Gradually the number of advancing tripods started to thin out.  The line fell silent as the last tripod fell.  Vincent scanned the horizon through the night-vision scope on his rifle.  For some reason the stillness troubled him more than the continuous assault had.

“Where are they?” Doyle asked.

“Shut it, Navy boy,” Gazsi shouted angrily.  “Eyes on the horizon.  They’ll be coming soon.”

A symphony of gasps filled the line.  Vincent had only turned to look at Doyle for a moment, but when he returned his focus on the horizon, his heart skipped a beat.  In the pitch back of night, an endless line of green orbs of light lined the horizon.  Their numbers were unfathomable.  For a moment the two lines remained perfectly still as both sides studied the other.  In one fluid motion all the tripods rushed the line, releasing a terrifying wail of static as they charged.

The dark of night was instantly replaced with the strobing lights of the rifle fire as the line unleashed its full might against the advancing wave.  Vincent carefully took aim before making every shot.  The tripods were hearty things and firing wildly was a waste of time.  It took several repeated hits to the same spot to pierce their armor.  Slowly the front edge of the advancing wave started to fall.  The line pushed back the front edge of the surge but it was obviously not enough.

The black tripods ripped savagely at the ground as they raced toward their prey.  Chunks of soil and hunks of lifeless black metal flew through the air as they eviscerated everything in their path.  The troopers held firm, but those without training started to waver.  They knew they wouldn’t hold against this surge.

“Hold the line,” Gazsi bellowed as he stood.  “Send these monsters back to the pit they crawled out from.”

The other troopers stood and their rate of firing increased.  A few brilliant explosions of light and fire erupted in the advancing tripods.  The troopers had switched to rockets and heavy ordinance.  The others cheered victoriously but Vincent knew it wasn’t a good sign.  The troopers were tossing everything they had at the advance now.  They knew the line wouldn’t hold too.

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Vincent realized they had fought all through the night.  The tiny shred of hope he still clung to was instantly ripped from him as the weak light of dawn illuminated the horde.  In the darkness, the number of tripods had been impossible to gauge, but now the staggering numbers were plain for all to see.  Their numbers were so thick they covered the land in an undulating sea of black metal.  Artillery fire and rockets created small gaps that were almost instantly refilled.  The civilians panicked.  The troopers tried to keep the pressure on, but the line wavered and the tripods surged.

“
For the Commonwealth
!” Gazsi bellowed as he dropped his rifle and charged the surge.

Vincent could only stare as the man raced toward the ancient foe.  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a long dagger.  With the augmented strength of his combat armor, he leapt high into the air and landed on an isolated tripod ahead of the pack.  With all his might he plunged his dagger into the tripod’s central mass.  The tip of the dagger snapped off, but the body of the blade broke through the weakened armor.  The tripod thrashed for a moment before it went limp.

The other troopers roared their battle cry as they too rushed the approaching line.  Vincent tried to call out to Gazsi but his voice was drowned out by the battle cry.  Gazsi noticed the closing tripod too late and failed to avoid its attack.  Without any effort the tripod sunk its massive blade through his combat armor and into his right leg.  Gazsi wailed in pain as he thrust with the remains of his dagger.  The remains of the blade completely shattered against the tripod’s thick armor.  The tripod raised its other blade and swung down on the pinned trooper.

Just as the blade touched his face, the thing froze.  Everyone stared in astonishment as all the tripods froze.  The one that had impaled Gazsi freed itself from him and seemed to stand at attention.  All of the other tripods followed suit.  Gazsi’s wailing was the only sound on the battlefield.  In one perfectly uniform motion they all turned.

“Get him to a medic,” Vincent yelled.  “Reform the line!”

As the others jumped to his orders, he could only stare at the waiting tripods.  They weren’t facing the city, nor directly away from it in retreat.  They all were facing somewhere off to the right.  He followed their uniform stare off toward the distance.  He realized that each and every one of them was staring toward the Citadel in the distance.  He couldn’t suppress a gasp as he realized the massive black spire was glowing brilliantly with unnatural light.  The others slowly joined Vincent in staring at the radiant light in the distance.  On the planet Trica all eyes, human and Shard, turned toward the Citadel.

Just as suddenly as Third had impaled him, he withdrew his arm.  He gasped for air as he backed away from the massive thing.  His hands instantly started checking his chest.  Despite the sensation of having the wind knocked out of him, Brent could feel no hole or gap in his chest.

“What was that about?” he asked, not bothering to ask through the tripod.

Third didn’t seem to cringe at his voice like he had done before.  The massive form seemed to stumble away.  Brent was overwhelmed by the surprise Third was feeling.  While Third returned to his “throne” Brent struggled to recover from whatever it was Third had just done.  To his surprise when the numbness faded there was no pain.  Before he could ask again, eight images started to form.

The floating portraits were filled with creatures so odd that Brent wasn’t sure an intoxicated dreamscape could ever reproduce them.  The first had a roughly human appearance but was comprised of large square metal plates.  It looked like someone had tried to recreate the human form with cubes.  The second was a sleek malnourished man with an odd silver tint to his skin and not a single hair on his smooth, reflective head.  Brent recognized the next three as Third, Fourth and Rita.

The sixth face, if you could call it that, was a large metal machine with no apparent connection to the human form.  It was a combination of smooth and angular surfaces arranged in no obvious logic Brent could figure out.  The seventh screen was simply a glowing sphere of gently pulsing light.  He couldn’t see any physical connections to the apparently floating orb.  It vaguely resembled Third’s central sphere but seemed more blurry and less defined.  To Brent’s surprise, the eighth screen was of a little girl, maybe nine or ten years old.  She seemed completely out of place with the other oddities.  As he studied her carefully, he could find absolutely nothing out of the ordinary with her.  The only strange thing about her was the company she kept.

“What do
you
want?” the second figure asked.

“I have discovered a vital fragment of information you must all be made aware of,” Third said.

“What could be so important that it requires direct communication?” the girl asked with a surprising amount of authority in her young voice.

“Nothing could be
that
important if you ask me,” the glowing sphere muttered.

“Be quiet, Seventh,” the machinelike sixth image reprimanded the glowing sphere.  “We already know your disdain, no need to remind us every few moments.”

“Does this have something to do with what we talked about earlier?” the ancient man asked.

“What data do you have to present?” the first image asked in a crude sounding voice.

“I have made an alarming discovery,” Third said.

Another image started to form, increasing the number to nine.  Brent jumped back when he saw his own face on the final screen.

“What is the meaning of this?” Second demanded.

“You soil my presence with an
organic
?” Seventh said in utter disgust.

“You . . .” Eighth said in her young voice.

“You know this . . .
thing,
Eighth?” Second pressed.

“He was the presence I felt when I was sent to rescue Fifth.  I disabled his ship, but I did not find him on it.  I had presumed he had expired.”

“So he is one of those vile Weaver things the organics hold in such reverence,” Fourth rasped, clearly angry.  “
Why
is he here?”

“Are none of you at all interested in
how
he is here?” Third asked.

All the figures went silent as they thought it over.

“You dare try to create another Forged behind our backs?” Second shouted at last.

“I did not create him,” Third said plainly.

“If that is so, then who is he?” Sixth asked.  “Where did he come from?”

“He is the Ninth.”

Third’s statement sent the others into various states of shock and confusion.  Brent could feel them studying him intently.

“What are you talking about?” Brent asked aloud.

To his surprise, his image in the floating screen did not mirror his actions but remained unnaturally still.

“When the organics destroyed our homeworld we were nearing the completion of the last Forged.”  Third spoke to Brent directly; his floating portrait didn’t move at all.

“Who or what are the Forged?” he asked.

“The Shard knew the probability of their eventual defeat was increasing exponentially.  It was reasoned the source of this probability was the nature of our command structure.  While a central hive mind allowed us many advantages, it did not foster risk-taking or novelty.  Those traits have a special connection to individualist minds.”

“So you created individuals.  Minds that were willing to take risks and try new strategies the central mind would deem pointless.”

“Correct.  However, with each new mind there were . . . complications.  None of us were able to deliver the result desired by Central Consciousness.  While the Shard learned much with each experiment, the eight of us are, in fact, flawed.”

“I’m guessing the Ninth was to be the final and prefect creation of the Forged.”

“How did you know?”

“That’s the only thing I can think of that would upset you and the others so badly.”  Brent scratched his head.  Could it be possible he was some how related to the floating portraits.  He slowly became aware Third was focusing on him intently.  “Now, for the sake of argument, let’s say I am this ‘Ninth.’  What
exactly
does that mean?” he ventured slowly.

“It means you are one of us, perhaps the most important one of us.  You alone can surpass consensus.”

“And consensus is?”

“We are independent minds, but we are still Shard.  We rule ourselves based on the opinions of all of the Forged.  We call that decision-making ‘consensus.’  Once consensus has been reached none of us can violate it.”

Brent thought about it all.  He knew he was different from the others, but to be a Shard?  It seemed impossible.  After all his time in Medical he would have expected someone to notice
something
.  Then again, Rita, or Fifth, managed to mislead all of the Independent Traders Union into thinking she was just another woman.  It would explain how he saved Cassandra during the trial.  If those cones and their healing ability could rebuild Brent’s entire arm, repairing her wound would certainly be possible.  A growing silence disturbed his pondering.  All the floating portraits were silent.