Starfist: Kingdom's Fury Page 4

  Zechariah looked at his son. He will grow into a handsome man, he thought. “You are my only son. If Comfort and I do not return, it will be on you to continue the Brattle name, Sam.” He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Until we are all out of this trouble, I am counting on you.”

  Back with the others again, Zechariah suggested that since it was hours before sundown, they should get some rest to prepare for the long night’s trek. He took his place on a pallet beside his daughter. As he was about to fall asleep, Comfort nudged him. “Father?”

  “Yes, daughter, what is it?”

  “Father, this idea to go back to the camp now, did it come to you as a Particular Faith?”

  Zechariah sighed resignedly. He recognized that tone in her voice. Sometimes Comfort’s orthodoxy was questionable. “Daughter, don’t bug me now, okay?”

  The campsite was a vast shambles. Flesh-eating scavengers had fed sumptuously on what remained of the dead, but there was enough left to . . .

  “No power of our world could have done this,” Amen whispered as the four stood, awestruck, on the sea edge of their old camp. The huge meeting tent was collapsed, its prefabricated plastic sections looking as if they had been melted. Vehicles lay overturned everywhere, and the ground was littered with clothing and personal possessions. Everywhere lay evidence of human remains—not the complete bodies of recognizable persons, but piles of bones and desiccated flesh that had once been human beings. Flying things that had been feeding when the quartet arrived hopped and scrabbled away as the humans moved forward, clutching their knives fearfully.

  “Do not be afraid,” Zechariah whispered. “If the Lord did not want us to be here, we could never have come this far.”

  “Is anyone alive?” Hannah shouted. The others started at the sound of her voice but then they all took up the call. Their voices echoed eerily through the deserted groves and among the abandoned equipment. Flocks of scavengers took flight at the sound, swirling upward to perch in the trees, releasing rivulets of varicolored excrement in their excitement. Zechariah shuddered as he realized what that stuff had once been.

  “Thank God, we must be alone,” Comfort whispered.

  “Thank God for a lot of things,” Hannah replied.

  It was nearing dusk when they finished searching the camp and the underground bunker. If there had been survivors, they were long gone. But they had found two ground-effect vehicles that were still drivable, and loaded them with tools, utensils, and supplies they knew would be useful. The cars were the newest models, formerly the property of a prosperous congregation several hundred kilometers to the northwest of the New Salem settlement. Best of all, they had infrared guidance systems that permitted them to drive in the dark without artificial light.

  Zechariah and Comfort sat in the dimly lighted cab of their vehicle, drinking from lukewarm bottles of beer they had found. “I never much liked this stuff—before now,” Zechariah commented.

  “Father, what is this?” Comfort held up a belt she had found under her seat. In the dim interior lighting, Zechariah recognized it as a military-style gun belt. He took it from her, popped open the holster flap and withdrew a large pistol. It looked just like the one he had carried when he was in the wars. He pressed a stud on the slide. The energy pack was at full power. “An M2411 A1.” Zechariah Brattle let out an admiring whistle. “Those folks from up there believed in being ready. This is government issue,” he mused, examining the gun more closely. “It is illegal for civilians to have anything like this.” He shrugged. “But the Lord giveth, and I ain’t about to question the Lord.” He strapped the belt on. The former owner was right-handed, as was Zechariah. “Now, Comfort,” Zechariah smiled, “that’s what is called a Particular Faith!” They both laughed as Zechariah patted the holster.

  “What now, Father?”

  Zechariah punched a button on his console. “Hannah? Amen? How do you read me?”

  “Five by,” Amen Judah answered. Like Zechariah, Amen had been in the wars.

  “Follow me. We’re going to get our people and we’re going home.” Zechariah put the car into forward.

  “Home?” Comfort asked excitedly.

  “We are. Home to New Salem.” Zechariah casually tossed his empty bottle out the window, something he would never have done two weeks ago. “Daughter,” he turned to Comfort, “pop me another of those beers, would you?”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  The Great Master sipped from the delicate, handleless cup and rolled his eyes with contentment. He sighed, the sound of gravel tumbling through a narrow cut in a mountain stream. He wore his ceremonial robe with its rectangles of golden metal plate. A ceremonial sword lay across his lap. Sheathed in precious wood that curved elegantly with the curve of the blade, the sword was as nonfunctional for combat as his armor.

  The Over Masters and more senior of the Senior Masters of his command sat cross-legged in their rows in front of him. Their armor was equally ceremonial but less splendorous than that of the Great Master. They bore no swords or other weapons, ceremonial or otherwise. The only functional weapons in the room were those carried by the five Large Ones who sat or stood around the Great Master, and those shielded from sight behind screens on the room’s periphery. At the Great Master’s sound of contentment, they bowed low over their knees and touched their foreheads to the matting before their ankles.

  The diminutive female who knelt at the Great Master’s knee poured fresh, steaming liquid from an exquisite pot. The Great Master glanced lovingly at the single flower, imported at great expense all the way from Home. It stood in a fluted vase on the low, lacquered table on which he placed his cup before he lifted it, refilled, and sipped anew.

  As though that was their signal, more diminutive females entered the room. Their feet shuffled softly over the matting in the tiny steps that were all their narrow ankle-length robes allowed. Each carried a tray with a finely decorated steaming pot and two handleless cups. These females knelt with breathtaking grace at low tables set between the Over Masters and more senior Senior Masters. With equal grace and in near perfect unison, they poured from the pots into the cups. When the cups were full, the females gracefully turned about on their knees and bowed low to the Great Master.

  He flicked languid fingers, and all the females save the one who served him rose liquidly to their feet and quietly shuffled away. The Over Masters and more senior of the Senior Masters reached to the low tables and lifted the cups to their lips. They sipped, and sighed with pleasure, the sound of rain falling on a forest canopy.

  The Great Master grinned so his teeth showed. It was the grin of a predator that has pounced and borne its prey, struggling and squealing, to the ground. His breath rasped through gill slits almost fully atrophied from lack of recent use. When he spoke, his voice was high tide crashing against a volcanic cliff.

  “Phase two of this operation has begun well,” he began. “At the slight cost of fewer than three hundred Fighters, we have achieved two glorious victories! In one raid we devastated the morale of the Earthman pond scum in their defensive positions by demonstrating that we can breach their lines anytime we wish. In another fight we slaughtered the Earthman Marine reinforcements. Their morale is now as shattered as that of their cousins who have already learned they will lose to us.”

  He swiftly drew his sword and thrust it into the air above his head. “Now, while they are dazed and bleeding and know not where we will strike again, it is time to launch Operation Rippling Lava!” His voice crashed and sizzled, a lava river falling into the ocean.

  The Over Masters and more senior of the Senior Masters roared their eagerness for Rippling Lava, the sound of a monsoon storm crashing down on an unprepared village.

  Brigadier Sturgeon sat front and center in the briefing room. On his right was Brigadier Sparen, commander of 26th FIST. Colonel Ramadan, normally 34th FIST’s chief-of-staff but now acting commander, sat to his left. Sturgeon now commanded what was called “Marine Expeditiona
ry Forces, Kingdom.” Commander Daana, 34th FIST’s F-2—intelligence officer—who was pulling double duty as F-2 for the MEF, stood at the lectern in front of the room. Behind the three top commanders, the other section chiefs of their FIST staffs sat in rows of folding chairs, as well as commanders of major subordinate units and their number twos. A few officers from the CNSS Grandar Bay, observers more than participants in the briefing, sat in the last row of chairs. The Army of the Lord was noticeably absent.

  “The Skinks are still defeating the string-of-pearls,” Daana said. “The Grandar Bay has its surface reconnaissance analysts using the same technique to study the satellite data that was developed when an infantry platoon from 34th FIST first encountered the Skinks on Society 437. So far, nada.” This was the first mention the officers from 26th FIST had heard of Society 437; they made notes to remind themselves to find out about it. “Even when planetside forces are in direct contact with the Skinks and the analysts know exactly where to look, they’re damnably hard to detect unless they’re using one of those long range weapons—those things kick out a clear enough signal so the string-of-pearls has no problem spotting them. Navy forensics wants us to capture one of those weapons. They haven’t been able to figure out what it is from the scrap we captured after the fight in the Swamp of Perdition.” He glanced at the navy officers in the back of the room to see if they had newer information. They didn’t.

  “They always withdraw underwater,” Daana went on. “So far they haven’t returned to the surface anyplace we have surveillance devices. Which suggests they don’t resurface, but enter underwater caves. Or at least, caves with underwater egress. The upshot is, we have no idea where they might be based.”

  “Has the Grandar Bay searched for caves?” Sturgeon asked.

  “Yessir.” Daana tapped a command on the lectern top. A color-coded topo map appeared on the wall display behind him. It showed the land around Haven and Interstellar City to a distance of a thousand kilometers. “As you see, sir, there are a lot of rivers, canals, and wetlands in the vicinity.” Indeed, the map was riddled with the blue lines and blobs that represented rivers and lakes, along with the iconic green-fronds-on-blue that meant marshes and swamps. “Finding caves was easy.” He tapped another command, and a dense spattering of deep red splotches and squiggles was overlaid on the map. “This region is absolutely riddled with cave systems. Navy estimates that if the army sent in an entire corps of cave specialists, it would take them five years to explore just the caves shown on this map.” He looked back at the commanders. “Of course, sirs, the army doesn’t have an entire corps of cave specialists.”

  That elicited brief but appreciative laughter, as loud in the back of the room as the middle. No matter how frequently or severely the Marines and the navy were at odds with each other, they held a mutual disrespect for the army.

  Sturgeon hadn’t laughed, though a slight crease that could have been a smile crossed his face. “Are we deploying more surveillance devices?” he asked.

  “Yessir. As fast as 26th’s Four gets them in, I get them out.” He tapped a third command. The map behind him morphed into a time lapse schematic of surveillance device deployment. It began when 34th FIST set defensive positions around Haven and Interstellar City, with merely a scattering of symbols for surveillance devices. The scattering slowly thickened until the arrival of 26th FIST, then rapidly became denser.

  “I have one other item, sirs. The assault against sector India Delta during the storm the other night may have left something we can use. In all previous contacts with the Skinks, they always either carried away their casualties or their casualties were vaporized. It is possible, though not yet certain, that a Skink was killed by fléchette fire in that action and its remains left behind. At any rate, a small amount of organic material was found after the storm let up. Neither the Confederation biologists in Interstellar City nor the navy med/sci people aboard the Grandar Bay have the proper equipment to fully analyze it. It has been sent back to Earth by courier for analysis.”

  Sturgeon nodded, then stood. “Please continue. I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Attention on deck!” Ramadan snapped as he stood and came to attention. There was a brief rattle of chairs as the other officers gained their feet and stood at attention.

  “As you were,” Ramadan said when Sturgeon was gone. The officers resumed their seats, and the briefing, which was designed primarily for the benefit of the commanders and staff of 26th FIST, continued. Sparen remained. He needed the briefing as much as his officers did.

  Soldier of the Lord Prudence didn’t know whether the long hours he spent watching the surveillance display board were penance or an indulgence. If he was committing the sin of spying as he watched the blips and images, listened to the sounds, and saw the other symbols that meant nothing to him, then this service was a penance. If, on the other hand, his superiors in the Army of the Lord knew he was true to his name and worthy of being entrusted with privy knowledge he should not normally have, then he was being rewarded and the hours were a blessed indulgence.

  One source of Prudence’s unsettlement about his assignment was a thought that he kept carefully tucked away where he wouldn’t have to consider it: The devices that fed their surveillance data to the display board could be of great use to the Collegium. It was the sacred responsibility of the Collegium to root out heresy wherever it attempted to germinate. Surveillance devices such as these could help the Collegium catch heretics before they became firm in their apostasy. They could also be used to spy on and capture, for punishment, anyone who might challenge the Collegium. Prudence had heard rumors that the Collegium did not restrict itself to finding heretics. Although he praised the Lord for the necessary and soul-saving work the Collegium did, he also feared its potential for evil. That a sacred instrument of the Lord could be used for evil was something he could not bear to think about, so he kept that reason for discontent tucked away where he wouldn’t have to examine it.

  Soldier of the Lord Prudence was startled from his reverie by something he realized had been on the display for a time, unnoticed by his wandering mind. Whether this job was penance or not, he would have to do penance for this neglectful conduct. But later, now he called out: “Lesser Imam Macque, I have movement on sensor seven!”

  Sergeant Macque, gun squad leader, second platoon, Charlie Company, 26th FIST, and off-world infidel who had been granted command of Dominion Company of the 811th Sacred Fusiliers of Kingdom’s Army of the Lord, came from behind his desk in the garrison’s command bunker. He leaned forward to look over Prudence’s shoulder at the surveillance display board.

  Prudence pointed at white blips on the display.

  Macque reached past him and hit a control. The red lines that appeared around the blips were thin, indicating that whatever they represented were small. “Could be Skinks,” he said softly. “They don’t give off much of an infrared signal.”

  “Demons in the middle of the afternoon?” Prudence believed that demons only appeared at night, when men were weak and their faith could be more easily tested.

  Macque snorted. “They might be creatures out of somebody’s hell, but they aren’t demons.” He also was surprised at the possibility of Skinks moving so close to the perimeter during the day, but said, “Maybe they show up better in infra at night and they’re moving during the day to mask their signals. Got some over here too.” He pointed at another group of red-rimmed blips. “Come on, baby,” he murmured. “Come to mama.” He tried to will the moving blips to get in range of a visual sensor so he could make positive identification. “There’s more,” he said, pointing at a fresh grouping of blips. He picked up the handset of the hardwired comm unit. “We’ve got a lot of movement in sector Delta Hotel Seven,” he said to the battalion ops duty NCO as soon as the recognition and acknowledgment exchange was over.

  “You got that Charlie Six?” the battalion duty NCO asked.

  “Roger,” replied the Charlie Company duty NCO. The
battalion order was for all surveillance reports to go directly to Battalion, and for the relevant company headquarters to listen in. Each Marine company was integrated into a Kingdomite regiment, with the Marines in all command billets. The FIST’s infantry battalion controlled an entire Kingdomite division.

  A new voice came on the comm—that of the Marine duty officer. “All hands, listen up. We have multiple reports of movement to the division front. All units, stand to and be prepared for company. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger, Foot Six. Charlie standing to.”

  The other two company headquarters also acknowledged the alert order. The entire 82nd Division of the Army of the Lord was moving into position.

  Macque slapped his helmet on and toggled the squad all-hands circuit. “Up and at ’em,” he said. “Look alive, we might have company in a couple of minutes.”

  Seconds later high-pitched buzz saw whines came from beyond the perimeter and things with speeds too great to be deflected by the slanted faces of the reinforced ferrocrete bunkers shattered against them, gouting holes in their surfaces, sending chips flying, and raising dense clouds of dust.

  The 82nd Division and its commanders from 26th FIST were bunkered into Heaven’s Heights Ridge and two hills, Hymnal and Psalm, that guarded the northeast approaches to Haven. The entire ridgeline and Hymnal Hill came under simultaneous assault. The dust clouds blocked the vision of the defenders—not that many of the Soldiers of the Lord were willing to look through their bunker’s apertures.

  More of the buzz saw guns opened fire, not at the bunkers, but on the ridge and hillsides in front of them. At the same time, sappers moved purposefully on the flat below the heights. One by one, symbols blinked out on displays as the sensors feeding them died. The defenders were doubly blind—from the dust clouds they couldn’t see through and the displays that no longer showed movement.