Genellan 03 First Victory Read online

  ***

  Hangar bay outer doors flew aside with gut-sucking speed. Carmichael stared at star-struck blackness. Low on his viewscreen, the system star glared with irritating brilliance. Carmichael’s visor darkened automatically. Launch alarms sounded. Flight ops designated his corvette first to launch. Carmichael acknowledged. Docking grapples released with a rippling vibration. Launch sequencing lights flashed; they were cleared to launch.

  "Launching," his copilot announced, activating the maneuvering alarm

  Carmichael laid his forearms in their acceleration rests, fingers poised over communications and control buttons. He hit the kick-switch. A dull thunk reverberated through his ship as the massive corvette was catapulted through the yawning opening, pushed with increasing force from the cavernous hangar bay into the infinite blackness of space. Carmichael sank easily into his seat, allowing his eyes to close.

  "Corvette away," his copilot announced.

  Clearance diodes flickered amber to green. The huge geometry of the mothership fell astern. Carmichael pulsed the port quarter thrusters; the corvette’s tail slued smartly to starboard.

  "Clear angle," the copilot reported.

  "Mains," Carmichael barked, firmly setting throttles. "Six gees."

  The corvette leapt on course, gaining velocity at a lung-squeezing rate.

  "Eagle Two is out... Three is out..." the second officer reported. "Four... Five... and Six. Eagle flight is out of the barn."

  "Roger," Carmichael replied. He was back in space, in his corvette, jumping into an unknown system. He found himself thinking once again of Sharl Buccari.

  "Sector one picket is formed," the second officer reported.

  Angry with his lack of concentration, Carmichael shoved his vagrant thoughts aside and monitored the tactical holo. Icons representing Raven Squadron maneuvered into position. His old executive officer, Wanda Green, commanded Raven. Good old Brickshitter. From other motherships came more corvettes, spreading into assigned stations in a three-dimensional formation across the threat axis.

  Concentrate, Carmichael admonished himself. Concentrate.

  ***

  "Intruder alert," the bridgemale reported.

  Cell-Controller Jakkuk sensed the alien presence.

  "Humans, Jakkuk-hajil," resonated Cell-Controller Kwanna’s telepathic assessment. Pokkuk Merde der Jakkuk relished her sister cell-controller’s vibrant fear-pleasure. And her own. The intruders were impossible to ignore—an electromagnetic cacophony exploding across all transmission spectra. The interlopers’ signals were localized and channeled into the axionic links of the Ulaggi neural-fusion network. In perfect sync, the cell-controllers each brought their six ship-mistresses to alert status.

  Contact again, at long last. Jakkuk’s g’ort stirred. The cell-controller luxuriated in the ecstasy of incipient danger. But Jakkuk also sensed the bridgemale at her side. She opened her eyes. The perspiring bridgemale recoiled; the he-worm’s milky-gray flesh drained of color; his stubby fingers fidgeted annoyingly. Jakkuk emerged snarling from the dendritic interface. Her g’ort vanished, the exquisite emotion submerging into the insipid sea of self-restraint. The bridgemale, sensing Jakkuk’s return to rational control, involuntarily sighed. Jakkuk wanted to break the his stubby neck; anger rushed in to fill the void left by the dissipation of her fear. Sublime, intoxicating fear. Sensual fear.

  Jakkuk surfaced completely into the consciousness. Fleet Dominant Dar, black braids drifting like coiled snakes, waited for her to report.

  "Dar-hajil, there are intruders," Jakkuk barked, snarling with malignant joy. "Eleven alien interstellars, mother! The humans have come to us." The cell-controller shut her eyes, seeking to recapture a vestige of her fear. A tantalizing spark of ecstasy still glowed.

  "Yes," Dominant Dar hissed, hajil complexion flushing copper to bronze. "Most accommodating. They come far...to visit."

  "Too far," issued a slithery, monotonic inflection. Karyai, the white-robed political, floated possessively across the bridge.

  "Do we attack, mother?" Jakkuk beseeched.

  "The humans deserve our attention," Dar declared.

  "It is written," the political chanted. "Glorious death awaits the serene and patient warrior."

  "Honor is ours, mother," Dar replied, golden eyes narrowing.

  "Honor is ours, Dar-hajil," Karyai replied, crepuscular orbs of pitch radiating intensely. The political was tall, tall even for a lakk, forcing the hajil officers to crane upward at the gray-faced mother’s long features.

  "Eleven human ships, mother," Dar reported. "Does the Empress’s proscription stand? We did not seek this encounter. They intrude upon—"

  Karyai silenced the fleet dominant with a flip of her spidery hand. The lakk then stroked her long jaw. Dar waited, her countenance professionally vacant, her fury well masked.

  Jakkuk wanted to scream.

  "Humans come to this system at their peril, daughters," Karyai said at last. "Proceed as you desire. I speak for the Imperial Tribunes."

  Dar nodded, her knife-edged upper lip lifting into an obscene smile. Jakkuk sensed the dominant’s rising passion, a febrile blossoming. The cell-controller’s emotions resonated gloriously with those of her commander.

  "Maneuver your cell for direct contact, Jakkuk-hajil," Dar ordered. "Kwanna-hajil will act as anvil. Fist a’Yerg to mount a frontal attack. Make battle link. Honor is ours."

  "Yes, mother," the cell-controller responded, slipping back into her dendritic interface. "Honor is ours."

  Jakkuk’s telepathic link with the other star-cruiser cell was immediate and impassioned. Attack! Cell-Controller Kwanna’s resurgent g’ort telepathically intertwined with Jakkuk’s in resonant harmony—a sensory embrace of exquisite magnitude, lacking only physical contact. And blood.

  Chapter 02 We Are Here

  "Something’s happening," Wells said quietly.

  Runacres studied the screens. The main status plot struggled to integrate the onslaught of data, glowing magenta around the celestial symbols for sun-star, planets, and moons. Runacres’s motherships formed a solid cluster of data. A sprinkle of corvette icons debouched from his starships like pollen from flowers. Areas around the planet flickered with activity.

  "We have coherent signals!" the tactical officer barked.

  Runacres jerked his vision to the situation screens. In orbit around the second planet, icons representing unidentified objects materialized with scintillating, attention-dominating auras.

  "Science, what are we seeing?" Runacres demanded.

  "Almost certainly Ulaggi ships, Admiral," Captain Katz reported. On Runacres’s console the science duty officer’s image was replaced by the dark features of the fleet science officer. Null gravity was not kind to Katz’s countenance; jowls and wattles shifted and shivered like gelatin. But his words struck like hammers, and his black eyes did not waver. "Emitting in all critical reporting spectra. Cohesive and patterned."

  "We’ve found their infernal hive!" Group Leader Wooden raged.

  "Definitely not," Katz answered. "We have localized transmission nodes on the third planet and its satellite. Estimate it to be a colony, not a home planet. Initial sensory pass yields planetary analysis of at least an alpha-four class, definitely life-supporting."

  An alarm sounded.

  "We’re being scanned," the science officer announced.

  "They know we’re here," Wooden muttered.

  "Isn’t that what we wanted?" Merriwether interjected. "We’re screaming at the top of our electronic lungs."

  "We have up-Doppler on at least ten large types," Wells reported.

  Runacres was not worried. The closest contacts were months of sublight travel away. He had ample time to investigate the alien system, time to beg for cooperation. Time to escape.

  "Set battle cruise—" he started to say. A proximity alert sounded. On the main status plot, icons representing the ships of his fleet suddenly sprouted crimson threat haloes.

  "Admiral, unidentified contacts exiting hyperlight at fifty thousand kilometers!" the tactical officer reported.

  Months of separation had been reduced to mere hours.

  "They’ve jumped subsystem!" Wells boomed. "We have positive unit-parameter match."

  "Contact group alpha; six mothership-mass units, designated alpha-one through six," the tactical officer announced. "Confirmed hostile. We are being targeted."

  "Commence jump checklist," Runacres commanded, his brain reeling. A subsystem jump of such short duration was an outrageous feat of physics and navigation. Runacres’s already considerable respect for his adversary increased severalfold. His trepidation escalated proportionally.

  "Aye, Admiral," Wells responded, attacking his console. "Jump coordinates Genellan lima-two, category one offset. Ten minutes and counting."

  "Do they answer our hails?" Runacres demanded, knowing the answer.

  "Negative," Katz responded.

  "Thunderation!" Runacres roared, clenching his fist.

  "Where are the screamers?" the group leader growled.

  "Fast-movers!" the tactical officer reported.

  "Speak of the devil," Wooden said. "Adjusting threat axis. Admiral, request permission to launch all alerts."

  Runacres stared at the status plot. A tight cluster of hostile icons had broken from the main body. Ulaggi attack craft would be in weapons range within the hour.

  "Negative. Recall the screen," Runacres ordered, his stomach turning hot. "Commodore Wells, accelerate the checklist. Let’s get out of here. Emergency jump. Bypass overrides."

  "We’ll lose termination accuracy, Admiral," Wells counseled, his fingers flying. An alert sounded.

  "Get us back to Genellan, Franklin," Runacres ordered.

  "Aye!" Wells respond
ed.

  ***

  Carmichael saw them a split-second before the tactical alarm sounded; smaller contacts, alien attack ships, boiled from the bellies of the interstellars. The fight was on.

  "New threat axis," he broadcast, punching in assignments. "Reorienting the screen. Raptor takes point. Merlin and Nighthawk, sectors two and four. Raven and Peregrine, sectors one and three. Eagle will be maneuvering reserve."

  Squadron commanders acknowledged. Carmichael checked his ships. The corvettes of Eagle Squadron were forming into battle spread. He initiated a command vector; his formation maneuvered as one, all Eagles slaved to his course and speed.

  "We have recall, Skipper!" his second pilot reported. "Jump count has commenced."

  Carmichael blew air from his lungs. "Belay my last," he broadcast. "Fall back to the grid, by the numbers. Eagle and Raven are rearguard. Let’s move."

  He received electronic acknowledgment.

  "Check tactical," his copilot reported. "Got more of them. Listen to them. Good God, Commander, listen to them."

  "Pay attention to your firing circuits," Carmichael snapped, his jaw tight, his blood running cold. He listened to the haunting screams

  ***

  "BOOO-CHARRY! BOOO-CHARRRY!" Destroyer-Fist a’Yerg screamed, her g’ort rampant. "BOOOOOOO-CHARRY!"

  Ulaggi destroyers, in three-ship formations, lanced through space. Destroyer-Fist a’Yerg, the destroyer attack commander, screamed the name of her adversary. Joining a’Yerg’s ululations, in hellish disharmony, were the orgasmic battle screams of her triad leaders. Bloodlust!

  The roonish attack commander’s rational self reined in her libidinous alter ego, not gently. A’Yerg’s g’ort screamed all the more viciously, desperately, yet silently, for her frightened animal suddenly had no voice, no muscle, no power. The roonish warrior trembled with ecstasy, basking in the flames of her g’ort’s residual terror. The animal, sensing its renewed hold, surged into being, forcing forward the destroyer’s throttles. A’Yerg mercilessly quelled the rising passion, pounding her g’ort back into the recessed lobes of their shared braincase. A’Yerg’s first duty was to do battle. Fist a’Yerg retarded her throttles, enabling her attack force to take assigned positions.A brassy tingling intruded on a’Yerg’s consciousness. Jakkuk-hajil’s intrusion was formal, guarded, yet imperious. The attack commander enjoyed playing with the cell-controller’s defenseless emotions, but now was not the time. Roonish warrior was she, and battle was joined. The cell-controller provided a’Yerg with coordinate projections. The attack commander ordered an adjustment to the attack axis. Satisfied, a’Yerg allowed her animal to scream once more into the universe.

  "BOOO-CHARRY."

  ***

  Runacres shivered at the eldritch cry.

  "For God’s sake!" Wooden roared.

  "New contacts!" the tactical officer reported. "Contact group bravo. Six hostile heavies coming out of hyperlight. Twenty thousand kilometers, sector two. Probing fire."

  "We’re bracketed," Wells reported.

  "Admiral! Admiral!" Captain Katz broke in. "We’re picking up something else—a plain language broadcast. In Chinese. Nonhuman voice patterns. Multiple repetitions."

  "What?" Runacres demanded.

  "In Chinese, like the Buccari engagements at Scorpio and Hornblower," Katz returned. "Translation: ‘We wish to talk. Hold position.’"

  "Say again!" Runacres demanded, dumbfounded. Were they really going to talk? Had he at last broken through?

  "It says—"

  "Contact group alpha is jumping again!" Commodore Wells’s transmission overrode the science officer.

  Runacres jerked his gaze to the vanishing signals. A crushing realization dawned: he suddenly realized how Ketchie’s task force had been blasted into eternity at Oldfather.

  "Listen!" someone shouted. The horrible, brain-chilling screams increased, permeating the tactical frequency. Buccari’s name was rendered to the universe.

  "Group Leader," Runacres boomed, "are your corvettes in the grid?"

  "Affirmative, Admiral," Wooden replied.

  "Emergency jump," Runacres commanded. "Panic overrides now."

  "Panic overrides, aye," Wells echoed, hands flying.

  A pulsating gong hammered their senses. Threat alarms burped into life.

  "Heavy contacts sector one, close aboard!" the tactical officer shouted. "It’s contact group alpha! In firing range!"

  "They’re coming down on top!" Wooden shouted.

  "Maximum power to shields," Runacres ordered, staring helplessly at contacts forming above the firing cones of his main batteries. There was no time to maneuver ship. Their only hope was to escape into hyperspace. But was there time?

  "Fifteen seconds," Wells reported. "All links firm."

  Threat alarms brayed. Acquisition and fire-control computers screeched maneuvering advisories. Shield sensors pulsated. Hostile icons materialized with dismaying clarity.

  "Ten seconds," Wells reported, his voice like iron.

  An eternity. Yodeling banshee wails haunted the alarm-filled cacophony, a discordant bedlam. Again, Buccari’s tortured name rose above the din like a cork bobbing in a storm.

  "Secure that frequency," Runacres ordered.

  "Aye, sir," the tactical officer responded. The unholy screaming was squelched.

  "Five seconds," Wells reported.

  "Corse is getting pounded!" the tactical officer shouted.

  Status images revealed Corse to be at the focus of burgeoning enemy battery fire. Her icon blossomed with casualty parameters; telemetry indicated her shields were gone. Baffin was also taking fire.

  "Three...two..." someone shouted, and the nauseating vibrations of hyperlight swept Runacres like sweet summer rain. He held his breath. Would the grid matrix survive the attack, or would they stumble out of the jump, still in the clutches of the Ulaggi? Or worse, would they eject from hyperlight light-years from any star, without the ability to reform a grid?

  The unsettling vibrations continued. There had avoided catastrophe; they had made it. The Tellurian Legion First Fleet was once again in the gravitronic womb, safe but for the relentless passage of time.

  "Report," Runacres shouted, ripping off his helmet. Perspiration exploded from his bald head, shimmering about him like a halo.

  "All units except Corse alpha-alpha," Commodore Wells reported. "Corse has category one thermal damage. Her shields were fried and her hull penetrated. Captain Foxx’s damage control teams have stabilized the situation. Corse’s grid-link is secure and redundant. Baffin suffered a shield blowout, but no penetrations. No other serious damage reported."

  "Group Leader?" Runacres demanded.

  "Except for one hell of rough ride, all corvettes are unharmed and captured in the grid," Wooden reported. "Recovering by squadrons now."

  "Injuries?" Runacres demanded.

  "Corse has two irretrievable dead," the tactical officer reported. "Four remediated fatalities, another two dozen serious injuries, and a load of radtox cases."

  Runacres tightened his jaw and glanced down at his comm-vid. Merriwether’s image stared up at him.

  "More deaths," he said.

  "Consider instead how many were saved, Admiral," Merriwether replied.

  He nodded, the reality of what he had just witnessed hitting like a club. He closed his eyes and swallowed his fear. The Ulaggi interstellars had performed a deadly accurate, subsystem hyperlight jump. A fantastic tactical weapon.

  "Except for Corse, all ships stand down from General Quarters," Runacres ordered.

  Wells acknowledged.

  "How did their ships stay together?" Merriwether asked.

  "How did their crews survive spatial displacement?" Runacres replied, struggling to formulate a counter to the enemy’s overwhelming maneuvering advantage.

  "Robot ships?" Wells offered.

  "I don’t think so," Captain Katz joined in. "Signal patterns from the ships indicate a biological entity—hold one! Admiral, I’ve just been shown another plain language intercept, also in Chinese."

  "Go," Runacres replied.

  Katz hit a button. "Analysis indicates," Katz continued, "this transmission originated from the planet proper."

  A recorded transmission filled the silence: "Aw Dei Hai Doe. Aw Dei Hai—"

  "It translates as follows:" Katz said. "‘We are here. We are...’ Just the one sentence and the partial repetition. The signal was obviously interrupted."