“Will you honor their request for more weapons?” Grell na Vrim asked.
“Are you mad?” Ruk gasped. “We won’t even answer this ridiculous communication! The last thing we can afford is to attract the attention of the human ships in orbit.” Dark suspicion flared. “For the gods’ own sake, don’t tell me you’ve already sent a reply?”
“No, no, of course not,” the aging Science Leader hastened to reassure. “I wouldn’t consider such a thing during a state of war, not without consulting you first. Which is why I came, of course.”
“Of course.” He swept a hand toward the pitiful, pleading printout. “Add that to your data, Science Leader, then start your people downloading and packing.”
“Yes, Colonel Graz. At once, Colonel Graz. Your support is so deeply appreciated, Colonel Graz.” The aging scientist stalked out of his office, ears flat again with anger.
Ruk na Graz sighed. Such an unutterably stupid waste.
He turned his gaze back to the data screens once more and glared at the blips of light representing the human military vessels in orbit. He hated the idea of tucking tail and running without a fight. Hated it almost as much as he hated the humans. Unless he was very much mistaken, this was going to be a long and shameful war. And the fools on Melcon were robbing him of the right to strike the first blow.
Chapter Fifteen
PROXIMITY ALERT!
My sensors detect two fusion bombs, piggybacked onto a pair of guided missiles, fired directly toward my war hull. I charge forward, horrified, passing my commander and the two civilians with her, interposing my bulk between them and the incoming missiles. I have zero point zero two seconds to decide which of my malfunctioning weapons to fire, knowing there is a high probability I will miss my targets. My Hellbores are the only weapons I possess which have a broad-enough field of fire to destroy the bombs even if my aim is slightly off.
I fire twin Hellbore blasts point-blank at the incoming bombs.
I rock on my treads. The overpressure knocks my commander and the miners flat. Both incoming bombs vanish in a hellish flare of light. Radioactive isotopes scatter across my war hull and the three humans lying flat behind me. The bombs have not detonated, merely spilled their contents, which was my intended purpose. My commander snatches up her companions and shouts at them to run. They stagger forward while I scan for more incoming missiles. Seeing none, I check telemetry from the wildlife monitoring cameras we have set up and determine the moment is ripe. Further delay will only lessen the effectiveness of the blow I am about to strike.
I send out a radio pulse, signaling the detonation systems in the trenches.
Explosions and the weird, chopped-off screams of the enemy drift on the grey morning air. I retreat toward my commander and pivot so that my access ladder is directly beside her and the civilians. “Commander, all three of you have been exposed to dangerous levels of radioactive isotopes from the fusion bombs I have destroyed. Please strip off contaminated clothing and come aboard at once, to begin chelating treatments in my command compartment.”
Alessandra DiMario snarls, “Strip, dammit!” even as she wrenches at the zips and fasteners of her uniform. “There are observation couches with autodocs built into them, up there. Move!”
They strip to the skin, then climb, moving very fast, indeed. I turn jets of water on them, spraying them down to rinse away as much of the residue as possible—while blessing my designers for building such a feature into my external chassis, anticipating potential need for battlefield decontamination. I open my command compartment hatch and the civilians tumble inside, half climbing and half sliding down, dripping water and shaking with cold from the frigid wind which has been blowing across their drenched skin and hair. I dial up the heat in the command compartment, turning fans onto high, while Alessandra shoves them into the observation couches and slaps restraints into place. I swing autodocs over them and commence treatment even as my commander throws herself into the command chair and engages restraints. I have already closed my command hatch by the time her own autodoc sends medication racing into her bloodstream, countering the effects of radiation exposure and chelating the isotopes already absorbed.
The battle is well under way as I swing my attention and my guns toward the enemy. The carbon-arm trebuchet operates with surprising efficiency, reloaded by waiting miners the instant the arm swings back down to loading height. As the enemy comes surging up out of the ravines and gullies, fleeing the death waiting for them there, the deadly rain from our marble throwers and automated gun systems begins to wreak a terrible havoc.
I fire at targets which appear to pose the greatest threat, attempting to control the wild inaccuracies of my guidance and control systems. I now understand what it would be like to be stricken with palsy. Human lives are at risk and I cannot control my own weapons systems. I charge forward, firing massively, rather than accurately, and know savage satisfaction when enemy warriors go down before my guns. Other warriors, weaponless and bloodied, turn to flee from my roaring treads and mortar fire.
“They’re running!” The gasp of surprise breaks from Ginger Gianesco.
The enemy is, indeed, running. In blind, terrified desperation. The Tersae attack groups have been so badly shaken, even their suicide squads, far to the fore in their efforts to gain the wall, now turn to flee. The defenders shoot them down ruthlessly, firing into broad, fur covered backs which make easy targets for the enraged miners.
“Shall I pursue or consolidate defense efforts here?” I ask as the surviving Tersae warriors vanish into the cover of what little forest I have allowed to remain standing. “Odds are approximately 98.7 percent that they will make directly for home. If they lead us to their base camp, we could render it inoperative, accomplishing our long-term goals quickly. We might also be able to secure undamaged samples of the technology they have been using to conduct the war.”
My commander turns slightly in her command chair to catch the eye of Rustenberg’s Operations Director behind her. “Do you have the medical facilities to treat exposure to radiation?”
Ginger Gianesco thins her lips. “Not anything like a full clinic, I’m afraid. And we didn’t come out here prepared to mine radioactives, so we’re shy on some of what we ought to have. But there’s enough to keep us going until there’s time for full treatment, somewhere. I’ve treated radiation sickness in other mining operations, so I’m no neophyte.”
“In that case, I’d suggest we drop you off here. There’s no telling what we’re going to run into, out there. Your people need you here, both of you.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Captain,” Gianesco says with a catch in her voice. “More than I can say.”
“Our pleasure, Director. Let’s get you out of here, so Senator and I can go finish off the job properly.” I rush across the rubble field to pivot and stop next to the defended wall. A ragged cheer rises from the defenders. I am both surprised and honored by the salute. Ginger Gianesco and Hank Umlani unstrap from their couches as I remove the autodocs.
My commander does her best to reassure them. “Senator’s autodoc systems have given you the critical first treatment. We’ll do our best to finish this up fast, so we can get you back into the autodocs as soon as possible. There are spare coveralls in a compartment behind your couches, by the way,” she adds with a slight smile. All three humans are as naked as newborn infants. Our passengers respond with rusty chuckles.
As they slither into coveralls and climb toward my hatch, I bid them farewell. “It has been an honor to serve with you.”
Ginger Gianesco hesitates for three heartbeats in the exit hatch. “You come back and tell us about it, Senator, you hear me?”
I am deeply touched. “I will do my best, Ms. Gianesco.”
She nods sharply. “That’s all anyone can ask. Thank you, Senator.”
They climb swiftly down, stepping from my war hull to the top of the wall, where they are welcomed by their own. I close the hatch, pausing just long enough for my commander to finish slipping on her own coverall. As she returns to my command chair, I back away carefully, pivot, and charge across the open rubble field once more. I have tasted blood. Before this business is done, I will do a great deal more than simply taste it. My commander watches my forward viewscreen through narrowed eyes as my sensors track telltale heat signatures through the trees ahead.
“Still running hard, aren’t they? Good. Follow ’em, but not too closely.”
“Understood, Commander.” I launch an aerial drone, having kept them in reserve for just such a contingency. The drone races skyward, scanning the terrain ahead and monitoring the crashing, terrified progress of our prey. I detect thirteen heat signatures in a cluster, with a fourteenth far ahead of the others. “Looks like somebody panicked and ran sooner than the rest,” my commander says drolly.