My Commander makes unintelligible sounds for 8.92 seconds. Then she grants permission to file VSR.
“The colony perimeter remains secure from infestation of agricultural pests. I have continued to carry out my orders as directed.”
“Uh . . . What were those orders, Digger?”
“To safeguard this colony. Twenty point zero-nine years ago we suffered a severe infestation of an unknown agricultural pest similar in physiological characteristics to Terran wood rats. The infestation has been successfully eradicated, Commander. Five subsequent attempts at infestation have also been eradicated. Sensors indicate communications damage to your transport. Shall I relay a translation of the beacon the Enemy left in orbit above Matson’s World?”
“Yes, please.”
I play the translated recording. “Xykdap Cruiser GK7-115 to all Xykdap fleet personnel: do not approach this world. Infestation of deadly parasites has destroyed all Xykdap personnel. Enemy abandonment of this world was clearly due to this parasite, not to the approach of our fleet as we had surmised. Do not attempt a landing. Do not attempt to board this or any other ship left in parking orbit. No known cure has been found for the parasite which has attacked us. Xykdap Cruiser GK7-115 to all Xykdap fleet personnel . . .”
The recording repeats.
“Then this world isn’t safe for us?” my Commander asks sharply. I seek to reassure her.
“Matson’s World is entirely safe for human habitation, Commander. The nematode I originally gengineered 20.09 years ago eradicates each wave of pest infestation then dies out. I have kept a small colony of the original, harmless parasite alive, in bio-isolation aboard this unit. For each new infestation, I re-gengineer the infestation’s harmless parasite into the toxin-producing mule which kills its host then dies. There are preserved specimens of the pest species which calls itself Xykdap for you to examine. You may offload the transport, Commander. I have rebuilt as much of the destroyed colony buildings as I have been able to, although I apologize for the crudeness of my work. I was designed to build barns and storage sheds. Do you have further orders, Commander?”
“I— No. Carry on, Digger.”
“Thank you, Commander. I will assist with heavy cargo transport.”
Miles and miles of well-tended cropland spread out around the rebuilt colony Administration buildings. A fenced pasture was dotted with a large and apparently healthy herd of dairy cattle. Apple and peach orchards in the distance had matured and were laden with not-quite-ripened fruit. Cultivated fields and storage barns and granaries . . .
Tillie thought about the deprivations they’d suffered over the past two decades, the struggles and fears, and very quietly began to cry. They hadn’t come home to a nightmare; they’d found paradise. Thanks to one very mixed-up, determined Bolo . . .
“Tillie,” Lewis said with an odd catch in his voice, “look at this.”
He was staring at Digger’s preserved specimens. When Lewis began to laugh, Tillie stared at him.
“What’s so funny? Those things are hideous! Like . . . like giant rats! And look at the weapons Digger collected!”
“Yeah, but don’t you get it?” He pointed to the advanced necrosis of the extremities, the eyeless skulls. “I used to sing it to Ginnie, years ago. You know, the nursery rhyme?”
Tillie widened her eyes; then she, too, began to laugh. Then she was in Lewis’ arms and they were both laughing and crying at the same time. Behind them, neatly preserved in specimen jars, were Digger’s three blind mice.
Little Red Hen
by Linda Evans &
Robert R. Hollingsworth
—I—
1
Hull-breach sirens screamed through every part of Bonaventure Royale seconds after they dropped out of FTL. Lights dimmed as Bonny’s main guns returned fire, but the damage was done. They’d lost hull pressure in two massive punctures—one of ’em right through Drop Bay One. Red’s bay . . .
Ish Matsuro cursed, fighting dry-mouthed fear, and slapped the com-link. “Report!”
Doug Hart’s voice came through sharp with strain, in the middle of a sentence. “—ammit, Gunny, seal it!” Then, “We’ve lost two, Ish. Specter and Honey Pie both. Frags right through their pressure suits, massive bleeding . . .”
Ish swore again. But there wasn’t time to mourn long-time friends. They were ETA five minutes to combat drop. And he now had two critical positions to fill. He slapped the com-link again.
“Hopper, report to Drop Bay One, stat. You’ll be dropping with LRH-1313. Move it!”
He received a startled acknowledgement from the young Marine.
“DeVries,” he made another call over intership vid-link, “belay that repair job. We’ve lost a Bolo crew engineer. You’re at the top of the designated alternates list. Report to Drop Bay One. You have three minutes. Don’t worry, Red’ll take care of you,” he added, taking in the stricken look on the young warrant officer’s face.
“Yessir.” DeVries both sounded and looked terrified, but he dropped the repair of Bonny’s hull breach as ordered and ran for the drop bay.
Then, because he couldn’t stand it any longer: “Red, any damage to report?”
“Oh, Ish.” The voice he remembered with an ache of longing chided gently, “You know I’d have said so if there was.” Like brownies and warm apple pie, Red’s voice eased away some of the cold fear gripping him.
“Yeah, I know, Red. Just checking.”
A warm chuckle came through the com-link, sounding like every lover Ish had ever dreamed of or found. “You just wanted to hear my voice again, hon. How’s your wife?”
Ish winced. Leave it to Red to remind him. . . . Well, that was her job. And ultimately, the reason he no longer commanded her. “Worried sick, of course. We’re expecting another kid.”
“Oh, Ish, how wonderful! Boy or girl this time?”
Ish grinned. “Girl.”
“Give her a kiss for me. And don’t worry, Ish. We’ll get those intelligence reports to FleetCom before the Marines land.”
“Speaking of which . . . I’m zipping personnel files to you now for your replacement crew. Hopper and DeVries should be arriving at your drop bay any second.”
“Ah, yes. I have the files. Thank you, Ish. I’m going to miss Specter and Honey Pie. There . . . wasn’t anything I could do, Ish.”
The pain in her voice sounded real. Ish knew that, in some sense, it was real. He swallowed hard. “Yeah, hon. I know. Take care of the boys, Red. I’ll try to see you after the fireworks are over. And don’t forget to—”
“—duck,” Red finished with a chuckle. “Yes, Ish. I remember. Here come the new boys. Bye, now.”
“Bye . . .”
He watched on the vid screen as two ship’s crew, hastily suited against vacuum, clambered through a small opening in the foam sealant which comprised the drop sphere. Once aboard, Bonaventure tekkies finished sealing them in. Rows of identical spheres filled the drop bay. Most of them were decoys—hundreds of them. Two held LRH units and their crews. Ish received a signal from the naval commander of Bonaventure Royale. Twenty seconds to drop. Most of Ish’s command was sealed into the drop spheres, ready for duty. The remaining shipboard Marines would get their first taste of battle when the Bonaventure Royale returned with the remainder of the Fleet.
But that was still days away and Bonaventure Royale had yet to survive the orbital drop, the smash-and-run attack against Enemy orbital surveillance capabilities, and the final run for FTL and safety from Enemy guns. And Red, precious Red, had to survive the withering gauntlet of Enemy fire all the way from orbit to the planet’s surface. Ish’s mouth was dry as he watched the countdown that would send her into deadly peril. Ten seconds. Five . . .
Drop bay doors opened on schedule and the drop sphere protecting Red and her fragile cargo vanished, lost amongst hundreds of other falling spheres. Ish turned off the vid screen.
“God go with you, love,” he whispered.
Then he was busy directing the attack of orbital surveillance and defenses, which was all he could do to protect her from now until the end of the battle for Hobson’s Mines.
2
Burn scars marked the landing site where a big Navy transport had settled at the pickup point. Ish’s flier settled there, too, not far from a sight he had prayed he would never behold. The Bolo canted on broken treads atop a stark-shadowed plateau. The earlier transport had determined she was too hot to bring aboard and her crew was no longer in need of anything the Navy could give them. So they’d called for an investigative team and abandoned the little Bolo. She must have struggled to gain the rendezvous point, given the visible damage to her.
Stumbling a little over uneven ground, Ish traced the sweeping prow of the Bolo—almost delicate compared with the heavy combat prows of the Mark XXI fighting units. Sunlight caught purple-black glints. No heavy ablative armor for this teacup of a Bolo. Barely ten and a half meters long and—discounting treads—a mere three and a half wide, she was light, fast . . .