MotherShip (38 page)

But the answer was obvious to her.

“Kyle. I am damaged,” Mother said. “You must lead Becky and Jaric out.”

But Kyle could no longer see in order to get away, not through the tears blinding his vision. And he could not answer Mother because of the lump that filled his throat.

Over the comm link Jaric cried out loud as he pulled his triggers, destroying the T'kaan ships that still dove at him in wave after endless wave.

Rawlon was furious; both with himself and the entire universe.

Kraaqi warriors did not run from battle
—
that single thought silently haunted him.

Here he was, Admiral of the greatest fleet ever assembled—his only order a general retreat, leaving the maternal Mewiis alone to fight the battle for him. Clenching his eyes tightly shut, he cursed himself.

Behind him, he heard the familiar steps of his First Officer approaching.

Rawlon's body jerked with shock as Curja screamed out loud just behind his head. With surprising strength, Curja slammed his fist into the console next to Rawlon's chair which caused sparks to erupt from the damaged electronics.

Rawlon's eyes met Curja's. Curja glared back with burning anger.

“Have the humans disengaged?” Rawlon asked, suddenly feeling a strange and sickening tightness in his stomach. But somehow he didn't want to know what Curja was going to tell him. He wanted him to leave; to order Curja to return to his station.

But he couldn't.

With a flash of insight, the age-old proverb went through his mind— ‘
Even a warrior fights the bitterness of tragedy to the very end.
’

“The humans...” Curja began.

“Our brethren!” Rawlon shouted in anger, causing every head on the bridge to turn towards him. “Tell me of the humans—Brethren of the warriors Kraaqi.”

Curja looked down, remembering the sacred honor that had been bestowed on the humans during the recently completed rite of
Sa'DaK
by Rok and the Band of the Stars.

“I will know,” Rawlon growled ominously.

Curja looked up with a warrior's stoic gaze. He spoke with a sadness in his voice.

“The human female, the one called Becky, is dead. An honored death in battle.”

Rawlon screamed.

He drew the curved rapier from the leather scabbard at his waist. Looking back to the viewscreen, he placed the sharpened edge to his palm...and slashed. Green blood flowed down his trembling arm as he screamed again in pain and anger. The entire bridge crew screamed their rage with him, their voices joined together in righteous anger for the lost human race.

“Please Kyle, answer me. Perhaps my comm links are also damaged? Yes, they are damaged, too. And my sensors.” Mother felt the direct hits again and again against her shields, but somehow she no longer associated the battle with herself. Her guns fired back automatically, but her aim only managed to scatter the Scout fighters who quickly came around for another run.

“It is strange, Kyle. My sensors can see you and Jaric, but Becky's ship has disappeared...” Mother paused. “I cannot think clearly. I think I should contact Rawlon.”

Even as Kyle wiped the tears to clear his vision, his shipped lurched. He screamed and banked hard—straight into the line of fire. Straight into the two attacking T'kaan fighters he dove as he fired back at them like a madman, his ship's collision alarm echoing strangely in his ears, as if he was dreaming.

He pressed his twin triggers over and over as continued to scream.

A short distance away, Jaric finally shook his pursuers. He quickly remembered the explosion, and knew with a sickening dread what it meant—or thought it meant. Now Mother was reporting she was damaged and the battle had barely begun? Deep inside, Jaric felt his heart sink with despair.

He turned his ship back to Becky's last known position, and his sensors reported back the expanding debris field.

His breath failed him as if he had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer. His heart began throbbing so loudly in his ears that he imagined he had lost atmosphere inside the cockpit. Jaric swayed as his vision blurred and the universe began to fade. Suddenly, bright laser fire erupted around him once again.

Out of instinct alone, he turned his ship and rammed the engines full open.

“The other humans?” Rawlon asked as he came to his senses.

Curja turned back to his station and read the sensor data. “They are cut off,” he said in a voice drained of emotion. “They are cut off—as is the Death Squadron. More T'kaan ships are closing on them.” Curja looked up at Rawlon. “They will be overwhelmed.”

One more time, Rawlon turned back to the viewscreen, back to where the black horned ships outnumbered the stars.

“Get me Tarlog!” Rawlon shouted decisively.

The visage of the Hrono appeared almost immediately.

“Our fleet is turned and ready for the order to hyperspace,” Tarlog reported.

Rawlon stared back at him, and then Tarlog noticed the blood flowing freely down the warrior Admiral's arm.

“The race known as humans, is now extinct.” Rawlon said simply.

“All of them?” Tarlog asked.

“The female is dead. The two males are trapped, along with the MotherShip.”

“Trapped,” Tarlog repeated solemnly. “But even if we give them succor, their race is most certainly dead. The female was the key to any hope.”

“They will die here, along with the noble Mewiis,” Rawlon said.

“Unless?” Tarlog asked, somehow sensing what Rawlon was thinking.

Rawlon smiled widely. “Our peoples have fought each other for millennia. We...are warrior races.”

Tarlog was surprised at the unexpected accolade from his one-time enemy. They stared at each other across the black gulf and felt a new bond begin to tie their souls together.

But the growing nemesis called T'kaan drew ever closer on their viewscreens.

“I say we teach these... Dowlas,” Rawlon spat. “I say that we warriors teach these T'kaan what war really is,” Rawlon said through clenched teeth.

Tarlog turned and whispered off-line to both of his aides. The silence thickened as he finally turned back to Rawlon. “We have been running some quick calculations since your order to retreat. It could well be that at the next battle, the odds may not even be this good,” he said bluntly.

Rawlon raised his bloody fist and shook it. “We can still do what they think impossible.”

Tarlog's eyes widened. “Our original plan is useless.”

“These T'kaan maggots bring many ships. They bring mighty ships! But they do not have what you and I have—what the Kraaqi and Hrono have.” Rawlon remembered Mother's unifying speech at the recent assembly. “And what the Mewiis have.”

“Tell me,” Tarlog said, an urgency now in his voice.

“They do not have our heart. They do not have our courage,” Rawlon growled as he clenched his eyes shut, and then opened them. “They do not have our passion for life.”

Tarlog waited, his adrenaline pounding and flowing throughout his body.

“Yes,” Rawlon crooned. “We must now do something completely unexpected.”

“Tell me,” Tarlog repeated.

The silence seemed to shout in their ears.

“We will attack,” Rawlon whispered savagely.

Tarlog laughed. But he caught himself in the next second and his laughter stopped.

Immediately, the beauty of the simple strategy materialized in both their minds.

“They have stretched their superior numbers around our massive defensive line, to encircle and smash us.” Rawlon nodded at the viewscreen that displayed their fleets. “They expect us to run, or to go into a defensive mode. But, if I lead the Kraaqi fleet up the center, here,” Rawlon pointed and the ships on the secondary viewscreen moved in his computer simulation. “And with the Hrono fleet as my right fist, here,” Rawlon said as his voice rose with emotion. “We leave the Mewiis in their strong defensive position anchoring our left wing and keeping the T'kaan occupied there.” The fleets began to move on the viewscreen in the simulation he had just programmed, the distinctive colors of each fleet glowing as though alive. Two large sections formed tight formations and began a forward movement.

“We would smash through their center,” Tarlog said with growing optimism. He smiled a warrior's smile. “And then...?”

Rawlon raised his rapier toward the T'kaan fleet. “We destroy them where we find them. As we break through to their rear positions, we turn and attack again—we will outflank them first! But both our fleets must attack using the Kraaqi phalanx in order to punch through.”

The Hrono warlord nodded.

“Now,” Rawlon said to both Tarlog and Curja. “Send orders to all ships. When they hear the Music of War—we begin our attack.”

Both warlords turned and immediately the orders were sent through their aides to every ship.

Rawlon waited a moment, until his staff finished issuing all their commands. He smiled. “Curja. Put me through on every comm channel,” Rawlon said with confidence.

“They are yours, my commander.”

Rawlon waved his hand, and the T'kaan fleet reappeared on his main screen.

They were still bearing down on them.

“Hear me, maggots of T'kaan. The Battleships of the Kraaqi and Hrono come for you now. And we want war...” Rawlon raised his head defiantly and shook his clenched fist to the viewscreen filled with the T'kaan.

“To...the...Death!”

Rawlon turned as his bridge officers stood and simultaneously pulled their rapiers out and pointed them towards him in salute. Across the entire Kraaqi fleet, aboard every ship larger than a fighter, every officer stood and repeated the traditional gesture. Even on the Hrono ships of war every officer stood and raised their clenched fists or held their weapons high.

Rawlon shouted again the age-old battle cry of his people, and Hrono voices and screams mingled together...over every comm channel.

And the T'kaan heard. And wondered.

“I want the ‘Music of War,'” Rawlon ordered. “I want it on every comm channel! Ready it, on my mark.” Rawlon stood before his commander's chair and pointed at the viewscreen full of T'kaan warships. “I want them to know we're coming,” He snarled. “I want the entire universe to know we're coming!”

Rawlon paused, and then he motioned at Curja.

“Bring the battleships around!”

As one, every battleship turned. With exact precision, the prows of every Hrono and Kraaqi battleship came around simultaneously to face the hordes of T'kaan.

Rawlon sat back into his Captain's chair and waited until he was sure the T'kaan sensors were aware that the combined fleets were turning. With a renewed confidence he nodded at Curja, his senior officer.

Inside the ships of every fleet, a thousand instruments struck a single, mighty chord and became a solid wall of sound. The single chord continued its roar for long seconds—drawing out its savage cry—and then the sound of untold numbers of drums joined in and began to pound out a steady, insistent beat. The mighty chord went silent a moment, then came again, its intensity only slightly lessened, and then it joined the rhythmic onslaught of the untold drums like some gargantuan engine slowly picking up speed.

With a relentless power, the Music of War began.

Above the mass of combined strings and horns and percussion, an attack of solo instruments began, some like the throaty roar of an electric guitar in full cry, some like electronic instruments turned to searing intensity as they wailed angrily to the heavens. More and more solo instruments roared above this relentless, mighty rhythm.

Countless horns now combined, strident and piercing, as the heavy rhythm slowly increased in speed—faster and faster. Above the unstoppable rhythm and screaming solo instruments, the horns began to play ‘The Charge of the Brave.’

The Music of War roared and pummeled every aural sensory receptor, and moved the allied fleets forward with grim determination.

Unknown to Rawlon, the music was hampering the T'kaan ships, especially the three Great Horned ships. Confusion spread as their all-encompassing
oneness
was partially interrupted. The T'kaan compensated, forcing their will between the individual notes. But it was not easy, and they lost precious milliseconds as the Music suddenly changed tempo or rhythm.

The T'kaan ships fought against the music to keep it from hampering their all-vital communications.

For the first time, just at the edge of their bizarre, combined consciousness, they felt the faintest twinge of fear as they went into battle.

The T'kaan leaders and the Great Horned ships brushed it aside with their combined conscious will. For they were T'kaan—nothing ever defeated them.

Not when the Great Horned ships were present, directing the battle.

Tarlog sat with grim-faced determination aboard his flagship as it made its turn. Kaldah, his senior aide, approached.

“What orders for the Home Fleet, sir?”

“A moment, Kaldah. Let me think.”

Tarlog paused in thought as he watched his mighty Hrono fleet come about.

He quickly ordered the battle groups into positions, sending his commands out between the brief pauses of the well-known Kraaqi music. His battle groups began forming up into two mighty phalanxes—the classic formation of Kraaqi warships—comprised of battle cruisers and frigates, the elite of his fleet. The battleships combined and became the leading edge of the huge, three-dimensional phalanxes.

The battleships were to drive a wedge into the enemy formations. Flying among these capital ships, Tarlog ordered every fighter squadron to provide close support.

Tarlog smiled. His sensors showed Rawlon forming his own phalanxes; one huge one in the center, and two smaller ones on each flank in typical Kraaqi strategy.

The Hrono admiral waited. As the last Hrono ships closed rank to form the phalanxes, the last fighter squadrons joined with the battleships at the forward points.

The allied battle fleets leapt eagerly toward the enemy.