“We knew there was going to be a butcher’s bill, Lieutenant.” Gur looked at Sergeant Zamir. “Sergeant, take care of the rest. If they are in a space with a live member of our crew, I want you to do whatever you can to save the crew member. If not, you are authorized to vent the space before you enter.” He held up two fingers. “I only want two prisoners, Sergeant Zamir.”
Three hours later, it was done. Gur, Peled, Grant and Sergeant Zamir slouched in chairs in the Captain’s day room. Zamir was blood spattered and grey faced.
“We lost eight Marines and thirty six crew, but we got all of the bastards, sir,” he said wearily. “Two prisoners, like you asked for, but you’ll have to keep them shackled or sedated. They don’t surrender, sir. They keep trying to kill you until you kill them. We only got these two because they were knocked out by grenade concussion.”
Commander Peled said: “We’ve heard from the Kent. They mouse-trapped their Savak like we did, but caught more of them in the first few minutes, so it went pretty well. Rutland didn’t have it so easy. The Savak materialized on the bridge and Captain Sheffer lost most of her bridge crew before they got it under control. Her XO is dead.”
Gur nodded. “So we’ve got three ships we can trust. Sensors report that the Tilleke force has withdrawn towards Arcadia. The London and half a dozen others are still sitting out there, but for how long is anybody’s guess. This deep in Tilleke space, figure we are three full days from home.”
“All we have between us and home is half the Dominion fleet, sir, Commander Peled noted dryly. “Plus, they’ve got the London.”
Gur smiled indifferently. “How many crew to properly run a battleship, Benny? Two thousand? Get rid of the cooks and other non-essentials, you still got nine hundred, a thousand? How many men do you think the Tilleke could put on the London? Skiffington and his sidekick think they put on a hundred or more soldiers, but how many who actually know how to run the ship?”
Peled shrugged. “The AI can run the ship, sir.”
“Yeah, okay,” Gur conceded, “the AI can fly the ship from point A to point B, but the AI won’t fight the ship without the proper voice recognition codes, and those died with the Captain and the XO.” He nodded to himself, thinking it through. “I think they are going to be slow to react, Benny, and there is a very, very fine line between slow and dead.”
On board The Emperor’s Pride, Prince RaShahid nodded in satisfaction. The Victorian fleet had been destroyed as an effective combat force. Close to eighty ships had been destroyed, another twenty captured and twenty had scattered into deep space. The krait, in particular, had been astonishingly effective. The Emperor would be pleased.
This battle was over. The captured ships would be sent to the Dominion forces, as promised. The Emperor was, after all, a man of his word. But it was time for the Tilleke fleet to tend to long overdue business. He gave the necessary orders and the Tilleke ships turned to head towards the worm hole into Arcadia, with its vast resources of Ziridium.
Grant finally found Cookie in the shuttle bay, where they had dragged the bodies of the Savak commandos. The corpses were lined up in long, even lines, as if the orderliness of the process could somehow mask the evident signs of violent death. The corpses were battered, blood-smeared and in some cases, dismembered from grenade blasts. To one side there was a pile of weapons and small cylindrical tanks that Grant had not noticed before.
The Marines — the survivors — were standing around in small knots, gesturing and laughing raucously through the day’s exploits, riding the semi-hysterical high of someone who had just cheated death, but didn’t understand how. More than a few bottles of brandy were being passed around. Sergeant Zamir was nowhere in sight, having wisely decided to let his troops unwind without impediment.
Cookie, brandy bottle in hand, came up and took him by the arm. “C’mere, Grant, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” She dragged him over to a line of bodies. “This is Bob,” she said, pointing to the first body. “Bob is having himself a bad day, a real b-a-a-a-d day. I killed Bob eight times today, didn’t I, Bob?” She took a hit from the bottle. “Yes, I did. Six times on the London, then that fucker in the escape pod.” A frown knotted her brow. “No, that’s not right; you killed Bob in the escape pod.” Another swig. “Then two more times here on the Yorkshire.” She leaned over the corpse. “Bad day, huh, Bob?”
Grant belatedly realized that all of the “Bobs” looked alike. He looked closer. Not identical, but close enough to be brothers. Each had black hair, heavy dark eye brows and a surprisingly small nose in a large, round face. Each was powerfully built, with barrel chests and broad, muscular shoulders. There were differences, of course, but the family resemblance was unmistakable.
Cookie pulled him down the line. “This is Tom,” she gestured to twenty or more corpses. The Toms were a different model. Sandy hair, narrow face and built like a long-distance runner.
“Bugger me,” he breathed. The rumors were true. “Creche-born soldiers.”
Cookie raised her bottle in a mocking toast. “Hiram told me about them. Rumor was they are raised to totally obey the Emperor. And when they are just fuckin’ little babies, they do some sort of surgery to their brains to make them…something.” She waived the bottle dismissively. “No one seems to know just why, but they do the surgery alright, just look at the scars on Bob’s temples.” She hiccupped thoughtfully. “Nasty.”
Grant gestured to three other lines of Savak dead. “And those?”
“Dicks and Harries and ten goddamed Janes.” Cookie’s face lit in a slightly drunken grin. “Join the Marines, Grant, and you get to kill every damn Tom, Dick and Harry you meet.” She took another swig. “And Bob and Jane, too.” Her grin vanished, replaced by a look of utter bleakness. “They sure do know how to fight, though. Give ‘em credit for that. Fight until you kill ‘em.” She turned to Grant then, and for the first time he realized tears were streaming down her face.
“Oh, sweet Gods of Our Mothers, how are we ever going to get home?” she asked.
• • • • •
On the captured H.M.S. London, First Sister Pilot sat back, puzzled. She had ordered six of the ten captured ships to head for Victorian space, there to meet up with the Dominion forces. Three ships, the Rutland, Kent and Yorkshire, were apparently still getting organized. But they were taking a long time to do it.
Third Sister Pilot came to her and bowed. “Sister, I have one of the krait pilots on the communicator. She is very troubled and wishes to speak with you.”
The screen filled with the image of a Pilot. As old as First Sister Pilot, but a different model. She bowed and spoke: “I am Second Sister Pilot, 13th Satori Creche, Special Savak Commando. I command the krait vessel that attacked the Victorian war ship Rutland three hours ago.”
“The Emperor’s Blessings to you and your men, Sister,” First Sister Pilot said from the London. “You have achieved a great victory over our enemies!”
“I fear not,” Second Sister said. “My men transported onto the Rutland, and its navigation lights are on and blinking, but…” She stopped, biting her lip.
A cold knot formed in First Sister Pilot’s stomach. Something was wrong. “Speak, Sister! We have no time to waste!”
Second Sister Pilot swallowed. “They do not call me! They should have taken the ship by now, but they do not call me to bring the krait into their loading dock. “And…and-” she dipped her chin in confusion — “there are no bodies!”