“Dishonor cannot be forgotten by the wind,” said the communications box.
The comment was typical. They constantly spoke in terms of their own idioms and beliefs. I decided to press ahead, not sure what they meant, but sensing they were listening.
“The machines hold our home herds hostage,” I said. “They have no honor, and forced us to come here. They used lies and threats to gain our cooperation. We did not know who we must fight. We only knew that we must fight for them.”
“The rains will fall upon the honored and the dishonored alike!” said the communications box with sudden emotion.
“Exactly!” I said, hoping the rising excitement in the other’s words was a good thing. I had to grab hold of that emotion and channel it, turn it against the Macros where it belonged. “The Macros have dishonored us both. They urinate down both our skins. If they are capable of laughing, they are doing so now.”
A silence followed. “They dare to laugh at our Herds?” the question came at last. The emotional inflection came through as incredulous. I noted that the communications box was getting better at translating the Centaur’s speech. Every minute we used it, the neural net inside fine-tuned itself.
“Yes!” I said. “The machines think we are fools. They work us like-like tools.”
“This is a fine insult. This cannot be borne.”
“We agree. Because of this, we have paused in our fighting. We have changed the direction of our herd. We no longer wish to press into your lands.”
“You do not claim our lands?”
“No! We do not claim the ground we stand on, and we wish to leave. We wish to join with you, and trample the machines. We will take their lands instead.”
They paused again. I sensed that perhaps a large group of them argued as to how to proceed. During these interludes, it was best to say nothing, as interrupting their thoughts only seemed to make them take longer to come back with a response.
At length, they said: “We will join herds with you, if you have a plan. And you must lead. When no human foot stands upon our lands, we will follow you.”
I took a deep breath and a swig of water from my suit’s reservoirs. The water was warm, but slightly refreshing. I had promised myself to redesign these suits with chillers that worked on the water supply, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I wished that I had spent the time. I could use a cold drink right now.
“Sounds like you’ve got them where you want them, Colonel,” said a voice nearby. I turned and saw it was Lieutenant Marquis.
She was standing, but supporting her weight with both hands on Kwon’s arm. He was beaming like a guy with a hot prom date. She had broken her pelvis, but that would heal up in a day or two with the help of a few million hardworking nanites.
I flashed them a smile then waved for them to be quiet. I didn’t want the herds to overhear and get the wrong idea. Kwon led Marquis away. She hobbled and hopped awkwardly.
“Lieutenant?” I called after her. Both of them turned.
“Sir?”
“You think you can pilot one of those assault ships in a few hours?”
She looked at me seriously. “I can. They don’t have pedals, you know.”
“I know,” I said.
Kwon was the only one who didn’t look happy. He had a concerned look. I could tell he was thinking he had just brought Joelle back from the dead, and now I was going to send her into the teeth of the Macros again.
He was right, and it wasn’t fair. But there was nothing I could do about it. I was short on pilots.
14
Talking the Centaurs through the next part of my plan went more easily than I would have thought. I’d told them I wanted to puncture their sky, and I told them why. They understood and agreed grudgingly. They only had one sticking point: they didn’t like the idea of huddling in their underground passages and tubes all around the station.
“We do not creep beneath the earth,” they informed me huffily. “It is not our way. The Herd stands and faces death bravely.”
“And that is our way as well,” I said gently. “But we also know it is sometimes best to trick an enemy, to appear weak, when really, we are strong.”
“Trickery is not the goal of an honorable Herd.”
I grunted. That gambit had failed. I was trying to get them to hunker down and hide in every tube, storage chamber and food processing chamber that encircled the central cavity of the station. The place was huge, and should hold them all at least temporarily. Then, I could blow a hole in their roof, depressurize the central chamber and return to the Macro ships claiming victory.
They had understood the necessity of making it appear we had won the day to the Macros-although they weren’t happy with anyone believing they’d lost a fight. But they really had trouble with hiding in dark, enclosed spaces. I began to believe they had a visceral fear of such places. It added up: they hadn’t rushed into the tubes and outer chambers to fight us, but had waited until we were out in their open environment. No wonder they’d built these structures so insanely large. A spacefaring race that suffered from claustrophobia was at a definite disadvantage.
“But if you do not hide when the central cavity depressurizes, you will all die,” I pointed out in a reasonable tone.
“Honor is worth a thousand deaths.”
“Is it worth a million?”
“Yes.”
My head itched inside my helmet, and I wanted to take it off and throw it at the Centaurs. After that, I would have a really good, satisfying scratch. I left it on in the end, suffering the tickle of sweat on my scalp and nose.
“Pointless defeat is dishonorable,” I told them. “If you die when the cold vacuum comes into your hollow world, you will have provided the machines with fresh amusements.”
I touched upon the area of being laughed at purposefully. Apparently, nothing pissed off a herd of Centaurs more than the thought the other side believed they were foolish.
“We are insulted! Our rivers will be swollen with the tears of our enemies!”
I shrugged, not knowing what they meant exactly, but understanding the tone: I had pushed their button. I decided it was time for a little pause on my side of this conversation.
Neither side spoke for nearly a minute. By the end, I was weakening and reaching for the talk button.
“There is dishonor and death on every path,” they said. “We will take the trail which defeats our laughing enemies.”
They said this last with bitterness. I almost felt for them, sensing this was a painful decision for the herds. It was hard not to be impressed by a people willing to die en masse for their own arcane sense of honor.
“You have one hour to secure your bodies in airtight chambers,” I said, not wanting to give them a chance to back out or complain about details. “After that, we will empty the sky. Then, we will lead the way as we have agreed. We will strike the first blow, taking the Macro ships as we return to them in apparent triumph.”
“We are impressed and sickened that you dishonor yourselves this way to strike at our mutual enemy.”
That statement made me mildly angry. The Centaurs didn’t believe trickery was acceptable in warfare. They wanted a stand-up fight without deception of any kind. Anything less was disgusting to them. The implication was that we were disgusting creatures. Since we were willing to debase ourselves to win, the Centaurs were only making deals with us out of necessity.
I quickly got over my irritation with them and I ordered my men to set up a massive barrage of fire. We destroyed every bush and low-built structure in the vicinity to make it look like a pitched battle was going on. We advanced into the region we were firing into, and slowly marched to the point the Macros had identified as a weak spot. We stood underneath it, still putting on a good display of fire. I knew the Macros were watching this structure with sensors. From outside, the leaks of radiation would give the appearance of further combat.