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.
"If we cut to the east of these trees," I flash a superimposed map over the images from the drone, "I can pursue without having to grind down timber to follow. Smashing down trees will make a great deal more noise and might well cause the enemy to veer course from their home base. I have sufficient aerial drones on board to track them through the remaining forest cover, even if the enemy recovers enough sense to begin shooting them down."
"Good plan. Do it."
I turn to the east, circling the stand of trees, which allows the panic-stricken enemy to believe they have eluded me. They slow slightly in their headlong rush, staggering and gasping, offering one another assistance as battlefield injuries make themselves felt. I realize for the first time that substantial size differences exist among the individuals, with some topping a full eight feet in height and others reaching no higher than an average human female, nearly a meter shorter than the tallest individuals. As I ponder possible explanations for these differences, I am deeply startled to receive a command-frequency hail from near orbit.
"CSS Darknight to all Bolo units in the field, file VSR, please."
"Good God!" Alessandra stares. "The Darknight? That's a heavy cruiser!"
I respond to the request for VSR. "Unit SPQ/R-561 of the line, reporting. Captain Alessandra DiMario, commanding."
"DiMario here," my commander takes over the VSR. "We are engaged in pursuit of enemy forces" —she glances at a side screen for the distance— "zero point nine kilometers east of Rustenberg. We have repelled a substantial attack here and are tracking survivors to their home base. If you can spare a medical shuttle, Rustenberg's Operations Director and Chief of Fabrications could use a full course of antiradiation treatments. We had a near miss with a couple of fusion bombs. If Senator hadn't destroyed them, there'd be nothing left of Rustenberg but slag."
"Understood, Captain," a crisp female voice responds. "We'll send a team down as soon as we can. We've brought five more Bolo units with us, which we've fielded to undefended colonies. If you need help, we're in parking orbit with the destroyer CSS Vengeance. We'll watch your backs from up here, in case whatever's arming those birds decides to intervene. Darknight out."
"Roger that, and thanks. DiMario out." My commander frowns, tapping her fingers against the padded console under her hand. "Now there's an ugly thought," she mutters. "I really want a look at whatever those things have stockpiled in their base camp. And where the devil are the Tersae keeping that camp? Does your drone see any heat signatures that would indicate an aboveground encampment large enough to support as many personnel as we've already killed?"
I widen the range of the drone's sensors, which have been focused tightly on the fleeing Tersae. "No, Commander, there are no heat plumes besides Rustenberg's within a fifteen-kilometer radius of the drone. Shall I boost it to a higher altitude?"
"No, launch a second drone. I don't want to lose sight of those things, which we could do if they jump into a narrow ravine and take shelter under an overhang or in a cave somewhere, while the drone's looking for heat plumes."
I launch a second drone, boosting it to a higher altitude. There are still no visible heat plumes besides Rustenberg's. "I have scanned a fifty-kilometer radius, with negative results. Any shelter the Tersae are heading for must be underground, to shield the heat of campfires this thoroughly. If," I add thoughtfully, "the Tersae require cooked food or campfires for warmth."
"Huh," my commander grunts. "With those beaks of theirs, they could well eat raw meat. And I suppose it's possible they wouldn't need shelter or warmth to survive a Thulian winter. Presumably most of the wildlife gets along just fine. But whatever their tolerance for winter weather, they're using advanced technology and that wouldn't fare too well if left out in freezing rain or blizzard conditions. I think you're right, Senator, they've got an underground hidey-hole."
I study the geological map provided by Rustenberg's Operations Director, but it reveals too little about subterranean features to be of substantial use. I monitor data feed from both drones, watching the straggling enemy as it limps toward home. Having swung wide around the stand of trees which has given the enemy a false sense of security, I slow to a crawl and parallel enemy progress toward their unknown destination.
The lone Tersae survivor running far in advance of the others vanishes into a ravine. A heat plume rises abruptly in a visible beacon. I send the drone lower, angling its cameras to peer into the shadowed depths. The narrow ravine hides the opening to a cavern of unknown dimensions. A well-fitted cover has been stretched across the entrance. It was the opening of this cover that sent the heat plume skyward.
We have found the enemy's base camp.
Two point zero three minutes later, I detect a strong radio signal originating from the ravine. Startled, I lock on and hear a burst of alien chatter. My commander leans forward, expression intent.
"If I had to place a bet," she mutters, "I'd say they're yelling for help."
"Agreed, Commander. The signal is both powerful and directional, aimed at something in orbit."
My commander hails the CSS Darknight. "Darknight, DiMario here. We are picking up a Tersae radio transmission aimed at an orbital target. Do you hear the signal?"
"Roger and affirmative, we've got it." A brief pause ensues. "It's tripped a relay system inside an orbiting satellite. We're warping orbit to attempt capture."
"Roger that, Darknight. We'll apprise you of further developments on the ground."
The cluster of Tersae warriors following the front-runner has reached the same steep-sided ravine, climbing down by means of a rough trail hacked out of native rock. My commander speaks softly. "All right, Senator, it's payback time. Let's go."
Savage satisfaction floods my ego-gestalt circuitry, skittering weirdly through the tangle of jury-rigged connections between older and newer psychotronic systems. As I rev up my drive engines to battle speed, I hope that my malfunctioning systems hold together long enough to destroy the enemy and take its base camp intact for the intel specialists. Then I slash my way into the forest with a ponderous crash of falling timber and close in for the kill.