Shattered Spear

Chapter Fourteen

Captain Honore Bradamont had spent about a decade in the Alliance fleet, which made her an old-timer in a force that for a century had been losing ships, men, and women at a rate matched only by their equally stubborn and equally bloodied opponents, the Syndicate Worlds. She had survived her first years through sheer luck, managed to learn enough to help her survive the next few, gotten captured by the Syndicate Worlds, gotten rescued by the Alliance several months after that, gained command of the battle cruiser Dragon, and had spent the final months under the command of Admiral John “Black Jack” Geary, who had been the sort of leader who could win victories that did not demand mass sacrifices on his own side.

And then, with peace having been declared, she had found herself fighting first through vast reaches of unexplored space inhabited by a couple of intelligent and hostile nonhuman species, as well as the ambiguously friendly Dancers, then assigned to Midway to help fight battles here.

“What exactly is peace?” Kapitan Diaz asked her.

Bradamont, her seat next to his on the bridge of heavy cruiser Manticore, shrugged. She had long since gotten used to those who had grown up under Syndicate rule asking her about things that Bradamont thought common knowledge. But this particular question dealt with a topic she wasn’t familiar with, either. “It’s supposed to be when someone isn’t at war.”

“So there isn’t any fighting? There is no need for ships like this?” Diaz waved around to indicate his cruiser.

“There is fighting,” Bradamont said. “As far as I know, the fighting isn’t all that different, and people die just as surely in peace as in war. And there are still fleets of warships and armies of ground forces.”

“Then what is the difference?”

“I don’t really know.” Bradamont gazed off to one side, remembering. “Admiral Geary knows. He used to try to explain it to us. After the Syndicate Worlds finally signed an agreement to end the war, we all waited for everything to change. But none of us can see any difference. None of us know how to be different. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“How can you stop someone from attacking you?” Diaz wondered.

She focused back on him. “Do you want to attack Admiral Geary?”

“Black Jack?” Diaz shook his head, a gesture mimicked by all of the specialists on the bridge. “Why would I? He is for the people.”

“He is an admiral in the Alliance fleet,” she reminded him.

“But… he’s different. He only does what he must. No more. He doesn’t war on those who can’t fight back, or demand more than we can give, or…” Diaz screwed up his face as he thought. “He fights only those who force him to fight. Is that right?”

“That’s right.” Bradamont spread her hands. “So, Admiral Geary has stopped you from wanting to attack him.”

Diaz frowned in thought. “We need more Black Jacks, don’t we?”

“You have President Iceni and General Drakon. That is no small thing.”

Whatever Diaz would have answered was interrupted by an alert. He looked quickly at his display, the frown changing into a scowl. “The Syndicate is back. At the jump point from Lono, just as you predicted, Captain.”

It wasn’t a big Syndicate flotilla, but big enough to be a serious problem. Three heavy cruisers, a light cruiser, and ten Hunter-Killers. “Whatever peace is supposed to be,” Bradamont commented sarcastically, “it still looks like war from here.”

Kommodor Marphissa wasn’t sure whether she was racing her flotilla to intercept the Syndicate flotilla at Iwa, or to intercept and battle with the enigma armada to help the Syndicate flotilla. In any case, her intentions didn’t matter. The distances were too great, the time too short, and the odds against the Syndicate flotilla too dire. Marphissa could only watch as the Syndicate flotilla charged toward the enigmas.

One of the worst parts of space combat was born of the sheer size of space. With light requiring hours or days to cover the distances between formations of ships, it was all too easy to be in a situation where a badly outnumbered flotilla of friendly forces faced certain doom, and to be so far away that there was no means of intervening even though the action could be viewed with perfect clarity. What was being seen was both history, events that had already taken place hours or days before, and immediate, because what was viewed was not a record of past tragedy but the actual moments when ships and crews were dying.

The Syndicate warships had arranged themselves into the standard box formation, with one broad side facing toward the enemy. Leading the formation were the Syndicate light cruiser and fifteen of their Hunter-Killers, arrayed in the rectangle forming the side facing the enigmas. Behind them came the two battle cruisers and two of the heavy cruisers, arranged in a diamond inside the box, and in the rectangle making up the rear side of the box were the other three heavy cruisers and remaining four Hunter-Killers.

Swooping in to meet the Syndicate box head-on were the enigmas, who had arranged their many more warships into a nearly flat box with one narrow side facing the Syndicate. The arrangement of alien warships bore an uncomfortable resemblance to an immense axe head, with the leading edge swinging toward the Syndicate box.

Kapitan Kontos was watching as well, his expression gloomy. “Why can’t their deaths mean something?” he murmured to Marphissa.

“They will mean something,” she replied. “Every enigma warship they destroy will be one less that we have to defeat in order to save the people the Syndicate transports and freighters have been shuttling down to the planet.”

He glanced at the time/distance marker next to the representation of the Syndicate formation on their displays. “One hour and forty light minutes away. We’re seeing them when they were two minutes from contact.”

“The enigmas will take time to finish off the Syndicate warships,” Marphissa said, her voice sounding harsh even to her. “That will give us the time we need to intercept the enigmas before they can reach the Syndicate people on the planet.” It felt ugly, spending human lives like some perverted form of money to buy time, but that sort of trade-off was familiar to them all. She sighed. “Trade lives for time. I used to think that was something only the cold-blooded business minds of the Syndicate would do. Then I saw the Alliance fight and realized that they would make the same choice. There are two kinds of people in war. The kind who are willing to sell their lives to defend their people or their homes or their beliefs, and the kind who aren’t willing to pay that price. The first kind always beat the second kind.”

Kontos gave her a troubled look. “What if both sides are of the first kind?”

“Then they kill each other until one side wins or both sides are bled white and collapse.” She met his gaze. “Unless someone on both sides is smart enough to realize that there need to be limits on what they ask people to die for.”

“We’re still willing to die,” Kontos said. “Not for the Syndicate, though.”

“No.” Marphissa pointed to her display. “They’re not going to die for the Syndicate, either.”

The time to engagement between the Syndicate flotilla and the alien armada scrolled downward. One minute. Thirty seconds. Ten seconds.

They saw what had happened one hour and forty minutes ago.

The Syndicate commander had been brave, but not smart. He held his vector, but the enigmas used their superior maneuverability to tilt their formation upward in the last seconds before contact. Instead of slicing through the center of the Syndicate box, the enigma axe went in near the top at a slight angle.

Marphissa tried not to wince as the sensors aboard her ships reported with emotionless precision the outcome of the first engagement.

The light cruiser and ten of the Hunter-Killers along the upper edge of the Syndicate box had all been blown to pieces. One of the Syndicate battle cruisers had also been hit so hard that nothing was left but fragments. Three of the heavy cruisers were out of action, one blown apart by a massive number of hits, another broken into several large pieces that were tumbling away from the remnants of the Syndicate flotilla, and another still intact, still fighting, but heavily battered.

The enigmas had taken some losses, but not nearly as many as the heavily outgunned Syndicate warships. “Only six,” Kontos murmured. “They only took out six.”

“They damaged some others,” Marphissa said. “They could have done better!” she growled, feeling anger and frustration. “He just ran right at them instead of trying last-minute maneuvers himself!”

The surviving Syndicate warships were bending their courses up and around. They weren’t fleeing, but were maneuvering to make another pass at the aliens.

The enigmas were whipping about as well. At the incredible velocities the human and alien warships were traveling, their “tight” turns swung through many thousands of kilometers, but the enigmas were able to outturn even the human battle cruisers.

Forty minutes later, the two forces clashed again. The enigmas came in under the surviving Syndicate warships, their axe head this time slashing at a high angle upward through the human formation.

The enigmas lost another four warships as they overwhelmed the rest of the human formation, but only one Syndicate warship had survived the second encounter. The heavy cruiser badly damaged in the first pass had lagged enough behind its comrades that the enigmas had not been able to target it as well. Most of the enigma ships cleared the debris field that marked the remains of the last Syndicate battle cruiser, two heavy cruisers, and nine HuKs, then turned to head for the Syndicate transports and freighters orbiting the planet. They had a great distance yet to cover, almost two light hours as they chased the planet around its own orbit. But a dozen enigma craft had peeled off from their formation and angled around to hit a much closer target, the sole surviving Syndicate heavy cruiser.

“Why isn’t he launching escape pods?” Kontos wondered. “That unit doesn’t have a chance. Why not save as many of the crew as possible?”

“The enigmas will just target the escape pods,” Marphissa said. “They don’t want any humans watching them, even humans who couldn’t possibly hurt them.”

“I guess the enigmas believe that being watched does hurt them,” Kontos said, bewildered. “Why?”

“The enigmas have probably said the same thing about us while they watched humans butchering other humans for a century. They’re aliens. They don’t think like us, they don’t care about the same things as us. We have no idea why they’re so obsessed with privacy, and they aren’t about to explain it to us.” Marphissa narrowed her eyes as she studied her display. “That cruiser doesn’t have a chance, but he’s maneuvering to meet those enigma warships. At least they’re going down fighting. I wonder if he—”

The answer to her question came before she finished the sentence. An hour and a half ago, the distance now lessened as Marphissa’s warships raced toward the scene of battle, the heavy cruiser had met a dozen alien warships racing close by to ensure the destruction of the human warship. The doomed cruiser’s commander had not chosen to die futilely, though.

Instead, the heavy cruiser had detonated its power core at the precise moment when the enigma warships were darting in to administer a death blow.

Wrathful cheers erupted on the bridge of Pele as only six enigma warships staggered out of the field of destruction created by the heavy cruiser’s deliberate sacrifice.

“He got six of them,” Kontos breathed. The Kapitan turned to sweep the bridge with his glance, silencing the celebration. “That leaves twenty-eight alien warships for us,” he reminded his crew.

Marphissa drew in a long, slow breath. As the tracks of the enigma warships steadied out, she could see the projected track for her own flotilla intercepting them before they could reach the planet. “And all of those who died bought the time their people needed. We will honor their sacrifice by completing the task they could not, and ensuring the safety of those they died to protect!” It sounded like something an Alliance officer would have said, full of idealism and honor. Maybe she had spent too much time around Captain Bradamont.

But none of the crew seemed surprised or unhappy at what Marphissa had said. Instead, they appeared ready to cheer again, but cast worried glances at Kontos. He made a small affirmative gesture, and then they did cheer.

Because she was leading them into battle with a force that had just annihilated a flotilla similar to their own.

Kontos must have been reading her thoughts. He shrugged. “Humans are crazy, too.”

“Yes,” Marphissa agreed. “But it’s our crazy. We were willing to leave them alone to their crazy; they wouldn’t take the deal, so we’re going to show them what happens when you push people too far.”

She took another look at the planet looping about its star. Above the planet were the symbols marking the three Syndicate troop transports and four Syndicate freighters. From the over-an-hour-ago images visible, the troop transports were still busy landing every passenger they carried, while from their movements the shuttles servicing the freighters must be dropping their cargo haphazardly to save time. It was past time for her to make another decision.

First she made another call to Colonel Rogero. “I can detach our troop transports at any time, Colonel. Do you wish to proceed with the landing?”

“Yes,” Rogero replied without visible enthusiasm. “I’m not in the habit of giving up before trying, and staying on the transports wouldn’t give my soldiers any chance of fighting back. I haven’t heard back from anyone with the Syndicate ground forces. If what we were told by the Syndicate flotilla commander is correct, there must be a lot of snakes enforcing Syndicate loyalty on the surface of that planet. There’s a chance that when we get close enough to the planet my people will be able to find a way to contact some of the Syndicate soldiers through circuits the snakes aren’t watching. That’s my best hope at this point. I’ll also be able to get a better look at the enigma presence by using the sensors on the transports to scan the planet.”

“Good luck, Colonel.” There wasn’t anything else to say. As soon as that message was over, Marphissa called Leytenant Mack on HTTU 332. “Leytenant, you are hereby placed in charge of both troop transports, subject to the orders of Colonel Rogero. You are to detach from our formation and proceed on a direct vector to meet the planetary objective in its orbit at the best velocity you can manage. Are there any questions?”

Mack did not look particularly thrilled at the assignment. “What will our escort be?”

“You’ll have a distant escort, Leytenant,” Marphissa said dryly. “This flotilla. Nothing I could detach to go with you would be strong enough to stop any of the three enemy warship formations in this star system, so instead I will keep them occupied while you land our ground forces.”

“Yes, Kommodor,” Mack said. “I understand and will comply.”

“We will do our best to cover you,” Marphissa said. “Once you get the soldiers landed you won’t be nearly as attractive a target for enemy attack.”

She ended the call, feeling extremely guilty.

Kontos gave her a sidelong look. “What if the enigmas spring their ambush as soon as the transports get close to the planet?”

“Then we couldn’t stop them from reaching the transports anyway! The transports’ track will diverge slowly from ours,” Marphissa insisted, gesturing to the projected courses arcing through space on her display, “so we’re not going to be far from them when they reach the planet.”

By the time the transports finished braking into orbit and landing the soldiers, though, Marphissa’s formation would be well past and going very fast away from them. She knew that, Kontos knew that, Mack knew that, and very likely Colonel Rogero knew that. It just couldn’t be helped. “If I had twice as many ships…” Marphissa muttered.

Kontos nodded wordlessly, his mouth a thin line. He knew just as well as she did that the transports would have a very small chance of survival when they had finished doing as she had ordered, and that any other course of action she might have ordered would have been even worse for the chances of everyone in the flotilla.

She tried to find some satisfaction in knowing that the situation had simplified a bit with the destruction of the Syndicate flotilla. Now it was only a three-way fight in space, as well as a looming three-way fight on the planet.

Only a down patch had sufficed to get Colonel Rogero some rest in the hours leading up to the assault on the planet. His stateroom on this troop transport, having been intended for at least sub-CEO rank in the Syndicate, was actually comfortable, but that hadn’t helped. He slept only intermittently, and was awake an hour before his alert time, feeling anything but alert.

He had every reason he could wish for to cancel this operation. No one would blame him in the least if he pulled the plug right now. Not General Drakon, not President Iceni, not the Kommodor, not Honore Bradamont whose worry had been ill concealed when they parted, and certainly not his own soldiers, who knew enough about combat operations to know how ugly this one was.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t give up without trying. It wasn’t pride, he told himself. Partly it was the knowledge that more than once seemingly impregnable enemy positions had proven to be surprisingly vulnerable. There was no way to be certain until you actually tested the defenses, especially in a case like this where practically everything they knew about the enigma base was pure speculation.

Partly it was knowing that his soldiers, relieved or not at the cancellation, would wonder if he had lacked confidence in them.

Partly it was knowing how many enemy warships were already in this star system, and how many more the enigmas might have concealed if the Kommodor’s guess was right, and what those warships would do to these transports if they got a shot at them.

Partly it was thinking of those poor bastards already on the surface. Not just Syndicate ground forces but also who knew how many civilians who had been dragged into this mess by the Syndicate. Rogero didn’t care whether or not the snakes who were holding guns on everyone were themselves massacred by the enigmas. He actually liked the idea. But there didn’t seem to be any way to make that happen without the civilians also being wiped out.

The civilians. That was mainly it, wasn’t it? He and so many others had kept fighting for the Syndicate because they wanted to protect their families from both an Alliance that didn’t care who died in their bombardments, and from the Syndicate that would retaliate against anyone who failed to follow orders. But now the Syndicate had brought the families into the war zone. Hostages to keep the mobile forces and the ground forces in line.

He didn’t know how many snakes the Syndicate still had. But if word of this got around, it wouldn’t be enough. Not anywhere.

Rogero donned his battle armor, then clumped glumly through passageways large enough to accommodate him in that heavy outfit. He passed parts of his brigade, the soldiers all suiting up with the careful efficiency of those who had done this plenty of times already. That was an odd thing to think about. They had taken losses since revolting against the Syndicate, but not nearly as many as had been the norm during the war. He had a growing proportion of veterans in his unit, men and women who had accumulated experience in the grim art of war.

He reached the bridge, where the transport’s commander awaited him.

Leytenant Mack saluted with rigid precision. “My ship and HTTU 643 are ready to land your ground forces upon your command, Colonel.”

“What are the Syndicate transports doing?” Rogero asked.

“They took off when we reached the planet. Them and the Syndicate freighters.” Mack pointed off in a direction that meant nothing to Rogero. “Running. I don’t know where. They’re heading along the track their flotilla took, which means they’re running toward the enigmas. I don’t know what’s up with that.”

“They’re staying together?”

“No, sir.” Mack shook his head, looking uncomfortable. “The transports have been pulling steadily away from the freighters. Leaving them behind.”

Rogero looked at Mack, knowing even with his helmet visor up he still appeared very menacing in combat armor. “Why does that bother you, Leytenant?”

Mack glared back at Rogero. “Because it’s not right. I understand running to try to live. But those Syndicate transports haven’t a chance in hell anyway. Somebody or other is going to blow them apart before they can jump out of this star system. They should have at least put on a good show and stood by the others.”

“At least,” Rogero agreed. “Now, what about the planet? I’ve got the data from your sensors showing what they can see of the Syndicate position, but not anything on the enigma base.”

“Yeah,” Mack said reluctantly. “That Syndicate ground position is a mess, huh? Looks like they just dropped people and stuff any which where. Panic, seems to me. I bet those freighters still have some critical stuff on board that anyone on a rock like that will need to live long-term.”

“Long-term living requirements are the least of their worries,” Rogero said. “Why don’t we have anything from our ground-penetrating sensors on that buried base?”

Mack brought up an image that floated before them, a segment of the planet below lit up in various colors to enhance the information. “You have everything that we can see,” Leytenant Mack advised, waving at the display. “We’ve tried every trick, every sensor for remotely seeing what’s on the surface and what’s beneath the surface, and that’s all we get.”

Colonel Rogero scowled at the image. One of the advantages of real assault transports was that they came equipped with active sensor systems that could penetrate objects like the surface of a planet to map underground installations. When aboard warships he had asked for that kind of support and been met with blank stares. The warships depended so heavily on passive sensors that collected everything that could be seen across every band of the spectrum that they were shocked at the idea of sending out energy using active systems like the advanced radars on a troop transport.

But this time the transports’ sensors weren’t helping much. “It’s just a blob covering a huge area,” Rogero complained.

Leytenant Mack nodded. “That’s all we can see,” he repeated. “There’s something in the surface soil blocking our scans across every frequency and wavelength. At least we know whatever the enigmas are hiding is somewhere under that.”

“What could they seed across hundreds of square kilometers that blocked everything?” Rogero wondered. “They must have a way to vent heat, at the very least.”

“You could do it underground,” Mack said. “My sister’s a geologist. Did I ever tell you that? We were talking once and she said you could either dump the heat into an underground river or into a really big underground reservoir. That would get rid of the heat and disperse it so much that the source couldn’t be pinpointed.”

“We should have brought a geologist,” Rogero said. “Despite knowing these are aliens, I keep expecting them to do things like we do. To have the same capabilities that we do. But they are obviously a lot better at camouflage.”

“Where do you want to drop?”

Rogero gazed at the display. To one side of the underground blob that marked the enigma’s masking efforts were a cluster of symbols that marked the Syndicate personnel and equipment that had been hastily landed. They might be directly over part of the alien installation. Or not. “I might have to fight those Syndicate ground forces as well as the aliens, but I am supposed to protect the citizens with those ground forces from the aliens.”

“I wouldn’t come down too close to them,” Mack cautioned. “Keep a few kilometers off, at least outside the range of their hand weapons. Odds are they’ve already been targeted.”

“Odds are so has this transport.” Rogero took a slight, perverse pleasure from seeing Leytenant Mack’s anxiety when that was pointed out. “I think the enigmas are going to wait and see if we and the Syndicate ground forces start fighting before they attack either of us.”

“Why would they do that?”

Rogero sat back, folding his arms and frowning as he spoke. “That’s been their usual tactic. From what Captain Bradamont told me, the enigmas might have tricked the Syndicate into starting the war with the Alliance, and once it was going the enigmas apparently leaked to both sides the hypernet technology that ensured we would keep fighting longer. The Alliance thinks the enigmas expected humans to eventually figure out that the hypernet gates could be used as nova-scale bombs to destroy the star systems where they were placed, and then to use the hypernet gates against each other until both the Syndicate and the Alliance had been totally gutted by the mutual destruction.”

Mack’s mouth had fallen open in shock. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Why waste time and effort killing enemies who were willing to kill each other with a little encouragement?” Rogero nodded firmly. “I am certain that they will wait here to see if we are attacking the Syndicate ground forces. If so, they will wait until one side or the other has triumphed, then hit the survivors with enough force to wipe them out.”

“That would be smart,” Mack conceded. “Ugly as all hell, but smart for them. That sounds like we should at least mimic a combat drop aimed at the Syndicate ground forces. But if the Syndicate troops see you coming like that, they’ll open fire on you.”

“The snakes will order them to do so,” Rogero agreed. “I am hoping we can fool both the snakes and the enigmas.”

“Too bad the snakes and the enigmas won’t kill each other off while we watch,” Mack commented.

Rogero started to smile politely at the weak joke, then paused. What if… ? “Leytenant, I advise you to leave orbit and chase after the flotilla once you have dropped off my people. There’s no telling what kind of antiorbital weapons the enigmas might have or how long their range is. I want to start the landing in one hour, when we’re in the best orbital position for the shuttles. In the meantime, I need to send another message.”

There were always at least two levels in any system of communication. The openly used and officially controlled level that was supposed to be the only one that existed, and the backdoor or hidden level that workers quickly improvised for informal communications among themselves. Internal security devoted immense efforts to trying to shut down every backdoor system as quickly as possible, but no matter how many were uncovered and blocked, more popped up. The complexity of comm systems and unit networks created a huge number of places where potential back doors could be cobbled together by the sort of software manipulations that left no fingerprints for frustrated snakes to trace back to a source.

General Drakon had lent Rogero the services of Sergeant Broom, the most devious hacker available to him. “Sergeant, I need a way into whatever back door those Syndicate ground forces are using.”

Broom scratched his head, grimacing slightly. “That back door will still have virtual barricades to any intrusion attempts by us, Colonel. Workers learned the necessity for those the hard way a long time ago.”

“This isn’t for an intrusion. I want to be able to talk to those ground forces without any chance the snakes will intercept it.”

“We’re close enough I might be able to find their net now,” Broom murmured, his hands racing across virtual controls as he gazed at information flows on his specialized display. “It depends how much they’re talking and… aha. The snakes are making this easy.”

“What did they do?” Rogero asked, peering at the cascade of unfamiliar data.

“Constant pingbacks on all command circuits,” Broom explained. “The snakes are maintaining constant checks on the comm nets to spot anything that shouldn’t be there.”

Rogero shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought our systems did automatic checks for intrusions.”

“They do, Colonel,” Broom advised. “But the checks are randomized and not continuous so they don’t overload the comm net and send out enough noise to make it possible for someone on the outside to spot the net parameters. The snakes have set the net down there to do the checks constantly. I will guarantee you that the tactical data feeds for those ground forces soldiers are being slowed significantly. And…” His frown changed to a grin. “Oh. That is tray dough!”

“Dough?” Rogero asked, raising both eyebrows.

“It’s an old expression where I come from,” Broom explained. “It means really great, or something like that. All that snake activity is lighting up their net perfectly. I know exactly what to look for, so I should be able to find any back doors pretty fast.”

“We’re pressed for time, Sergeant,” Rogero said. “How fast?”

“Ten minutes, Colonel.”

“Make it five.”

“Yes, sir,” Broom answered.

The reply came quickly and confidently enough to make Rogero certain that Broom had deliberately overstated how long the task would take, just as General Drakon had warned he might do. “Let me know when you have it. Have the other code monkeys put together a burst transmission package containing the means to sweep the Syndicate ground systems for enigma quantum worms.”

“Yes, sir. We’re on it.”

Four minutes later, a new symbol appeared on Rogero’s comm display. “That’s your door, Colonel,” Broom advised cheerfully. “And here”—another symbol appeared—“is your link to the burst. Just tap it when you want to send through that door.”

“You are invaluable, Sergeant Broom,” Rogero said. “General Drakon asked me to remind you to not do anything unauthorized that will require him or me to have you shot. It would be a great loss to us.”

“It would be a great loss to me as well,” Broom said. “But it would be useful to have it spelled out clearly as to exactly what actions by me would result in execution and which would merely involve lesser punishments.”

“I think it’s better to leave that a bit vague,” Rogero said.

He paused, ordering his thoughts, then tapped the backdoor symbol. The symbol pulsed several times, then steadied as it established a firm link to the back door being used by the ground forces workers. “I am with the Midway ground forces preparing to land near you,” he said, deliberately avoiding identifying himself as an officer. Syndicate workers had learned the hard way not to trust executives or CEOs without solid evidence that they could be relied upon. “You have already seen that the aliens called enigmas have destroyed the mobile forces that escorted you to this star system. Our mobile forces will stop the enigma warships from destroying you, but there is also an alien base hidden deep beneath the surface of the planet you are on. Your forces are standing over the area where the base is located. We are landing to capture or destroy that base, but once the aliens have both of our forces on the surface they will try to destroy us all. If you want to live, your only chance is to use the software package I will be sending after this message. That package won’t harm your systems. It will sweep them for worms planted by the aliens. You can verify that is what it does, and that is all it does.”

Rogero inhaled deeply, then spoke with the best conviction he could. “We believe that the aliens use the worms they have planted in our systems to allow them to target individual workers and supervisors with pinpoint precision. If you don’t sweep your systems, you will die without any chance of survival as soon as the enigmas open fire using distance weapons. Share the sweep software with anyone who can be trusted, even executives. That will mean the initial enigma attack will take out the snakes and any supervisors whom you cannot trust. We want to save the people with you. This is your only chance to survive. Get the word around. Get the citizens with you under whatever cover exists. We will begin landing soon. It will look like a combat drop, but we will not drop close enough to fire on you and will not fire upon anyone who does not fire on us. For the people.”

He tapped the second symbol, watching as it flickered once to mark the transmission.

Rogero checked the time, then touched another control. “Get the remaining soldiers loaded for the first drop,” he ordered. “I will be boarding my shuttle now. We will drop as scheduled.”

One way or another, he had to get his troops on the ground, and give the troop transports a chance to run before the enigmas sprung whatever surprise they had in store.

He was about to board his shuttle when the backdoor symbol pulsed. “Why should we believe you?” The voice was so heavily disguised by software tricks that it was impossible to tell anything about the sender.

Rogero paused halfway through the hatch as he answered. “Because if Midway’s ground forces wanted you dead, Midway’s mobile forces could have dropped rocks on you when they went past this planet.”

“What does Midway want? What will they do to us?”

“Midway wants to destroy the alien base and keep the Syndicate from establishing a new base of its own. That’s all. You must have heard that Midway takes prisoners. But we don’t hold them. You want to go home, that’s fine with us. You want to stay and work with us, that’s fine. You want to go somewhere else, that’s fine, too.”

A long pause, while the time to drop approached and Rogero waited with growing impatience.

“We need proof,” the voice finally said.

“Fine,” Rogero said. “I told you that we’re not going to attack you. We’re landing a few kilometers from you, and will not fire on you. No prelanding bombardment, no suppression or covering fire from the shuttles. No weapons will be fired at you unless someone fires at us, and then we will target only the shooter. How’s that?”

“How can you guarantee that?” the voice demanded suspiciously.

“Because I have a say in what happens,” Rogero replied immediately, knowing that any hesitation in answering would look bad. “We have to start down now. Our transports need to have time to get clear of possible attacks by the enigmas. Expect the aliens to open fire on both your ground forces and ours as soon as they realize we are not attacking you.”

The link cut off. With an exasperated curse muttered under his breath, Rogero entered the shuttle already crowded with other soldiers and locked one armored fist onto a strap hanging from the overhead. He scanned the status of his unit one last time before giving the launch order. Every one of his soldiers had their systems scrubbed clean of enigma worms, but all were also running outer shells that portrayed infected systems but were isolated from the main systems. Hopefully, that ruse would lead the enigmas to believe that the soldiers’ armor was all still infected.

The time marker rolled down to zero. Time to go. His confirmation order went out to Leytenant Mack, all of the shuttle pilots, and every officer and soldier in his brigade. “Begin assault. No one is to fire on the Syndicate ground forces unless they fire on us, and then all return fire is to be aimed at any shooters and no one else. Be prepared to engage the entire Syndicate ground force if necessary, but only when you receive orders to do so. Do not forget that there are a lot of citizens down there among the ground forces, and the snakes with them will probably use those citizens as human shields if they can.”

The shuttle lurched as it detached from the troop transport, swung about, then dropped toward the planet below. On his display, Rogero could see dozens of shuttles that had come off both transports mimicking the movement of his own.

An assault drop against a known opponent was bad enough, usually with assorted forms of flak filling the atmosphere and aiming to rip open or tear apart the descending shuttles. But this time as the shuttles fell toward the planet there was only an eerie quiet. The newly landed Syndicate ground forces hadn’t been able to assemble any of their aerospace defenses yet, and the enigmas remained silent. Rogero had no doubt that they were watching, though. Watching, and waiting, for the two human forces to engage in the fratricidal warfare that they had seen humans perform many, many times.

But sometimes even humans could figure out how stupid that was.

And sometimes humans didn’t do what everyone expected them to do.

Rogero’s display showed five minutes left until the shuttles reached the surface. He triggered the comm circuit that covered the shuttles and the transports. “Assume hostile fire will commence the moment the shuttles lift. Initiate full countermeasures on lift. Transports, follow evasive orbiting maneuvers until you clear the planet. All units will drop false system shells at my command.”

The shuttles fell in a perfect pattern, unshaken by any defensive fire, but still braking hard at the last to minimize their time at slow speed near the surface. Rogero braced himself against the momentum, letting his armor support his body as the shuttle he was on decelerated fast enough to make him feel like his feet were going to punch right through the lower deck.

The ramp at the rear of the shuttle slammed down at the same moment the shuttle touched dirt. “Go!” Rogero roared, and as he charged out, all around thirty-five more shuttles were also disgorging soldiers.

He went to one knee, scanning his display. Soldiers were scattering away from the shuttles, some dropping to cover their comrades, and as Rogero watched every shuttle finished unloading and leapt skyward at the same moment.

Not a shot had come from the Syndicate ground forces positions, though that might be because Rogero had placed his own drop at extreme range for the Syndicate hand weapons.

“All units, drop false system shells,” he ordered, simultaneously activating a command that should ensure every individual soldier did exactly that.

He figured it would take the enigmas perhaps ten seconds to realize what had happened, as their precise information about what Rogero’s soldiers and shuttles were doing suddenly vanished.

At five seconds, he had reached the edge of a very large crater where the enigma bombardment had once pulverized the human presence on this world, and slid into cover among the upthrust, broken rocks, checking his soldiers to see that they were all following instructions to do the same. At the edge of his display he could see part of the Syndicate positions, scattered red symbols marking individual soldiers deployed to defend against his own landing.

At eight seconds, his display lit up with a host of threat symbols and warnings. Fortunately, unlike the Syndicate soldiers who had been massacred here before, Rogero’s soldiers did not have enigma worms hiding the incoming fire and providing homing information for it.

Rogero felt the ground shudder as enigma weapons plunged blindly into rock and dirt and exploded all around the area where his soldiers clung to whatever cover they had found. Above, enigma antiaerospace weapons were darting upward into a sky suddenly filled with flares, chaff, and smoke thrown out by the fleeing shuttles to confuse enemy seekers.

Five kilometers away, more enigma fire was ravaging the Syndicate positions. Rogero watched red symbols winking out, marking Syndicate soldiers killed, but saw that at least two-thirds of them were still alive. Some of the Syndicate workers had trusted him.

He wondered if the citizens were under cover, or exposed to the enigma barrage.

The first attack dwindled rapidly and then stopped. Rogero waited, controlling his breathing, his eyes locked on his display, where the sensors on every set of battle armor were linked into a net giving him as much information as possible.

If the enigmas were smart, and everything he knew about them argued that they were smart, then their next move was obvious.

“Everyone hold position,” Rogero ordered. “All personnel set active countermeasures on auto.”

The second wave of fire erupted from unseen launchers and swept across the area. The enigma weapons moved very fast, and this time they were using active seekers to spot the human soldiers. But the battle armor picked up those seeker signals and every soldier’s armor began tossing out chaff rounds as well, forming a cloud that covered the unit.

Rogero saw some of his soldiers get hit and breathed a curse. A lot more of the Syndicate symbols were vanishing, but apparently someone on that side had also finally ordered active countermeasures to be employed because the losses slowed abruptly. Unfortunately, the countermeasures also blocked Rogero’s view of not only the Syndicate positions but also the net linking his own soldiers.

The ground was shaking again, not in the spastic series of jolts that marked enigma weapons impacting nearby, but a prolonged and deep juddering that felt like the planet was tearing itself open.

Which, he realized, was exactly what was happening.

“—two kilometers… planet… again… two ki… north… drop z—”

The broken voice transmission from one of the transports, barely able to cut through the countermeasures, cut off completely. Rogero looked toward planetary north, not seeing anything in that direction, but his armor reported that the soil tremors were coming from there.

Whatever it was, it was big. He hoped the transports were already running for all they were worth.

Even through the dust and chaff Rogero saw to the north vast shapes suddenly hurling themselves skyward. Enigma warships. The aliens had launched another part of their ambush, opening some immense access just to the north of him, from which at least a dozen warships were heading into space as fast as they dared accelerate in atmosphere. They must have hollowed out some huge hangars down there. How big is this base that I’m supposed to capture?

Rogero hit the comm override which would boost his signal strength and use a special low-data-rate frequency which would punch through the chaff. “Everyone break north. All units except First Company advance toward expected very large access to the enemy base.”

He glanced at the little information still showing on his display, remembering where his units had been before the picture went to pieces. “First Company, take up position screening our flank against any attack from the direction of the Syndicate forces.” The Syndicate soldiers were probably still hunkered down against the chance of another incoming barrage, but if any snakes and supervisors had survived the enigma attacks they might order an assault. Or the Syndicate soldiers, confused, scared, and mostly leaderless, might panic and attack the only target they could see, which was Rogero’s force.

Shutting off the special circuit, Rogero scrambled away from his position, knowing that the enigmas had probably spotted his transmission. He zigzagged toward the north, then as a warning appeared on his display Rogero flattened himself to the ground.

He and nearby rocks bounced as something big hit and exploded where Rogero had transmitted from. He felt both relieved and annoyed. Did the aliens think he was amateurish enough to have stayed in that spot? It was nice to be underestimated, especially when it kept you from being killed, but also insulting.

The enigmas had shifted their focus and were concentrating their fire on the area where the Syndicate soldiers and citizens were located. They were probably still getting some data from infected systems over there. Maybe they also thought they should focus on the larger group, though most of the Syndicate presence was civilians who posed no threat to the enigmas.

Nearing the edge of the chaff field, Rogero saw his display begin updating rapidly as his armor systems reestablished links. His forces were all moving, the majority north toward where the enigma hatch was located. Most of First Company, still under the drifting chaff, could not be seen, but intermittent detections of some showed them sliding sideways into the blocking positions that Rogero had ordered.

The Syndicate troops couldn’t do the same, he knew. The Syndicate didn’t want workers thinking for themselves, so Syndicate ground forces were required to carry out detailed plans. With many supervisors dead and countermeasures blocking net links, Syndicate-trained soldiers would be without any explicit instructions on what to do. If they moved, it would be a mob movement.

But, Rogero knew, when under fire and not knowing what to do, the average soldier would stay under cover. Which meant he shouldn’t have to worry much about the Syndicate ground forces for a while.

“That is one BFH,” an awed voice cut across the command circuit.

Annoyed again, this time by the undisciplined message on a critical circuit, Rogero was preparing to chastise the offender when someone else answered. “Yeah. Biggest hole I ever saw.”

His display was updating again as information flowed in from the battle armor of the soldiers who had reached the near edge of the enigma hatch. Rogero stared in disbelief at the small section of arc that filled the upper part of his helmet’s display. He pulled back the scale. He pulled it back again.

Twenty kilometers across. The enigma hole was twenty kilometers from side to side.

Rogero ran past soldiers who were lying or kneeling in covered positions, ran until he reached the edge of the hole and could peer across it and partway down.

It felt like looking into space from a hatch on a spacecraft.

“Send a probe down it,” Rogero ordered one of his scouts, his message now able to go out through the unit net and therefore not broadcasting his position to the watching enigmas.

The scout pulled back an arm and hurled a probe out into the hole.

The probe, designed to be nearly invisible to defensive sensors, had barely begun to drop when an enigma weapon speared it and turned it into falling junk.

“Drop the next one instead of throwing it,” Rogero said. Maybe the enigmas had spotted the motion…

A scout extended an arm holding a probe, only to have the probe shot out of her grasp and two other enigma shots slam into her lower arm.

As a medic dashed to the wounded scout, she wriggled back from the edge. “That didn’t work, sir,” she got out between teeth tightly clamped against the pain.

“This time I want every scout to launch a probe simultaneously,” Rogero ordered.

The probes arched out over the hole. Rogero’s systems registered dozens of shots coming out of the hole, and every probe went dead.

“Sir, we try to go over that edge, they’ll take us apart,” the scout commander reported. “It must be too easy for them to spot movement against the edge of the opening or above it.”

“Try sending down gnats,” Rogero said.

“It’ll take a while for gnats to drop far,” the scout commander cautioned.

“I know. But they’re one of our stealthiest scout methods. Let’s see what they can do.” The gnats were the size of insects, with limited capability and range, but they were very hard to spot.

What they could do, Rogero quickly learned, was go silent when barely inside the hole as something knocked out every gnat.

It didn’t take any particular sensitivity to the mood of the soldiers around him to know that none of them wanted to follow the probes or the gnats down that hole. They might follow him, Rogero thought, if he led the way. But since he would clearly die within a second or two of doing so, they were unlikely to follow him far.

They had a way down into the enigma base, but it was a death trap.

And they had yet to see a single enigma, or even any of the launchers raining death on them.

Another wave of enigma fire swept over, this time concentrated around the rim of the vast hole. Chaff filled the air as battle armor once again tried to protect the men and women wearing it.

Rogero looked upward through the haze of countermeasures, wondering whether the battles in space were going any better for humanity than the one down here.