Read Ebook: Weapon by Bone Jesse F Jesse Franklin Bernklau Illustrator

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Ebook has 333 lines and 14831 words, and 7 pages

"Wanted what?" Ellen asked curiously.

"That recording I made of the first part of our get together. I left it lying on top of the recorder, but it isn't there now."

Ellen gasped and put the back of her hand to her mouth. "Oh no!" she said in a strangled voice.

Anne looked at her curiously.

"I gave it to Alton," Ellen said. "I thought it was the one I made for him."

"Oh well, he shouldn't mind. Your voice is on it too."

"You don't know Alton," Ellen said miserably....

As the "Dauntless" bored through Cth space in the middle blue component, Fiske reviewed his last meeting with Admiral Koenig. It hadn't been too satisfactory. Central Research, it seemed, still wanted a live Eglan trooper. It didn't matter that the Navy hadn't captured one in five years of trying. The requirement still stood. It took no great intelligence to understand why Central wanted a prisoner. A great deal about the aliens could be understood if there was live meat available. The only trouble was that there never had been, and probably never would be a live Eglan prisoner of war. Fiske automatically excluded the Eglan civilians. They were essentially no different than a civilized human.

It puzzled Fiske. How a people who were gentle, civilized, and understanding could produce a warrior caste so fiercely dedicated and so utterly different was a mystery he couldn't solve. Sure--some of it probably was connected with the suicide devices surgically implanted in their skulls, but that wasn't all of it. Their fanatic will to fight, their utter disregard of death and their incredible discipline had no reflection in their civilian counterparts. The Eglan soldiery were a living denial of the human axiom that a society left its impression upon all of its components. Certainly there was no reflection of the Eglan civilian in the Eglan soldier,--or vice versa.

Fiske shrugged. After all, it wasn't his problem outside of the fact that he had to fight them. And it had been proven some time ago that ship for ship humanity was fully a match for the aliens. It was only when groups were involved that the Eglan superiority was apparent. And then it was overwhelming.

There was some trick of discipline or communication that welded a group of Eglan fighting ships into a single cohesive unit that was thus far unbeatable. Humanity had to learn--or it was lost--and would go the way of the other civilizations that had been in the path of alien conquest.

Fiske shrugged. Given time, men might learn the answer. But time was getting short. Koenig felt that if the answer wasn't found soon, humanity would pass the point of no return. Already the inner worlds were glutted with refugees. Industry was trying vainly to gain upon the tremendous attrition in ships and weapons and still supply the population. Financial structures were tottering on the brink of ruin. Taxation was oppressive, restrictions were galling and unpleasant, and everywhere disaffection with the progress of the war was rampant.

"If the armchair admirals had their way," Koenig had said bitterly, "we'd be through now. But we can't hold out much longer. This delaying policy is going to split wide open. We're going to be forced to mount a counter offensive against an enemy we know can outmaneuver and out-fight us in large formations,--an enemy who knows a great deal about us, but about whom we know nothing. We simply have to get a line on how they operate."

So here he was again, chasing the will-o-the-wisp of an Eglan prisoner. He sighed, shrugged and turned his attention to the banks of instruments that recorded every vital function of the ship.

This part of the voyage was easy. Not even the inhumanly efficient Eglani could guard all parts of the fluid hemisphere they had pushed into the territory of the Confederation, and ships travelled with relative ease across the ill defined border that separated the two warring races.

But life aboard ship was neither easy nor relaxed. Under Fiske's command, it was a constant striving for perfection. Five years of battle experience had taught him that neither officers nor crew could become too familiar with the offensive and defensive armaments of a ship. Constant practice was the only answer to Eglan coordination and every man aboard knew that the more proficient they became the better were their chances of coming home alive. So all hands spent every spare moment refining skills of war, solving simulated tactical problems, trying to increase response speed and improve combat efficiency.

Fiske checked the control console, his eyes sweeping across the lights and dials that indicated the "Dauntless" was manned and ready and that the crew were at their proper stations. Satisfied that everything was in order, he set up a tactical problem on the board and buzzed for the Executive officer.

"Take over, Oley," he said, as the Exec slid into the chair beside him.

"Hmm, a stinker you leave me," Olaf Pedersen remarked as his eyes scanned the board.

"I'll be in quarters if you need help," Fiske said. He pushed off in a flat dive toward the hatch that led to his quarters as Pedersen took up the problem and the drill went on. As ship commander he enjoyed the priceless luxury of privacy, and for the little time that remained before breakout, he would luxuriate in solitude and listen to what Ellen taped for him. It was a pleasure he had carefully saved for this moment before they went into action. He hoped that it was something gay and inspiring, perhaps with a little of the affection they had for each other--but whatever it was it would be Ellen's voice and for awhile it would give him the illusion that she was near.

He webbed into his shock-couch, threaded the spool of tape into the playback and flipped the switch. For a few seconds the tape hummed quietly through the guides. Then a blast of noise erupted from the speaker.

Anne Albertson's piercing giggle.

Laughter.

Voices--piercing female voices pitched at their most irritating level--a cacophonous clatter through which snatches of treble phrases sliced with nerve jangling shrillness!

Fiske's howl could be heard through the entire forward part of the ship!

He reached out angrily to turn off the playback, but even as he did, he hesitated. Ellen must have given him this tape for a reason,--and it was obvious that he was missing it. She wasn't the sort to play practical jokes. Gritting his teeth he forced himself to listen to the gabble that rasped his ears and frayed his temper. It was the quintessence of irritation, a garbled, calm-destroying jangle that had all the comfort of a dental drill grinding out an infected molar.

And then he heard it. The background noise died a little, and across the disconnected chatter came Ellen's voice--clear crisp and light--mouthing the same banalities as the others! It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. And then he understood.

For behind her voice a pattern emerged, a pattern that was neither light, nor gay, nor superficial. It was a desperate clinging to the familiar little things that made up normal life, a deliberate avoidance of the war, the fear and the worry. And Fiske realized with an odd feeling of surprise that here was a counterpart of the wardroom gabfests aboard ship. The attitude was the same. There was no essential difference. He stood it until her voice faded into the background and then he turned off the playback. Ellen should have known that he understood how she felt. There was no need for this. He felt oddly cheated as he put the tape away in his locker and returned to the control room.

The "Dauntless" broke out of hyperspace travelling just under Lume One, well within Eglan territory. Fiske knew from experience that the enemy detectors were efficient and it was always risky to breakout into normal space--but he had to come out to get a fix on potential targets.

"Set!" the gunnery officer said.

Instantly the "Dauntless" slammed back into fourspace. The scan had taken barely ten seconds, and with reasonable luck the dip into normal space would remain unnoticed long enough to give them the advantage of surprise. At best such an advantage would be fleeting. At worst he would breakout in the middle of an Eglan trap. Actuality would probably be somewhere in between. He'd have perhaps twenty minutes--and in that time he'd have to accomplish his mission and get the "Dauntless" back into the relative safety of fourspace.

The world ahead was a small planet about two thirds the size of Earth, and from it came the persistent radiation of nuclear stockpiles and atomic machinery. There was a base here--a big one supported by a massive industrial complex. The Eglani had the habit of concentrating their works, which made for greater efficiency of operation, but also made them far more remunerative targets.

There was no waiting. The cruiser flashed into normal spacetime, a bank of red lights blossomed on the control board, and the gunnery officer launched a salvo of torpedoes at the Eglan Base. The torps were new. Each carried a tiny hyperspace converter that pushed them up into the lower orange. They would arrive on target milliseconds after they were launched, breakout into normal space, and detonate. They were tricky things that required nearly ten seconds data to adjust, but when properly set they could materialize within any fixed screen. The inherent qualities of fourspace made them useless against maneuvering ships, but against a city or a planetary base they were deadly. Of course, compartmentalized screening would reduce the damage, but if the Eglani were using a hemisphere, God help anything inside.

Air screamed around the hull as the cruiser slammed into the planet's upper atmosphere, her jets thundering to match intrinsics with the planet. Within minutes the banshee screech faded away and the cruiser hung motionless in the upper air. Over the rim of the world behind them an awesome pillar of mushroom capped cloud rose into the sky.

"Stow that. Silence down there," Fiske barked.

"Airboat at 0025," a spotter announced, "hedgehopping."

"Forward batteries ready."

"Use a force rod," Fiske ordered. "I want that ship intact."

The pale lance of a paramagnetic beam clawed through the atmosphere and struck the airboat. Driven by the awesome power of the cruiser's generators it struck, clung, and wrenched the airship from its slow path through the sky. Instantly all jamming devices in the cruiser flicked on, ripping the air with a blast of interference that filled all the nearer reaches of space.

"Quarter drive, vertical," Fiske ordered, and the cruiser leaped upward, dragging the airboat behind it into the airless outer regions where the beam could operate more effectively.

"Okay, boys, pull her in," the bored voice of the gunner's mate in the forward blister came over the intercom, and a moment later the fragile shell of the airboat thudded against the armored hull of the cruiser.

"Boarders away!" Fiske ordered.

The boarding party, specifically trained for this operation, opened the airlocks, carved the side off the airboat, and dove into the crowded interior.

The Eglani, caught without spacesuits, smashed to the floor of their craft by uncompensated acceleration, their air lost in a mighty rush, still tried to resist. Space is not immediately lethal, and by holding their breath several managed to fire a few hand-blasts at the incoming boarders. But it was useless. The beams clawed futilely at the heavy armor and the return fire carved a smoking path through the packed bodies. Then the living died to join the already mutilated dead as tiny explosions limned their heads with momentary brightness.

Fiske sighed at the familiar carnage visible in the viewscreen. Another abortion. But he had expected it. No one yet had caught a living Eglan soldier and he didn't think that he'd be the first to do so.

Young Lieutenant Fitzhugh commanding the party stepped up to the signalman's scanner and reported. "They're all dead, sir. We have no casualties."

"All right, disengage and return." Fiske said as the signalman scanned the piled headless heap of short-legged, long-bodied aliens. One still had a face. The wide mouth, prehensile proboscis and mule ears were still intact, but the back was gone from its head. The face had a masklike quality as it glared up at him with bulging eyes half driven from their cavernous sockets.

"Aye, sir." Lieutenant Fitzhugh turned away from the scanner, and one by one the men came back along the boarding line to the cruiser's airlock. The scanner flicked off as the signalman made his way back.

"Enemy on starboard beam," the talker's voice was lost in a clangor of alarms and a thudding concussion as the entire starboard battery erupted one simultaneous blast of destruction at the Eglan cruiser which had suddenly emerged a scant five miles away.

The Eglan was quick, inhumanly quick in his reaction. He had broken out much too close, but even so his primary screens flared an instant before the broadside struck. But no primary screen ever built could stand alone against the megatons of energy that instantaneously erupted against it. Screen and ship disappeared in the hellish blast, reduced instantly to glowing radioactive gas. The enormous fireball licked hungrily toward the "Dauntless" as the automatic controls promptly took her back into hyperspace.

Lieutenant Fitzhugh, still ten feet from the open airlock saw the flare of the explosion and the premonitory shudder of the ship. He knew that he didn't have time enough to make it. With the strength of desperation he threw the object he carried toward the rapidly closing airlock as the ship vanished from sight and the searing fireball enveloped his body. He never had time to decide whether his aim had been true or not....

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