The aide thumbed a projection, and a small window framed the redness, then expanded to occupy the entire screen. The spray of blood became a ragged formation of ships, 127 of them according to the readout. Reducing the separations further showed each ship marked by the icon of a Wyzhnyny warship class appropriate to its mass.
The gosthodar did not for a moment doubt what he was looking at: an alien task force, outnumbering and presumably outgunning the system defense force. Humans they called themselves, according to the grand admiral's chief scholar. It was satisfying to have a name for them.
"When did they emerge?" he asked.
The pointer indicated a digital event time posted unchangingly in a lower corner. "There, sir: 023.61."
The gosthodar looked, then moved his gaze to the familiar real-time read in an upper corner. "Hmm. Less than five minutes ago. Well done, Captain." He pressed a key, and his amplified voice boomed unexpectedly from every speaker in every office, barracks, barn, workplace, vehicle, infirmary, armory… on the planet. "An unidentified fleet has arrived in the near fringe," he announced. "It is presumed hostile. All personnel will carry out their Procedure One duties immediately."
In his mind he imagined the groans. Most would think it a needless drill. "Supervisors will ensure full compliance," he continued. "Anyone who fails to properly complete their checklist on schedule will be assigned to a penal platoon." There, he thought. Now they'll take it seriously.
He'd visited the great limestone caves right after they'd been discovered, and had seen their potential at once. As soon as their refugees had been rooted out, he'd assigned the necessary resources to make them accessible and habitable. "Captain," he said, "see to the transfer of my personal goods. I will stay here till my emergency headquarters has been activated."
The captain saluted sharply. "Yes, General!" he said, and left. This, thought Jilchuk, will be interesting.
Like all his tribe, he'd never fought in a battle. Now he would command one. The cleansing of this world had been quick and easy, and his warriors had been disappointed. Not that they'd complained; that would be inappropriate. But he knew his genders and their psychology, the warriors especially. Now they'd get their wish.
The gosthodar didn't worry about the enemy war fleet 900 million miles away. That was Admiral Zhokdos's responsibility. His immediate concern was the enemy's bombards that even now must be moving insystem in warpdrive. When they emerged, of course, they'd have to deal with Commodore Xarsku's planetary defense group, but even so, the humans might have a bombard overhead by nightfall. His defense forces needed to be underground or widely dispersed by then.
To prepare for a possible counterinvasion was standard procedure, and he'd begun while his warriors were still mopping up the scattered surviving natives. With the swarm still in the planning stage, he'd requested a full division of warriors. They'd given him a brigade; in times of swarming, warriors of fighting age were always in short supply. If he'd asked for a brigade, they'd have given him two battalions, three at most, and reminded him he'd have some 65,000 colonists of other genders, all of military age, all well-trained for war.
But they were not warriors.
On the other hand, he doubted the humans even had a warrior gender. If they did, there'd have been some sign of them. And while the sophonts here had been enduring and elusive, they'd also been primitive, and definitely not warriors.
Major General Pyong Pak Singh, and his operations aide, Major Etienne Stuart Singh, watched the action from sixteen miles up. The command compartment of the HQC-1-his armored command floater-had split-screen monitors showing the New Jerusalem surface. One window displayed a real view, magnified to show the details he wanted. The other showed a military map, generated by his shipsmind from real-time sensor data, with a window locating the real-view scene on the map.
So far his own people were not involved. His troops-even his aerial units-were still aboard their transports, parked some four hundred miles out. Apraxin's main force had destroyed the Wyzhnyny system defense force in the near fringe, and one of her battle groups provided cover against a small planetary defense flotilla hiding in warpspace.
The planetary assault force had already begun pounding the Wyzhnyny on the ground. Pak could see where a "Dragon"-a heavy bombardment ship-had stomped what once had been major Wyzhnyny installations. Leaving fine rubble and bare ground, churned in places, seared in others. That phase was over now. Two marine "wolf packs"-squadrons of heavy, "Dire Wolf" ground-support floaters-were down there raising hell with Wyzhnyny armor hiding in the woods, plus whatever Wyzhnyny aircraft they could find.
He'd locked the real-view scene on one of the wolf packs, following it. It was guided by two newly placed surveillance buoys 360 miles out, protected from ordinary target locks by electronic gnomes, and from ground-launched rockets by riding constantly changing, randomly generated coordinates. (The Wyzhnyny buoys had been clinkered, to sink, then free-fall as they lost their residual AG.)
He'd seen one Dire Wolf destroyed by ground fire. Radio traffic reported two others downed. The marines' good services came at a price.
His waiting troops, he supposed, were getting restless. Some no doubt eager to experience action, use their hard-earned skills. They were young. Others just wanting to get the waiting over with. He was in no hurry to land them. Let the wolf packs finish off all the Wyzhnyny armor and air units they could find. Apparently the Wyzhnyny didn't have concealment screens. His own concealment-screen generator had been delivered barely before he'd left Luneburger's World.
It had occurred to him that military technology was restricted by more than the limits of science. Culture and history entered in-what your philosophies allowed, especially religious philosophies; to what degree creative imagination and innovation were given play; who you'd fought, and when, and under what circumstances.
If there's a technological mismatch down there, he thought, I hope it's in our favor. He especially hoped the aliens didn't have nuclear weapons. He was reasonably sure Admiral Apraxin didn't. That even the Commonwealth didn't.
Chapter 49
The Ground War Begins
"We'll let them come to us, and show us what they've got." That's what General Pak was supposed to have said, or words to that effect.
1st Battalion had moved into position in the middle of the night, and the Jerries, with their trenching tools, had dug like badgers. (What Jerries knew as "badgers" weighed upwards of forty pounds and dug out any whelping dens they found, whatever lived there.) In the forest edge, the top two feet of soil was thick with tree roots that had to be cut first, but once through that, Esau and Jael had really made the dirt fly. Made a foxhole to be proud of! Eight feet long and six deep, with the required firing step. Then he'd built a little roof over one end-sections of young trees, overlaid with bark he'd stripped from a large tree, covering it all with dirt from the hole. At the other end were three dirt steps they could use to get out in a hurry. He'd driven long stakes into the bottom, to keep the steps from breaking down.
Now they stood on the firing step, waiting. Behind him, wilderness stretched all the way to the Ice Sea. He'd seen it on a monitor, while riding down in the shuttle; a view he'd never imagined when he'd lived on this world. In front of him was a broad field, way bigger than any he'd seen before on New Jerusalem. Green with some crop he didn't recognize-something the Wyzhnyny had brought with them. About knee-high just now.