Onward, onward, the tide of the People surged against the foul-smelling stream of the river. Soon they were more than halfway across and the threshkreen began to play their machine guns against the host. At least, the oolt’ondai thought they were machine guns. The absence of the burning lines from what the thresh called “tracers” puzzled him slightly.
No matter. The People were in full attack mode, pressing on heedless of loss. But damn the threshkreen for hiding behind thick earthen berms, seeking safety in their cowardly way from the railguns of the People.
Hans peered out from Anna’s turret hatch past the berm that had been hastily thrown up for added defense against the enemy’s HVMs and Plasma cannon. Anna could take a few hits. But it was better if she could take a few dozen.
In Hans’ earpiece the 1c said, “Projections say it is time, sir.”
“Very well, release the gasoline.”
The few days’ respite had been very well spent. Pumps on the western bank began to spill gasoline onto the river’s surface at a furious rate.
Borominskar’s olfactory organs barely sensed the new smell over the river’s, thresh-made, pollution. In a few minutes, though, as the flowing waters spread some new fluid out across the stream’s surface, the odor became too strong to ignore. The artificial intelligence on the oolt’ondai’s tenar beeped once, twice, then issued a warning.
“That fluid is highly volatile, highly flammable, Kessentai. I believe it to be a trick of the threshkreen.”
Though not a genius among the People, Borominskar was also no ninny. He saw immediately what his AI meant, saw in his mind’s eye the People burning and gasping for something breathable before succumbing in a horrible, shameful death.
He began to shout, “Turn around, go back.” He began to, then realized that there was no retreat, that the shortest way to safety was ahead. So instead of ordering a retreat he ordered the charge to speed up.
Alas, too late, he thought as he saw the beginnings of flames appear on the far side.
The sound now coming from the alien mass was anything but the confident cry of expectant victory and resulting massacre and feast. Instead, the panicked aliens cried out in obvious pain and even more obvious fear.
Somewhere in your ancestry, you have some forebears who knew and feared fire, didn’t you, boys? thought Hans.
Alien arms waved frantically, desperately within the hellish flames. The sound was that of an infinity of kittens being burned and suffocated. Hans noted with interest that few of those mewing aliens’ arms retained weapons. The God Kings’ tenar fluttered above the conflagration, seemingly helpless to stop or end the suffering of their “wives” and children below. Shots rang out from the western bank, emptying the occasional tenar. In time, shots rang down too, as Kessentai did what they could to end the agony of their roasting and suffocating people.
So you are capable of pity, too, are you? How very interesting. So are we; but not for you. For you, this memory will keep you from crossing for several more days, I suspect.
Borominskar retreated to the eastern bank, shocked to his being at such wanton, cruel and vicious destruction. There were none of the People still in the flame-covered water. All trapped had succumbed and only a few had escaped the trap. Some of these had made it to the far side, only to be cut down by the threshkreen. A few of the late crosses had likewise managed to reach dry land before being encoiled in the thresh’s demon-spawned trick.
Settling his tenar to the ground, Borominskar saw that the People, Normals and God Kings both, had pulled as far from the flaming wall as possible. Bunching up, shocked and terrorized, they presented an enviable target for the threshkreen’s artillery and heavy fighting machines.
The oolt’ondai’s tenar beeped again. “Emanations from four enemy major fighting machines, Lord. Incoming artillery; uncountable rounds but not less than three thousand.”
Interlude
“We are ready, at last, lord,” said Ro’moloristen. “I have promised edas beyond counting to get cooperation, but I think we have it. Tomorrow, three hundred twenty-two C- and B-Decs will begin to bombard the Siegfried line. In the first assault wave alone over three thousand tenar-mounted Kessentai will ride ahead with over one million normals in their wake. All aimed like an arrow at this narrow section of the line that leads directly to the bridge. Other, fixing attacks, will be made, but not pressed too hard, all along the front.”
“Lord…” the Kessentai hesitated. “’Lord, the edas I had to promise to Arlingas is frightful, to get him to hang onto that bridge. He says his host is on the verge of utter destruction and he wishes to fight his way out.”
“But we can make it to him? Make it in time.”
Ro’moloristen’s crest fluttered with pride, pride in self and in the plan he had created. “So I believe, lord. Let me answer with my head if I am wrong.”
“So it shall be puppy,” Athenalras agreed. “But I fear if you are wrong we shall all answer with our heads, if not with our reproductive organs. The host to the east?”
“They march, lord, but not until they see our success in the west is drawing the enemy away from their front.” Ro’moloristen shivered with knowledge of the blunting of the last attack over the Niesse River. What an obscenity; to burn perfectly good thresh.
Chapter 15
Mainz, Germany, 10 Jnuary 2008
Isabelle’s head ached and her inner body rippled with the shock of masses of incoming alien kinetic energy weapons. Within and around the city and to the southwest, these landed, raising clouds of dirt and dust into the sullen sky. Artillery lent its own measure to the frightful din.
There were few streaks of silver lighting coming from the ground to answer the invader’s fire, however. The news was clear that the enemy had hurt the Planetary Defense Batteries badly.
Somehow, she suspected that that artillery — and luck in avoiding the incoming KE weapons — might be all that stood between her boy, Thomas, and death.
She had seen her elder boy, once, briefly, since he had joined what she insisted on thinking of as “The Army.” She could not even bring herself to say that he was a member of the Boche army. As to the branch? The insignia glittering on his collar had been almost impossible to ignore. She had put on the best face she could, even so.
Now, he was in danger. And she knew the boy was hardly trained for war. She could only hope for the best as she, her remaining boy, and millions of people, German and French both, prepared for the long trudge to safety, could it but be found, far to the north.
Reports from the front were uniformly bad. The Siegfried line was going to fall and soon. Only this knowledge gave serious impetus to those previously fleeing and about-to-become refugees’ preparations for their flight.
Placing her pack upon her back, taking her remaining son by the hand, Isabelle took a glance backwards in the direction of where she presumed her Thomas was. Then, forcing herself to an unnatural strength, she joined the column of refugees heading to the north.