“Hungry normals are dangerous normals,” the God King finished.
“Dangerous in themselves and dangerous in the trouble they can cause,” agreed Ziramoth, nodding his head.
“In this particular case, one philosopher’s favorite normal grew too hungry to be controlled. It attacked the herd of another, killed a juvenile normal, and carted it off to feast.”
“So what was the problem?” Guanamarioch asked. “Surely the Kessentai that owned the juvenile would have demanded recompense and the one whose normal had done the killing would have complied. That is the law.”
“Ah, but that is only half the law,” the Kenstain answered wistfully.
Chapter 19
An assegai had been thrust into the belly of the nation.
There are not tears enough to mourn for the dead.
Binastarion’s crest expanded, fluttering in the windstream as his tenar cut through the air. That ship! That accursed, odious, stinking, CHEATING ship! I had the thresh in my claws, savoring the anticipation of the squeezing when that damnable threshkreen ship ruined everything, butchering my sons like abat and blasting their mates into unrecyclable waste. It shall pay and so shall all who sail aboard her.
This time, however, I will not risk my landers, my C-Decs and B-Decs. They are too valuable, too difficult for us to replace with my clan in such dire straits. Indeed, without the manufacturies in those ships we will not survive the first push of a rival clan. Instead, we shall swarm the bitch with tenar. I will lose sons, yes, perhaps many of them, along with their tenar. But sons and tenar I can replace, the great ships not so easily.
“Skipper, we got’s problems,” announced Davis.
The Des Moines was still deep within the bay, still firing in support of the Panamanians, still boxed in by the mainland to north, east and west and the island to the south.
Daisy Mae’s avatar’s eyes moved left and right rapidly as humans’ sometimes will when trying to count large numbers or solve complex problems. Her mouth opened slightly in a worried looking moue.
“Captain,” she said, “there are more than I can track. Two streams of them, flanking us to the east and the west. They’re keeping low, trying to get around us and cut us off. I think it may be time to leave.”
McNair hesitated a moment, then picked up the radio microphone. “Daisy, translate. Lieutenant Diaz?” he asked.
“Sir?” Even charged with the radio’s static Diaz’s voice seemed terribly, terribly tired.
“We’re in a spot of trouble here, Lieutenant. How is the breakout coming?”
“Capitano, Colonel Suarez has the bridge over the river to the east. Your ICM cleaned off the aliens pretty well. He’s already passing the soft stuff over, trucks, ambulances, things like that.”
“To the west?” McNair queried, succinctly.
“Your countrymen in the Armored Combat Suits are handling that, sir. It looks basically okay.”
Unseen by the glider pilot, McNair nodded, as if weighing options, duties, values and chances of survival.
“Tell Suarez I have to pull out. The Posleen are trying to box me in here. It’s not looking good.”
Again the radio crackled with the flying officer’s voice, “I will pass that on, sir. We should be fine on the ground. Good luck and my best to your radio operator Miss Daisy. Diaz out.”
McNair half turned and shouted to the navigation bridge, “Bring us around. Make for open sea. All possible speed.”
Within the armored navigation bridge a crewman turned the ship’s wheel hard aport. Beneath the stern the AZIPOD drives followed the command of the wheel. Water churned fiercely to starboard as the Des Moines began a turn so sharp it was almost less than the ship’s length along the waterline.
As the bow turned to the break between the western-most tip of the island and the mainland, Chief Davis’ eyes grew wide with horror. He pointed toward the island.
“Too late, Skipper,” he announced.
“At them, my children. Punish the foilers of our plans, the blighters of our hopes, the murderers of our brothers.”
Binastarion could see only a couple of hundred of his tenar-borne sons as they arose from the covering vegetation and began to converge on the threshkreen warship. In his screen, however, more than one thousand tenar appeared. Lines showing the paths of the tenar all converged in an irregular blotch above the ship. The ship itself he could not see, though bright flashes on the horizon suggested that the ship had seen the threat and was already fighting back.
The Des Moines had four lines of defense, so to speak, against alien attack. The most visually impressive of these, the three triple turrets of eight-inch guns, were already engaged, spewing forth canister and time-fused high explosive. At the current range the time-fused shells were most effective. Unfortunately, both forward turrets were fully occupied in trying to blast a hole through the southern quadrant of the Posleen net.
The rear turret, on the other hand, was totally inadequate to covering the one hundred and eighty degrees it would have to if the Posleen were to be kept away. Daisy tried, even so, switching the gun madly from one alien cluster to another.
The secondary line of defense was composed of the six upgraded Mark 71 turrets, emplaced in lieu of the old twin five-inch mounts. These were actually the first line of defense if, as the Posleen had before, the enemy used landers to attack. The barbettes and magazines below those turrets carried only anti-lander ammunition, solid bolts of depleted uranium. These could be effective against individual tenar, but their rate of fire was just not adequate to a massed tenar attack; though no one had really imagined any of the formerly three-ship flotilla having to stand alone as the Des Moines was now. Moreover, it was a case of almost absurd overkill to use a two-hundred and sixty pound depleted uranium bolt against a single flying sled carrying a single God King.
The third line of defense, the gun tubs, had been intended for 20mm antiaircraft guns. These had been replaced in design by twin three-inch mounts when it was discovered that a 20mm shell was simply too small to stop a determined kamikaze. The three-inch mounts had, in turn, been recently replaced by fully automated turrets housing five-barreled, 30mm Gatlings, stripped from A-10 aircraft that had become useless, having had no possible chance of survival against automated Posleen air defenses.
The fourth line of defense?
“Jesus,” prayed McNair, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.” He then added, half jokingly, “We don’t have a single cutlass aboard.”
Daisy, eyes closed now as if concentrating on her targeting, as in fact she was, answered, “Have Sintarleen pass out the submachine guns I traded for. He knows where they are. Indian built Sterlings. They’re simple enough that anyone can use one after five minutes’ familiarization.”
“Submachine guns?” McNair asked incredulously.
Eyes still closed, Daisy asked, “Would you have actually preferred cutlasses? I was watching Master and Commander and got to thinking…”
Without another word McNair spoke over the shipwide intercom. “Mr. Sinbad, this is the captain. Pass out the small arms… the… Sterlings. And all hands, now hear this: I never expected to say this, boys, but… all hands stand by to repel boarders.”