It was magnificent, Binastarion thought, even while hating the source of that magnificence with every fiber of his being. The ship was wreathed in fire and smoke, fighting furiously to keep the host of the People away.
The God King was puzzled, actually, that the host had not done more damage to the ship than it had. Hundreds of plasma bolts had been fired, along with several dozen hypervelocity missiles. (Those last were pricey and a clan as poor as that of Binastarion could ill afford to waste them.) Some of the HVMs had been intercepted by fire from the ship and destroyed in flight; the ship was putting out a practically solid wall of DU and iron projectiles around itself. Some seemed to have been spoofed by the immaterial holograms the ship projected. Others, though, many others, appeared to have struck home. Yet the firepower of the defenders seemed undiminished.
That sparked a thought. While the ship could spoof HVMs, while it could mimic in safe quadrants the bursts of intense flame that indicated cannon fire, the flame of the actual guns it could not mask.
And those sources cannot be far above the water nor too far from the center of the fire.
Shouting words of encouragement to his sons to press the attack closer Binastarion concentrated carefully on the pattern of flames belching forth from his enemy.
There, he thought, as a steady, measured burst of flames spewed forth from what he thought must be amidships. There is a true source.
The God King marked what he believed to be an actual weapon on his control screen, then tapped it several times to carefully sight his own, superior, HVM at the target. With a whispered prayer that the shit-demons not spoil his aim, he ordered his Artificial Sentience, “Fire.”
McNair and the bridge crew were knocked senseless and thrown from their feet by the blast.
“Oh, God!” Daisy screamed, clutching her side and flickering in and out of apparent existence.
Below and behind the battle bridge an enemy missile had struck the nearest secondary turret, cutting through the armor, incinerating the lone gun crewman on station and, unfortunately, setting off the propellant charge for the gun’s next round even as it was being fed into the breach. The resultant blast was enough to knock the bridge crew to the deck, to blow the turret clean off the ship and to rip a gaping hole, three feet by seven, in the portside hull above the armor deck.
At the low angle at which the HVM hit, it was unable to do more than score a long gash in the thick steel of the armor deck. Molten steel blasted off from that armor was sufficient, however, to wound or kill better than thirty crewman standing by for damage control on the port side of Des Moines’ splinter deck. The screams of those who still lived, hideously mangled and burned, echoed through the ship.
Continuing on, the HVM cut through five bulkheads and a passageway before erupting into the lightly armored magazine that fed one of the 30mm Gatling turrets. The heat of its passage was sufficient to set off the 30mm ammunition in its entirety, blowing that turret, too, completely off the ship and hopelessly jamming the one next to it. The explosion of the ammunition, confined to a degree by the ship’s deck and hull, fed inward through the gap torn by the HVM itself.
A dozen of Sintarleen’s Indowy crewman, standing by to participate in damage control, were half crushed and badly surface burned by the explosion leaking in through that gap. Their screams added to those of the humans caught in the path of the enemy missile.
Father Dan Dwyer was first on the scene of the port side misery. His first thought was to go to the aid of the wounded. Yet the priest was an old seaman. That was important, to be sure. But more important was to let the captain know how his ship fared. The priest picked up the intercom and rang the bridge.
It seemed a long moment before anyone answered. When the captain came on he seemed stunned, groggy.
“McNair.”
Dwyer had to shout to make himself heard over the shrieking of torn and burned crewmen. “Jeff, this is Dan. We’re bad hit but not fatally. Number fifty-three secondary turret is out.”
The priest looked upward at the smoky sky through the gaping hole defined by twisted and tortured metal. “I mean really out. She’s gone and you’ve got a hole in your defenses. At least one.”
“Fuck… the… hole,” McNair answered, groggily. “Daisy’s a… brave girl… she… can be… repaired. What about… my crew?”
The corpsmen had arrived on scene while Dwyer spoke with the bridge. They went from body to body, looking for live crew who had a chance of survival. More often than not a medico would make a quick examination and shake his head in resignation. Morphine was being liberally dispensed. In the dosages used it was a sure sign, the Jesuit knew, that the crewman so graced was not expected to survive. Slowly, the shrieks, moans and screams softened as one hopelessly butchered and charred sailor after another was put under.
Dwyer’s eyes came to rest on a charred, disembodied leg. He fought down nausea. “It’s bad, Skipper, as bad as I’ve ever seen. Thirty men down, at least. Might be forty. Hard to tell; some of them are in pieces. They’re… well, they’re just ripped apart… and flash burned. And that’s only on the port side. I’m heading to starboard to check there.”
Binastarion wasn’t sure his HVM had struck home until he saw the odd shaped, multifaceted piece of metal flying high above the deceptive holograms projected by his enemy. Momentarily the holograms flickered out and he saw the ship’s true shape, long and lean and predatory, through the smoke.
How strange, the God King thought, the one thing I have seen on this shitball of a world the aesthetics of which don’t make me want to wretch. My enemy is even, in its way, the more beautiful for being so deadly.
Even very beautiful things, however, must die. And so must that ship.
“Forward, my sons,” the God King chieftain exulted into his communicator. “Forward to victory and glory everlasting.”
The great ship shuddered with the repeated hits of Posleen HVMs now. Overhead the thick armored deck rang as two- to four-inch-deep gouges were torn out of it. Even through the stout metal, the priest was certain he heard at least two more secondary explosions. Those had to be nothing less than eight-inch or 30mm batteries going up in smoke and flame.
Dimly, the priest sensed the captain desperately ordering that canister and high explosive be brought to the secondary turrets. He hurried the performance of last rites for the fallen, human and Indowy, both. After all, God will know his own.
Dwyer became aware of Sintarleen standing off to one side. The Indowy’s expression was unreadable in any detail to a human not specially trained in the alien culture. Dwyer looked for a sign of disapproval, even so, and found none on the alien’s furry, batlike face.
Sintarleen looked back and shrugged, a bit of body language picked up from the human crew.
“Though we have no such thing as religion, as you would think of it, it couldn’t hurt, Father.”
Sinbad continued, “These were a third, or nearly a third, of all that remained of my clan, Father. Of those great and industrious multitudes now only sixteen males remain on this planet, and another one hundred or so transfer neuters and females held in bondage somewhere by the Elves. We had hoped to buy our sisters and brothers out of that bondage, but now…”
The Indowy bowed its head so deeply its chin rested on its great chest. Sintarleen could not weep, was not built to shed tears, yet his body shook with the overwhelming emotions of seeing so large a percentage of his few remaining kinsmen slaughtered.