Throne of Stars (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Captain Krindi Fain tapped the rifle breech with a leather-wrapped swagger stick.

“Keep that barrel down. You’re missing high.”

“Sorry, Sir,” the recruit said. “I think the roll of the ship is throwing me off.” He clutched the breech-loading rifle in his lower set of hands as the more dexterous upper hands opened the mechanism and thumbed in another greased paper cartridge. It was an action he could perform with blinding speed, given the fact that he had four hands, which was why his bright blue leather harness was literally covered in cartridges.

“Better to miss low,” the officer said through the sulfurous tang of powder smoke. “Even if you miss the first target, it gives you an aiming point to reference to. And it might hit his buddy.”

The shooting was going well, he thought. The rifles were at least hitting
near
the floating barrel. But it needed to be better, because the Carnan Rifles had a tendency to be in the thick of it. Which was a bit of a change from when they had been the Carnan Canal Labor Battalion.

The captain looked out at the seawater stretching beyond sight in every direction and snorted. His native Diaspra had existed under the mostly benevolent rule of a water-worshiping theocracy from time out of mind, but the few priests who’d accompanied the Diaspran infantry to K’Vaern’s Cove had first goggled at so much water, then balked at crossing it when the time came. So much of The God had turned out to be a bad thing for worship.

He stepped along to the next firer to watch over the private’s shoulder. The captain was tall, even for a Mardukan. Not as tall or as massive as his shadow Erkum Pol, perhaps, but still tall enough to see over the shoulder of the private as the wind swept the huge powder bloom aside.

“Low and to the left, Sardon. I think you’ve got the aim right; it’s the motion of the ship that’s throwing you off. More practice.”

“Yes, Sir,” the private said, and grunted a chuckle. “We’re going to kill that barrel sooner or later,” he promised, then spat out a bit of
bisti
root and started reloading.

Fain glanced towards the back of the ship—the “stern” as the sailors insisted it be called. Major Bes, the infantry commander of the Carnan Battalion—“The
Basik
’s Own,” as it was sometimes called, although any resemblance between the human prince it served and the harmless, cowardly herbivorous
basik
was purely superficial—was talking with one of the human privates assigned to the ship. The three humans were “liaisons” and maintained communications via their Terran systems. But unlike most of the few remaining humans, these were still uncomfortable around Mardukans, and the team leader seemed particularly upset about the quality of the food. Which just went to show that humans must be utterly spoiled. The food which had been available since joining the army was one of the high points for most of the Mardukans.

“I like the food,” Erkum rumbled discontentedly behind him. “The human should keep his opinions to himself.”

“Perhaps.” Fain shrugged. “But the humans are our employers and leaders. We’ve learned from them, and they were the saviors of our home. I’ll put up with one of them being less than perfect.”

There was more to it than that, of course. Fain wasn’t terribly introspective, but he’d had to think long and hard before embarking on this journey. The human prince had called for volunteers from among the Diaspran infantry after the Battle of Sindi. He’d warned them that he could promise little—that they would be paid a stipend and see new lands, but that that was, for all practical purposes, it.

The choice had seemed clear cut to most of the Diasprans. They liked the humans, and their prince perhaps most of all, but things were happening at home. The almost simultaneous arrival of the Boman hordes and the humans had broken the city out of its millennia-old stasis. New industries were being built every day, and there were fortunes to be made.

As a veteran officer of the Sindi campaign, Fain was bulging with loot to invest, and his family had already found a good opportunity, a foundry that was being built on the extended family’s land. A tiny bit of capital could see a handsome return. In fact, he could probably have retired on the income.

Yet he’d found himself looking to the west. He hadn’t known what was calling to him at the time. Indeed, he hadn’t even begun to understand until days after he’d volunteered for the expedition. But some siren song had been pulling him into the train of the humans, and he’d found the answer in an offhand comment from one of those same humans. Fain had made a pronouncement about the status of “his” company, and Sergeant Julian had cocked his head at him and smiled. “You’ve got it bad,” the NCO had said.

And that was when Fain had realized he’d been bitten by the command bug.

The command bug was one of the most pernicious drugs known to any sentient race. To command in battle was both the greatest and most horrible activity in which any adult could participate. Any good commander felt each death as if it were his own. To him, his men were his children, and holding one of his troops while he died was like holding a brother. But to command well was to know that whatever casualties he’d taken, more lives would have been lost under an inferior commander. And Fain had commanded well.

Handed a company out of the gray sky, he’d taken them into the most complicated environment possible—as outnumbered skirmishers on the flank of a large force—and managed to perform his duty magnificently. He’d lost troops, people he’d known for months and even years. But he’d also been in a few other battles, both before and since, and he’d known that many more of those people would have died under the commander he’d replaced. He’d kept his head, been innovative, and known when and how to cut his losses.

So when the choice came, to give up command and return to a life of business and luxury, or to take a command into the unknown, following an alien leader, he’d taken only a moment to decide. He’d sent most of his accumulated funds, the traded loot of four major and minor battles, to his family for investment, raised a true-hand, and sworn his allegiance to Prince Roger MacClintock and the Empire of Man.

And, to no one’s amazement (except, perhaps his own), most of his company had followed him. They’d follow him to Hell.

Most of his troops were aboard the
Ima Hooker
with Sergeant Knever, but there was also a small detachment here on
Sea Skimmer
, and today was one of its twice-weekly riflery drills.

Fain made it a point to supervise those drills in person, because he’d learned the hard way that good marksmanship was an important factor in the sort of warfare the humans taught. The Carnan Rifles’ entire battalion had gradually segued into a rifle skirmisher force, following the lead of its most famous captain, and with skirmishers, excellent marksmanship was paramount. They were supposed to get out in front of conventional forces and snipe the leaders of approaching formations. They had to be able to hit something smaller than the broad side of a temple to do that job, and the Carnan Rifles were proving they could do just that.

Well, most of them.

Then there was Erkum.

At almost four meters in height, the big Mardukan dwarfed even his captain. Mardukans generally ran to three meters or so, from their broad, bare feet to their curved double horns, so Erkum was a giant even for them. And, except mentally, he wasn’t slow, either, despite his size. Fain had seen him catch spears in flight and outrun
civan
for short bursts.

But he couldn’t hit a
pagathar
with a rifle at ten paces. If it was headed straight for him.

At a walk.

Erkum had attached himself to the captain before that particular weakness became apparent. Before, in fact, Fain had been anything but a junior pike NCO. But everything seemed to have worked out. Erkum protected the captain’s back, and that wasn’t long-range work. As long as Fain’s enemies came within five meters or so, the hulking private could usually hit them. And even if he hit them only with the butt of his weapon, they tended to stay down. More than that, he had acquired what was probably the perfect tool for his chosen spot.

The weapon was more cannon than gun. It was the brainchild of the same inventor who’d come up with the standard Mardukan rifle, and it used metallic cartridges similar to the ones developed for the bolt action rifles that had replaced the Marines’ bead rifles as their sophisticated ammunition ran out. But its barrel diameter was nearly three times that of the standard rifles, and it fired “semi-automatically.” A barlike magazine protruded vertically from the top of the weapon. It held seven short, stubby cartridges, each as long as a Mardukan hand, and as each round was fired, the bar slid downward to expose the next cartridge to the firing mechanism and hammer. The weight of the dropping “magazine” both cocked the weapon and brought the next round into position.

It had been originally intended as a quick-firing swivel gun to mount on the schooners’ bulwarks as an anti-sea monster defense, but in the end, it had been replaced for that function by the pintle-mounted harpoon cannons. As part of its original design concept, however, it had been designed to fire either buckshot or conical slugs, and Erkum carried a pair of reloads for each ammunition type on his person at all times.

The breech-bar reloads were a meter long by themselves, and could be lifted by a human only with difficulty. Erkum, on the other hand, reloaded one-handed, and fired the rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger. Of course, being near his line of fire was rather unhealthy. But it was a decent weapon for a combat-environment bodyguard. Even one who couldn’t hit a mountain if it was falling on him.

Unfortunately, he had the damnedest time admitting his lack of marksmanship.

“These youngsters, they don’t know how to hit nothing,” the big Mardukan growled. If he were a season older than most of the recruits and privates, Fain would have been astonished.

“It’s okay, Erkum,” the captain said, knowing what was coming. “Really. They’re doing fine.”

“They need to be showed how to really shoot,” Erkum rumbled, taking the semiportable cannon off his back.

“You don’t have to do this,” Fain muttered. But although Erkum was easy to control in most areas, he was inordinately proud of his lack of skill with the damned gun.

“None of you
biset
could hit the side of a temple!” he yelled to the riflemen lining the rail. “I will now show you how it is done!”

The gun had a double shoulder rest with a lower support/stock that rested on the hips. It was held and “gross” aimed with the lower false-hands and “fine” aimed with the upper true-hands. Now the private shouldered the weapon, dropped in one of the magazine bars, and opened fire.

The gun really was a small cannon, and emitted the smoke level of one. But even with the smoke, the slow-moving shot could be tracked visually as it lofted through the air and fell beyond the barrel. The private wasn’t able to use that information to adjust, however, because he’d already triggered two more bruising, smoke-spewing blasts from the weapon during its time of flight.

Fain coughed on the stinking cloud of smoke and tried not to laugh. Judging by the splashes, the rounds were falling all around the barrel and even tracking far enough off to be a hazard to the longboat that had dropped the target. None of them, however, were coming within a reasonable distance of the barrel itself.

He glanced over his shoulder at a semi-sensed movement, then clapped his lower hands as one of the humans surreptitiously hefted her own bead rifle and cracked off a single, irreplaceable round.

The hypervelocity bead was impossible to see, and the sound of the single shot was buried under the ongoing blasts from Erkum’s cannon. The effect, however, was easy to discern as the barrel shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Hah!” Erkum grunted as he threw the gun over his back once more in satisfaction. “And they say I can’t shoot.”

He snorted magnificently, picked up the expended magazine, and slid it into one of the holders on his harness.

Fain shook his head in a gesture copied from the humans, and clapped his lower hands.

“No question,” he agreed. “You’re getting better.”

“Me and my gun, we’ll protect you, Krindi.” Erkum rubbed a horn and shook his own head. “Did you see how it just exploded? I can’t wait to get to use it for real.”

Krindi looked to the stern of the ship and smiled as the human lifted her visor and gave a sardonic salute. And because the Mardukan was looking in that direction, he was one of the few to see the ocean open up behind the ship.

The opening was at least twenty meters across, a yawning cavern in the abruptly surfacing snout of a piscine easily as long as
Sea Skimmer
herself. The giant predator was an ambush hunter, like the terrestrial stonefish, and the snap-opening of its tooth-filled maw created a low-level vacuum that literally stopped the ship in her tracks.

Then the schooner dropped.

There were screams, human and Mardukan, throughout the ship as it first stopped dead in the water, then dropped backwards to scrape its copper-sheathed hull across the beast’s lower teeth. And there were more screams as the maw snapped shut. The jaws shattered the ship, cutting it nearly in half, and pulling the mainmast over backwards as they clamped down on the stays.

Krindi bit down his own scream as the schooner staggered backwards and he saw the human sergeant and Major Bes tumble off the stern of the ship and down the creature’s gullet. There was nothing wrong with his reflexes, however, and his left true-hand lashed out and grasped a line just before the beast bit down.

Erkum bellowed in rage as the impact of the thing’s jaws on the deck flipped them both into the air like toys. Instead of grabbing a rope, though, the big private was clawing at his cannon even as he roared his fury, and then everything came back down and the beast pulled back with a twist of its massive head that reduced the already shattered transom to splinters.

What remained of the truncated ship started to settle by the stern, the deck sloping precariously down to the water, masts shattered and over the side. Anyone who hadn’t already grabbed a rope was left to scramble for lines as they slid towards the frothing green water, and Krindi cursed and grabbed his own flailing cable with a stronger false-hand. He heard screams and cries from below decks, and knew that any of his detachment he hadn’t lost in the first tremendous bite were probably doomed. But for the moment, all he could think about was whether or not he, personally, would survive.