The Chaplain's War (15 page)

CHAPTER 21

THIS FAR NORTH OF THE EQUATOR, THE NAMELESS PLANET WAS arid and unremarkable—with barely enough oxygen and nitrogen to support a grown man.

A heck of a lot like home,
I thought bitterly.

Hours after our ejection from the dying
Calysta,
our lifeboat had plummeted into the atmosphere. There’d been no sense trying to figure out who was winning or who was losing. The lifeboat had no tactical data nor any theater sensors with which to ascertain the progress of the battle. Every once in a while lights in the sky would sparkle and flash—ships exploding in the emptiness of space, their fantastic vanishings observable even in the daylight. Human. Mantis. All perishing together in one pent-up orgasm of long-delayed, hateful fury.

Death.

That was the thought that most concerned me as I trudged back up the broken-scree slope upon which the lifeboat had come to rest. The lifeboat’s yellow-and-orange-striped parachutes drifted and fluttered on a cold breeze, their cords stretched out across the crumbled and rocky bluff. My old survival training told me I’d best collect the chutes and tuck them away. But now it didn’t much matter. Human or mantis, whoever found us, there’d be hell to pay.

I climbed up the side of the lifeboat and dropped in through the top hatch, closing it behind me so as to preserve the batteries that were keeping the interior warm. The captain sat with her arms folded tightly across her stomach—back hunched and head down.

The Queen Mother was still helpless, her disc a dead weight while the Professor attended her with the gentleness and focus of a lover. Had they, I wondered, ever mixed seed? He the drone and she the recipient of his genetic lineage? There was still so much about the mantes’ culture and society of which I could only guess.

The Professor and the Queen Mother were engaged in gentle conversation, her mandibles clicking and chittering while he held one of her forelimbs in both of his. I’d once asked him to try to teach me their alien tongue. It had proven to be an almost impossible task.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Not good,” the Professor said, his disc rotating so that he could face me. “The internal systems of her carriage have all failed. If we do not get her to a mantis physician soon, it’s probable that she will pass from life.”

“She’s not bleeding,” I said. “Internal injuries?”

“I do not think you understand,” the Professor said, his mechanized voice only hinting at the emotion that seemed to hover beneath the surface of his chitinous skin. I’d spent enough time around mantes—and this mantis in particular—to know his body language. The Professor’s agitation was plainly spoken in the way he moved his forelimbs and rapidly swiveled his wedgelike head from side to side.

“No,” I said, “I guess I don’t. Unless she’s been hit somewhere I can’t see, I don’t understand what’s the matter with her.”

“Our carriages, or discs as you commonly call them, are integral to us from the moment we achieve consciousness. No mantis lives without one. They protect us and provide us with mobility, allow us to work and manipulate the world around us, they expand our senses as well as our consciousness, and without them we are worse than helpless. The mantis and the carriage are
one
.”

“Okay,” I said carefully. “But this can’t be the first time an adult has had her disc—her
carriage
—shot out from under her, right?”

“Of course not,” said the Professor. “But in those instances, death has either come quickly or medical aid has always been ready at hand.”

“So we can’t just pull her out of it?” I asked.

The Professor’s antennae shot upward, waved a bit, then curled into an expression of pronounced shock.

“That would surely prove lethal,” he said, acting as if I’d suggested the worst sort of obscenity.

“But you just told me leaving her in the dead disc is bad too,” I said, growing frustrated.

The Professor seemed to want to respond, but let his antennae fall to either side of his head, and turned back to speak to the Queen Mother in the indecipherable native language of the mantes. A language no human had ever learned, because no mantis had ever thought to teach it to us. Easier to use the translator and speaker in every disc.

Now it was the Queen Mother whose antennae gave a sign of shock. She stared intently at me—multi-faceted eyes cold and alien without the vocoder of her disc to give words to her thoughts—then she yammered something at the Professor in a rather rushed fashion, and slumped back into the center of her ruined disc.

“She says that while she was prepared to die in battle for our people, to commit helpless suicide in front of you humans is not to her liking.”

“If the Fleet finds us,” said Adanaho, surprising everyone as she finally looked up at us—her eyes puffy and red, “then the Queen Mother faces much worse than suicide. I’m with Intelligence and you can be certain that, with hostilities renewed, my comrades will spare no effort picking both of you apart in their quest for tactical and strategic information.”

“You assume humans will outlast the Queen Mother’s armada and reach our lifeboat first,” said the Professor, his wings rustling slightly with grim amusement. “Did not your warship fall before our own, despite your best attempt to replicate our defensive technology?”

“The flashes we’ve been seeing in the sky since planetfall tell me not everything has gone your way,” the captain said, also grimly. “The fighting continues. General Sakumora was rash and quick to shed blood, but he was also well-prepared. Our dreadnoughts are the finest in all of human space. Built using every lesson taught to us during the first war.”

I waved a finger in front of me, not looking at anyone in particular.

“The new war’s a nonstarter if the Queen Mother can convince the mantes to cease offensive operations,” I said.

More fluttering of wings.

“And why would she do that,” asked the Professor, “assuming she could regain contact with our forces?”

“Because Captain Adanaho saved both your lives when it would have been more expedient to let our marines fill you each full of bullets.”

The Professor had no answer to that. The Queen Mother snapped and chattered at him. He relayed to her what he’d heard. They proceeded to engage in a quick series of mantis exchanges.

“She says,” the Professor said delicately, “that the mercy shown by a single human does not translate to good will on the part of all humans. In fact, while we remain stranded here, events are doubtless in motion that are beyond recall for either side. If what the Queen Mother has told me is correct, her return to the armada was not expected—all they awaited was her signal, at which point the war plans would be put into effect. She is officially considered a casualty. And a successor has already been prepared to lead in her place. Doubtless our couriers are speeding back to join the rest of our ships, eager to relay news of this—and of the renewed offensive. Human planets will be under siege in a matter of weeks, if not days.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “But assuming we could contact the mantis hierarchy—prove that the Queen Mother,
our
Queen Mother, was alive—could she broker a cease-fire on your side of the battle lines?”

The Professor communicated my question to the Queen Mother, who stared at me a moment, then replied.

“Yes,” said the Professor. “It might be possible.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I said. “We’ve got to find a way to get her back in touch with your people.”

“Chief Barlow,” Captain Adanaho said, “I appreciate that you might still feel obligated to accomplish the mission, as originally assigned. But events have clearly wiped all previous considerations off the table. Our first objective is to alert Fleet to our presence. Intelligence will want otherwise, but I can argue from historical precedent that the Professor and the Queen Mother should be processed as
prisoners of war.
As such, they’d each be entitled to certain rights. Perhaps with her safely in our custody—unharmed and unmolested—we can bargain our way to a new armistice?”

“You sound too much like your old boss,” I said. Then thought better of my tone and added a respectful, “ma’am.”

Adanaho raised an eyebrow.

“Believe me, Chief,” she said, “I didn’t intend for any of this to happen, either. Nobody wanted a war.”

“But the Fleet bosses were obviously prepared for it,” I snapped.

“And why not?” she said. “your own records from the original armistice state the matter plainly—the Fourth Expansion would have wiped humanity from the face of the galaxy. We were up against the wall, one way or another. It would have been foolish to count on the cease-fire to last indefinitely. Even though you and the Professor had managed to achieve some measure of mutual understanding.”

A digital chime suddenly sounded through the speakers in the lifeboat.

Adanaho got up and checked the lifeboat’s computer.

“Our emergency beacon’s been spotted,” she said. “We’re getting telemetry from a Fleet rescue team in orbit. Looks like they’ll be here in a few hours, once they’ve picked up other survivors.”

“Do they know we have the Queen Mother with us?” I said, alarmed.

“If they knew,” the captain said, “we’d be their topmost priority. That we’re not tells me they think we’re just another lifeboat filled with survivors—one of many, from the looks of it.”

I would have been lying if I said I didn’t feel some degree of satisfaction in that news. A human rescue team meant that not only were we holding our own against the mantes, we were doing well enough to be able to afford search missions for the retrieval of survivors from lost ships. Not exactly the actions of an overwhelmed and beaten species.

The Professor shrank in on himself, just as he had while aboard the
Calysta.

“Prisoners of war,” he said. And none too happily.

“It could be worse,” I said to my old friend. “I survived the experience for years. You will too, if Captain Adanaho is right about being able to secure your POW status under Fleet protocol.”

He chitter-scratched with the Queen Mother, whose deflated body language grew even more so.

“Of course,” I said, thinking pessimistically, “if the captain
can’t
secure your status as POWs, then you’re meat—subject to the total spectrum of our interrogation techniques.”

Adanaho didn’t meet my gaze as I looked at her.

I snapped my fingers, then turned to face the Professor.

“Tell the Queen Mother that if she can promise us safety among the mantes, we’ll help her escape.”

Adanaho opened her mouth to object, but I held up a hand, not wanting to get into an argument with my superior—at least not yet.

“Impossible,” said the Professor. “With her carriage nonfunctional the Queen Mother is trapped here.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “There’s
no
contingency mode?”

The Professor hesitated, then he and the Queen Mother conversed for several minutes, their heads shifting back and forth and their mandibles rattling, clacking, snapping and stuttering. If Adanaho picked up on the fact that the Professor was straining to remain respectfully persistent, she didn’t show it. But I could see what he was trying to do. Doubtless, like me, he was required to display deference to a superior, lest he forfeit his position. Or worse. But in the Queen Mother’s current state, she was dependent on him totally. And might be forced to acquiesce to whatever he suggested.

“The carriage’s engineering has changed little in hundreds of your years,” the Professor said. “It is one of the all-time outstanding technical achievements of the great forbearers of mantis civilization—the first ones to meld mantis biology with mantis cyber-technology. There is an emergency release procedure, though it is seldom used. And I have never seen it done.”

“Good,” I said. “The sooner she’s out of that thing, the sooner we can get moving. No doubt your own carriage has been sending out coded mantis distress signals, ever since we landed.”

“You guess correctly,” the Professor said.

“Then it’s a race against time—the further we are from humans, the safer we’ll be. We’ll have to hope that your people have started dispatching rescue missions of their own.”