“But that was only the beginning of sorrow, for Selaa was held in great regard by her sisters. Before they could be stopped, more than two hundred young females, many with kits inside them, followed her example. They murdered themselves and the lives they held.”
A great wave of wailing swelled, and hundreds of paws rose as one to shred their ears. Many fell on all fours or curled up on the deck in agony, as if to avoid the images of desecration and abomination inside their heads. Even Vusk and his toughs stumbled about as if drunk, twitching convulsively even to contemplate the unthinkable loss of so many dams. It was all Chirom could do to stand and look out over the scene before him, and not join them.
Chirom met Trissk’s eyes where he stood at the back. He’s already done his mourning , he thought, and now he’s strong enough to get past it.
As if reading his mind, the younger male nodded solemnly.
After some smallspans the commotion died down, and Chirom judged the time right to continue in a ringing voice: “We Ryss are a strong race. We Ryss mourn with passion. We Ryss fight with strength and honor. We Ryss endure even the unendurable. But now our few daughters, who were but kits when this horror overtook us, will soon come of age to bear new litters; but we have no food to feed them. Will we starve our children? Will we sterilize the dams too? Will we drive them to self-murder?” Raising his naked claws above his head, the elder shouted, “I say NO!”
NO, NO, NO, chanted the crowd, and Trissk wondered how in his pompous childishness he ever could have thought Chirom did not understand politics.
Chapter Eight
Major Joseph “Bull” ben Tauros rubbed his ferrocrystal Star of David medallion, then slid it into his skinsuit. He'd had it made from a scrap of armor from the first EarthFleet battleship Orion, crippled in humanity's first fight with the Meme.
Not a particularly observant Jew, nevertheless the symbol of the ancient Hebrew king comforted him, as did the scriptures and blessings he had memorized. His only complaint with his upbringing was that he wished he had been named for one of Jehovah’s famous warriors – Gideon perhaps, or Joshua, who led the Israelites in their conquest of the walled city of Jericho.
“All the sleds are filled, sir,” Sergeant Major Charlie McCoy reported over suitcomm to his commander. “I still think we should bring the tanks.”
“I know you do, Smaj, but the moon’s surface is far from stable and that ship has weapons that will blow through a heavy tank in a heartbeat. And if we did get them onto the ship, they would be useless in the close confines within. No, our tactics must rely on speed and boarding. Then we just have to face whatever is inside.” Bull hefted his big, awkward Hippo-built plasma rifle. He’d fallen in love with the thing when he’d first seen it used against the Marines’ moon assault landing, and this one, with modified grips for his human hands, was his own deadly baby. He’d pushed for every Marine squad to have one to round out their kit.
“Aye aye, sir,” McCoy said resignedly. “Cocooning in now.”
“Right.” Bull racked his weapon, then slid his huge frame into the oversize crash-cocoon, one of ten sarcophagi jammed into the tiny assault sled. Pilot and gunner made twelve, and were protected only by crash chairs and gravplates. Those guys are the real crazy ones, he thought.
This sled also carried one of the semi-portable laser cannons that made up half of the company’s heavy weapons section, and therefore would hang back a little in the wave assault. That grated on him but he knew that the semi, and he himself as the ground commander, had to be given the best chance to get down intact. After that…lock and load.
“Any word?” Bull asked his senior sled driver, Flight Warrant Officer Butler.
“No, sir. The bogey is descending. It may be making a landing at the Reta base, is what they
A great wave of wailing swelled, and hundreds of paws rose as one to shred their ears. Many fell on all fours or curled up on the deck in agony, as if to avoid the images of desecration and abomination inside their heads. Even Vusk and his toughs stumbled about as if drunk, twitching convulsively even to contemplate the unthinkable loss of so many dams. It was all Chirom could do to stand and look out over the scene before him, and not join them.
Chirom met Trissk’s eyes where he stood at the back. He’s already done his mourning , he thought, and now he’s strong enough to get past it.
As if reading his mind, the younger male nodded solemnly.
After some smallspans the commotion died down, and Chirom judged the time right to continue in a ringing voice: “We Ryss are a strong race. We Ryss mourn with passion. We Ryss fight with strength and honor. We Ryss endure even the unendurable. But now our few daughters, who were but kits when this horror overtook us, will soon come of age to bear new litters; but we have no food to feed them. Will we starve our children? Will we sterilize the dams too? Will we drive them to self-murder?” Raising his naked claws above his head, the elder shouted, “I say NO!”
NO, NO, NO, chanted the crowd, and Trissk wondered how in his pompous childishness he ever could have thought Chirom did not understand politics.
Chapter Eight
Major Joseph “Bull” ben Tauros rubbed his ferrocrystal Star of David medallion, then slid it into his skinsuit. He'd had it made from a scrap of armor from the first EarthFleet battleship Orion, crippled in humanity's first fight with the Meme.
Not a particularly observant Jew, nevertheless the symbol of the ancient Hebrew king comforted him, as did the scriptures and blessings he had memorized. His only complaint with his upbringing was that he wished he had been named for one of Jehovah’s famous warriors – Gideon perhaps, or Joshua, who led the Israelites in their conquest of the walled city of Jericho.
“All the sleds are filled, sir,” Sergeant Major Charlie McCoy reported over suitcomm to his commander. “I still think we should bring the tanks.”
“I know you do, Smaj, but the moon’s surface is far from stable and that ship has weapons that will blow through a heavy tank in a heartbeat. And if we did get them onto the ship, they would be useless in the close confines within. No, our tactics must rely on speed and boarding. Then we just have to face whatever is inside.” Bull hefted his big, awkward Hippo-built plasma rifle. He’d fallen in love with the thing when he’d first seen it used against the Marines’ moon assault landing, and this one, with modified grips for his human hands, was his own deadly baby. He’d pushed for every Marine squad to have one to round out their kit.
“Aye aye, sir,” McCoy said resignedly. “Cocooning in now.”
“Right.” Bull racked his weapon, then slid his huge frame into the oversize crash-cocoon, one of ten sarcophagi jammed into the tiny assault sled. Pilot and gunner made twelve, and were protected only by crash chairs and gravplates. Those guys are the real crazy ones, he thought.
This sled also carried one of the semi-portable laser cannons that made up half of the company’s heavy weapons section, and therefore would hang back a little in the wave assault. That grated on him but he knew that the semi, and he himself as the ground commander, had to be given the best chance to get down intact. After that…lock and load.
“Any word?” Bull asked his senior sled driver, Flight Warrant Officer Butler.
“No, sir. The bogey is descending. It may be making a landing at the Reta base, is what they
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