LITMIR.BIZ

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projections of spacial distortion, an effect based on the projection of gravitational distortion used in space drives. Shields reflected incoming traffic, while screens absorbed and stored the released energy.

      While screens were useful in relatively low-energy combat zones, they could be overloaded by nukes, and they weren’t good at stopping solid projectiles like missiles or high-energy KK rounds. With shields, incoming beams, missiles, and radiation were twisted through 180 degrees by the sharp and extremely tight curvature of space. Warheads and incoming projectiles were vaporized when they folded back into themselves, beams redirected outward in a spray of defocused energy. Warheads detonating just outside the area of warped space had both radiation and shock wave redirected outward.

      As the ground around the outside of the perimeter became molten, however, some heat began leaking through at the shield’s base faster than heat-sink dissipaters could cool the ground. When the projectors laid out on the ground along the perimeter began sinking into patches of liquid rock, they failed. The enemy’s strategy in a bombardment like the one hammering Mike-Red was to overload the dissipaters and destroy the projectors.

      The Marines were using shields and screens in an attempt to stay ahead of the bombardment, with banks of portable dissipater units running nonstop in the ongoing fight to keep the ground solid.

      It was a fight they were losing.

      “Perhaps it would be best to have these spacecraft remain outside the energy barriers,” Jamel Hamid said. “The Turusch could use this opportunity to—”

      “I know what the enemy is capable of,” Gorman snapped. “Get the hell out of my way.”

      He brushed past the civilian for a closer look at the 3-D display. One of the energy-shield facets—number three—winked off just ahead of the oncoming formation of fliers. The Starhawks glided across the perimeter, and the shield came up again behind them, flickered uncertainly, then stabilized. An instant later, a particle beam stabbed down from space. The Romeo had spotted the momentary breach and tried to take advantage of it with a snap shot, but the beam struck the shield and scattered harmlessly outward.

      “Shit, that was close,” a Marine shield tech at one of the boards said.

      “Cut the chatter,” Gorman said. “Watch those projectors.”

      “Aye, aye, sir. Sorry, sir.”

      One reason the beachhead had been set up on a rocky ridgetop was that molten rock tended to flow downhill, not up into the perimeter and the shield projectors. Repeated shocks against the lower slopes of the ridge, however, were threatening to undermine the perimeter. Gorman had already given orders to set out two replacement projectors, for number five and number six, placing them back a hundred meters as the ground sagged and crumbled beneath the originals.

      Eventually, enemy fire would eat away the entire hill.

      “Number four is failing,” the shield tech reported. “I recommend a reset.”

      “How long do we have?” Gorman asked.

      “Hard to estimate, General. An hour. Maybe two. Depends on how soon they resume the bombardment.”

      Of course. Everything depended on the enemy. That was the hell of it. Gorman hated being trapped like this, stuck in a hole, forced to react to the enemy’s initiative, unable even to shoot back, since to do so the Marines had to drop one of the shields, which would mean a torrent of Turusch fire and warheads pouring through the gap.

      The respite the Navy zorchies had brought the defenders was the first breather they’d had in weeks, but it wouldn’t be long before more Tushie ground units moved into the area and took the perimeter under fire … or until more capital ships moved overhead and started pounding the beachhead again with nukes and HE-beams.

      “I still don’t see why you’re letting those fighters come inside the shields,” Hamid said. “They can’t do any good in here.”

      “In case you weren’t paying attention, Mister Hamid,” Gorman said, choosing his words carefully, “those pilots have been giving the Turusch one hell of a fight. They’re out of missiles, and either out of or running damned thin on other expendables. They need to touch down and get their craft serviced. I imagine the pilots need servicing as well.”

      “Perhaps they should land in shifts, then. …”

      “Mr. Hamid, I’ve had just about enough of your second-guessing and carping. Get off my quarterdeck!”

      “I remind you, General, that I am in command of this colony!”

      “And I am in command of the Marine Expeditionary Force. Bradley!”

      “Sir!”

      “Please escort this civilian off of Marine property. If he shows his face around here again, he is to be placed under guard and confined to his quarters.”

      “Aye, aye, General!”

      “General Gorman!” Hamid said, his face reddening. “I must protest!

      “Protest all you damned well please,” Gorman replied, shrugging, “just as soon as we get back to Earth!”

      “Your anti-Islamic stance has been noted, General! Sheer antitheophilia! This will all go onto my report to my government!”

      “Get him out of here, Major Bradley.”

      “With pleasure, General! C’mon, you.”

      Hamid started to say something more, seemed to think better of it, then turned and strode toward the CIC command center door. Bradley grinned at Gorman, then followed the man out. Hamid, clearly, was furiously angry, and there would be repercussions later. If there was a later. Gorman was willing to face the political fallout if they could just hang on long enough to get his people off this toxic hell-hole.

      Gorman watched the civilian go, scowling. That crack about his being antitheophilic had been just plain nasty.

      But, of course, the colonists on Haris were Refusers—the descendants of Muslims who’d refused to sign the Covenant of the Dignity of Humankind or accept the enforced rewrite of their Holy Qu’ran. Gorman, too, was a Refuser—at least in spirit. His church had accepted the Covenant, but many of its members had not.

      Bastards …

      The five Navy zorchies were settling in on the landing field now, the fighter icons gathering at the field’s north end.

      “Carleton!” he growled.

      “Yes, sir!”

      “Get your ass down there and get Stores moving on those g-fighters,” he said. “I want their tubes reloaded and those ships ready to boost, absolutely minimum on the turnaround.”

      “Aye, aye, sir,” his adjutant said, heading for the door.

      Hamid had been right in principle, if not in execution. The faster they got those ships reloaded and out on patrol, the better.

      Another nine hours before the naval battlegroup arrived.

      It was going to be close.

      Chapter Six

       25 September 2404

      CIC, TC/USNA CVS America

       Eta Boötis IV

       2320 hours, TFT

      Rear Admiral Koenig walked through the hatch onto the Combat Information Center deck. He’d spent the last six hours trying to sleep, but not even the various electronic soporifics available through the ship’s medical resources had helped. He’d finally dozed off with a trickle charge to his sleep center, but he felt far from rested now.

      The battlegroup was now deep inside the Eta Boötean solar system, closing on Haris. He checked his

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