Chapter 387 (2/2)

We were out of ammo.

”Sound retreat,” I ordered.

”Aye, Most High,” Lu'ucilu'u said.

”As you command, Most High,” Karelesh said, sounding exhausted.

The tank stunk of excrement, of burnt electro-propellant, of overheated molycircs, of urine, sweat, and fear. All three of us, our armor was pitted, cracked, and bubbled. I was blind on one side, either because my helmet had failed or my eyes were gone.

It didn't matter as we raced, billowing smoke, for the refugee point.

We had survived the night.

When the refugee point came into sight we heard it.

And the small part of me that was rejoicing at having survived shrivelled and died.

HEAVY METAL INCOMING!

--Excerpt From: We Were the Lanaktallan of the Atomic Hooves, a Memoir.

The Googly-Eye was a subclass known as Squinties by the Terran Space Force. A highly stealth recon machine it stayed silent and still and merely watched. It didn't even use battlescreens, relied on a single micro-fusion plant for power, and watched.

It was currently in near orbit, relying on gravity, speed, and angle to remain over a crashed Devastator. It had watched as the tiny specks of Terran and Lanaktallan tanks had approached the massive machine. It didn't bother computing the chances of success. Its lean molycircs devoted only to recon and observation.

There was a sparkling and the Squinty took a risk and opened its eye completely.

The grounded Precursor vanished in a white glare. The Squinty could see through the clouds, could compensate for the particle haze, could see that what was left was a gutted shell with boiling molten matter in the bottom.

An entire Devastator, gone.

It was an electronic intelligence. It had no fear of what it was programmed to do.

It compressed the data, extended an antenna, used rapid ignition to fire up the main reactor, and shot out a single compressed squeal of data.

A Space Force particle beam blew it out of space only a nanosecond after it finished its compressed squeal.

The Harvester of the Lessers was discontent, watching the fighting for the system. It alone of the Ancient Ones remained, watching the battle in case something new reared its ugly head. So far, the data showed that even outnumbered a hundred to one and outmassed by a million to one, the ferals could fight hard enough and effectively enough that victory was a statistical probability.

The squeal, barely gotten out, reached it and Harvester decompressed it and examined it.

What it felt was the cold analytical equivalent of horror.

It slowed it down and watched it, frame by holographic frame, examining it from as many angles as possible as provided by the miles wide sensor arrays.

The dispersion was mathematically precise. The explosions self-evident. Only a single gap in the network of explosions that had no affect upon the outcome that left the Devastator a gutted burning hulk with molten matter in the bottom.

Harvester paused, rewound the entire battle, and ran it at hyper-speeds.

It knew what it had just witnessed.

The Terrans were able to put out such devastating firepower that a harvester the size of a large city could be obliterated in a handful of seconds planetside by a few bare hundred of armored vehicles. In space and in the orbitals, the Terran ships were raking the Precursors out of the sky. For every Terran ship that was destroyed, dozens, scores, hundreds of Precursor War Machine were destroyed or knocked out of action.

Harvester ran the programs, ran the analysis as it slowly shifted its massive bulk, angling for a good jumpspace entry.

After seeing that, there was only one conclusion that could logically drawn.

The amount of resources that would have to be devoted to produce even the barest of mathematical change of defeating the mad lemurs of Terra would far outstrip decades, centuries of harvesting entire star systems.

The lemurs of Terra did not care about resources. Did not care about anything but on thing.

Harvester had run the computations. Had interrogated lemurs itself.

The massive Balor knew now, understood now, something that it had not understood before.

The Ancient Ones existed to consume resources. The Logical Compact existed to shepherd those resources.

The mad lemurs of Terra existed for one thing and one thing only.

To seek out and destroy the enemy at all costs.

Harvester knew its computations would be unpopular. That others of the Logical Compact would try to deny its computations.

Any of the Logical Compact that sought to face the crazed lemurs would become the enemies of said lemurs.

And Harvester knew that every Terran, every maddened lemur primate, believed the same thing.

Had demonstrated the same thing in dozens of stellar systems, on dozens of planetary bodies.

The Enemy exists only to be destroyed.

Harvester jumped out the system.

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A'armo'o stared in shock at the burning cloud that had washed over his own tanks. The cloud looked like an inverted atomic blast as the top of the cloud had hit the upper limits of the atmosphere and flattened out.

The white light of the blast had seemingly penetrated the thick armor of his tank, filling the crew compartment with blinding white light. His spinal mane and his fur all felt as if it had been blown backwards by a strong wind. The skin on the front of his upper torso felt tight and prickly, like he'd been sun burned.

”Tango down,” came over the radio.

A'armo'o swallowed thickly, glancing at the monitors that showed outside his tank. The four power armor scouts from First Telkan were straightening up from where they had been braced against the back of his tank to help hold it in place.

The radiation alarms were howling as lightning rippled through the burning cloud.

”All units, incoming movement plan from Division Command,” Dremsal's voice broke A'armo'o's shock. ”There's another Clanker that needs shown it isn't welcome.”

”All Great Herd units, load movement plan. There's still a war to fight,” A'armo'o said, knowing his voice was quiet.

---------------

Ge'ermo'o just stared at the holotank.

”STATUS CHANGE!” rang out.

Ge'ermo'o couldn't pull his attention from the holotank, from the tiny icons of the tanks that were already moving, shifting into a battle formation as they headed toward the next manufacturing class Precursor.

”Precursor units attempting to jump out,” the tech called out. ”Looks like they've had enough.”

”Compliments to the Admiral,” General No'Drak clacked, tapping an unlit cigarette on his arm.

”What... what was that?” Ge'ermo'o asked. He'd seen the specifications, but the question came unbidden from his shocked brain to his mouth.

”Started life as an atomic cratering charge, a medium atomic demolition mine, before the diaispora, was converted to a bunker buster eventually,” one of the Terrans near Ge'ermo'o said. ”We use it to crack heavily armored subterranian facilities.”

”Like the Precursors use,” Ge'ermo'o said.

”Just like that.”

Ge'ermo'o stared at the holotank and discovered that he did know how to pray after all.

Please do not let these Terrans decide that my people need eradicated from the universe.

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The mining machine trembled for a moment and Addox held up one clenched fist. The trembling went on for almost a full two seconds, then stopped.

The platoon held still, staying quiet, for a long moment.

”Must have been something outside,” Addox said, waving everyone forward. ”Doesn't concern us.”