Chapter 76: What's a Scorched Earth Policy?

Ship-Father Tollek awakens in a foul mood. Anyone would be, when they must sacrifice their precious few moments of rest to return to work. It is with this in mind that I overlook the way he grumbles on his way to his command seat and the obvious wrinkles and food stains upon his uniform.

He takes his seat then glares blearily around the command room. When the officers currently at the duty stations flinch, he sighs and leans back. Jim keeps his eyes on the ceiling while he forces his face into a neutral expression.

"How bad is it, then?"

Marta Spere answers crisply, "The teams have located more than twenty survivors scattered around the region that missed evacuation for one reason or another." She frowns before adding, "They've also reported finding the remains of as many more, though not all have been identified."

Jim grunts before replying coldly, "Leave that for Matron Bell to sort out. Any casualties?"

"No sir," responds Nett from the weapon controls. "Nothing beyond a few cuts and bites."

Nobody sees any reason to mention the attacks against Minn. Some of the farmers, fearing for their lives, fail to see the 'shell as an ally. No real harm, merely cosmetic damage, luckily. Their rifles, though fierce in appearance, contain nowhere near the power to harm it.

"Good. How's their progress?"

"Over seventy percent scouted." I put a map of the local region on the view screen and highlight the unexplored area in red. "Here's the location of the portal." A black swirl, off center to the north, joins the display. Green triangles represent the members of the ground teams, moving around the east and west of the portal.

The Ship-Father yawns widely. "Good enough. We'll give them a little more time to finish but I want those bombs prepped."

Nett signals his understanding and bends over his control panel. His face sets in lines of concentration.

Understandable. Those particular weapons are capable of enough devastation to sunder an active portal. The amount of explosive energy released, according to damage projection models, should leave a crater large enough to be seen from Kalibern. It almost seems excessive, until I weigh the ecological damage against an endless stream of mind destroying monsters. Leaving it intact would be the more destructive choice.

The Selberfeld Imperium lacks any way to send troops through the portal to establish a defensible position. Anyone that gets too close to one of the chieftains will join their tribe. That, in my experience, tends to have a compounding effect. The average intelligent being is often hesitant to kill tribals that were once friends or family, at the cost of their own lives.

"Any problems from the Matron?"

Jim sweeps his gaze across the assembled officers. None are eager to speak, but when the Ship-Father begins drumming his fingers against the command seat, Marta releases her breathe.

"Well, that's the thing, sir," she begins. Her eyes dart around the room, seeking aide and finding none. "She's furious, which we all expected. But..."

"But?"

"It seems she wanted to place Joa as leader of the new farming communities springing up at the invasion point."

Jim shrugs. "Not my problem."

"Yeah, but that's just the start. She's contacted me no less than eight times, demanding that we finish removing the aliens from her world," finishes Marta in a rush.

Jim cannot contain a groan. The low sound rolls across the command room almost visibly. Marta winces, no doubt interpreting his response as a criticism against herself.

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Tonn Rojer, here from the medical facility to provide his expert guidance in case the ground team requires assistance, laughs sardonically. "Which ones?"

"Both," admits Marta. "The survivors are quite traumatized, sir. The Squivers, helpful as they've been, just look like more tribals to the farmers."

"Sadly, she's correct, sir," I add. "If they were better trained with their rifles, we might have lost people. As it is, there were a number of near misses."

"Hmmm. We can't afford to send anyone else." Jim scrubs his hand across his face, then takes a deep breath. "Nett?"

"Ready and awaiting fire orders."

"Good. Marta, get in contact with Matron Bell. Let her know our progress," he pauses. Jim's face sets firmly. "I also need confirmation that all her people are in shelter. Anyone outside is not going to enjoy the shockwave."

The bombs he refers to are unfamiliar to me. He doesn't mean the missiles or even the heavy beam cannon. I run through the list of new equipment and find something interesting. Under a security restriction that would keep out most lower ranking officers, I find the specifications of the new weapons.

Utilizing properties of fundamental particles normally dormant, the Density line of weaponry causes a powerful chain reaction that converts subatomic particles within regular matter into antimatter. The process is incredibly energy intensive but equally destructive. Too expensive for frequent deployment, these devices are reserved for the most important of tasks. As the only known way to permanently seal a tribal incursion, Density bombs are kept under strict control upon Prime.

The radiation resulting from matter and antimatter coming into contact, according to operating instructions attached to the main file, tends to be less dangerous than the explosive force. For reasons that the file doesn't explain, if used directly on a portal the radioactive particles are absorbed by the distortion, closing it violently.

And there are two of them, armed, sitting in the ship.

The maintenance logs give a date of installation partway into the ship's mission in search of the rumored drone world. While not enough to destroy such a large threat completely, two of them are more than adequate for the current task. I'm eager to be rid of them.

Tense quiet fills the air. Nett, his face almost white, bears the most pressure. It is he who will release the Density bombs. The weight of responsibility sits heavily upon him. A great honor, one he clearly feels unworthy of. I have every confidence in him.

The Ship-Father paces, unwilling to sit and watch while lives are at risk but unable to do anything more. Each incoming report from the ground teams only increases his stress. More corpses are being found. Two more survivors, but one of the soldiers loses a tentacle and several tendrils.

On the ground I help, fighting with Minn and keeping watch with the dronefeather. The 'shell is nearly tireless, limited only by its remaining charge. As Minn escorts those we rescue it is able to recharge at the shuttle each time. Using thermal filters on its cameras, I'm able to operate it safely without using a light source that might attract attention.

Weary, Gelly finally calls an end to the search. No more houses remain to search, and the entire team is covered in minor cuts and a few acid burns from a rampaging Elvilvi.

"I told ye that beastie were trouble," admonishes Gelly. "They look slow but we lost half me tribe before we finally took the shell-back world. Acid from both feedin' stalks."

The soldier doesn't respond beyond a weak wave of her remaining upper tendrils. Somner Zek works over the wounded soldier, deep in concentration. The tendrils might be able to grow back, but there is no hope for her missing tentacle. Eight is still sufficient for regular movement, but she's no longer fit for battle.

"Leave Est be," orders Mos Bruen. "She's in no state to reply."

The soldier, Est, should be sent back to Homeworld. Afterwards, she can expect to live the rest of her life in relative comfort, though without any further hope of advancement. Crippling injuries like hers, while fully repairable with proper access to thaumatists, often leave behind mental scars among the casteless. Not to mention the sheer expense, well beyond what a casteless member of our society would be unable to afford.

For this reason only Mos are given the most advanced treatments. The effort it would take to fully heal every wounded soldier would become an unbearable burden to the Empire. Not just the expense of physical treatment, but also the rehabilitation necessary for the less privileged to adjust to their new circumstances.

The soldier is stable, no longer in any danger of bleeding out. I don't understand why Bruen does not dismiss the dust eater. Surely her efforts could be better spent elsewhere, perhaps repairing the spears of those soldiers still able to do battle.

"Give me time," complains Zek. "Est is young, as yet. I can fix her."

Bruen signals acceptance of her opinion. Gelly scoffs, not without cause.

"Yer good, but no that good," he grouses quietly. I can only agree with him. He huffs but leaves her to her work. "Alright, Denn, how far do we need to go to be safe from the blast?"

I update his comm tablet with the projected radius of the two Density bombs. "We're to let Jim know when we're well clear. Unfortunately, he is only willing to give us until dawn before he launches the bombs regardless."

"Aye," responds Gelly casually. "Figure's that Matron Bell does no like havin' Squivers here any more than she cared for the tribals."