John Ringo - The Hero

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The Hero

By John Ringo and

Michael Z. Williamson

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-8827-X

Cover art by Kurt Millar

First hardcover printing, June 2004

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

BAEN BOOKS by John Ringo

There Will Be Dragons

Emerald Sea (forthcoming)

A Hymn Before Battle

Gust Front

When the Devil Dances

Hell's Faire

The Hero (with Michael Z. Williamson)

Cally's War (with Julie Cochrane, forthcoming)

The Road to Damascus (with Linda Evans)

BAEN BOOKS by Michael Z. Williamson

Freehold

To Robert A. Heinlein,

in hopes that we can pay the debt forward.

Chapter 1

The assembly room of the Deep Reconnaissance Team was as utilitarian and sere as the team itself.

The walls, floor and ceiling were a matte-gray unmarked plasteel, blank of lockers, tables or any other

appurtenances of human existence. There were two doors on opposite walls, both made of heavy

plasteel like a bank vault. The materials were as much a matter of safety as security; power packs and

ammunition bins did get damaged, and accidents happen. And when accidents happen with the power

packs, catastrophic was the mildest word possible.

Nobody wanted the accidents to happen to the troops, either. But better to lose a DRT than a base.

Or, at least, that was the opinion of the rest of the base.

Ferret was the first one in the room, carrying a snubby punch gun. Four others followed with

grav-guns and assorted personal weapons that were officially unauthorized, but few people were inclined

to dispute their right to carry them. Pulsers predominated. There was an extra grenade launcher and a

couple of large-caliber pistols also. Dagger came in last, easily swinging his sniper-spec gauss rifle.

They were bantering as they entered, Ferret laughing at Thor for taking on Dagger in a shoot-out.

"What, you thinking of trying out for the Olympics?" He laughed again as Thor winced.

Thor's account was lighter by five hundred credits. He'd been sure that with standard weapons he

could outshoot Dagger. After all, the sniper's rifle was a hideously expensive and custom piece of

equipment that took hours of tuning to set up properly. He would be chagrined at the outcome for days,

and could expect to hear it bandied about forever.

Dagger had used a standard grav-rifle, as requested, to put ten rounds in the X ring at five hundred

meters as fast as he could pull the trigger, then ten more at a thousand meters nearly as fast. He'd had

one flyer at that range, just out of the five and into the four ring. He'd barely taken time to aim, it seemed,

and had turned and left the firing line the moment his last round was fired, before any tally showed on the

screen. His features hadn't moved until he heard about the flyer, and then had sneered in disgust at

himself. The man was inhumanly accurate. It showed in his movements. They were fast but smooth and

with never a clumsy bump. Sniping involved stalking as well as shooting, and he was as good at both

skills as humans came.

Thor winced again as the rest chuckled. Finally, Gun Doll chimed, "Okay, this is getting boring," and

they took the hint and changed subjects.

Dagger still didn't say anything about it as Ferret hit a switch and a set of tables and seats extruded

out of the floor. They were sterile gray, just like everything else. Gun Doll eased her lanky frame up

against the wall and hit a switch with her elbow—as her hands still cradled a bulky assault cannon—and

throbbing music came from all sides. It was one of the abrasive dance tunes she liked, but the volume

was quiet enough to prevent complaints. Holograms on the wall flared up, too, displaying unit murals.

One of them showed a garish swath of destruction, smashed hovertanks, bent rocket howitzers, crushed

combat bots. It started on the left at an insertion pod and terminated on the right at a huge, chiseled

NCO wearing the black beret of a DRT commando. His caricature had a heavy grav-gun in his hands, an

automatic grenade launcher over one shoulder, a light mortar over the other, knives and hatchets all over

his combat harness and a teddy bear sticking out of one pocket. It was captioned, "Excuse me, just

passing through." Another showed a drop gone horribly wrong with shattered combat armor scattered all

over it, smashed shuttles, artillery still splashing rings of dirt and small killer bots swarming everywhere.

At the center was a guy wearing major's tabs, tapping on a long-range communicator. Caption: "I love it

when a plan comes together." At that, the artwork was tame compared to pieces that drifted around the

nets and were posted on screens here and there, many of them making light of the acronym DRT . . .

"Dead Right There." Or sometimes, DRTTT: Dead Right There, There and There. Or the DiRTies.

Though few people would say that to one in a bar, unless they were very good friends. Masochism was

the prime requirement for recon in nasty territory, so DRTs could take a lot of damage. They could also

dish out their share and a bit more.

The chat dulled slightly as they start laying out their weapons and stripping them down for cleaning.

The team was filthy with mud, sweat, grime and assorted shredded greenery; the weapons were merely

dirty from use. Good troops took care of their weapons because their lives depended on them. Between

pirates, feral Posleen still romping around from the war that had almost wiped out humanity, and the new

Blob menace, these troops expected to see action at any time. The weapons were cared for because

they were the difference between life and a cold e-mail to their survivors.

The weapons' receivers were coated with a chameleon surface that assumed the colors and pattern

of anything in the vicinity. As they were laid on the table, they shifted to match, becoming all but invisible.

Ferret cursed and said, "The surface stays active damned near forever, even when there isn't enough

juice left to shoot with." He pressed the surface switch to drop the weapon to neutral gray.

Gorilla, being one of the technical specialists, said, "No, it won't last forever. It will last a while,

though. The surface is small and the environment in here doesn't take much shifting. But I wouldn't try to

get that long out of an intruder suit. Otoh, it's easier to detect."

Ferret replied, "Teach your granma to suck Posleen; 'The expert scout uses guile and deception

rather than relying on technical devices.' " Shrugging his shoulders he turned back to his weapon.

The troops' sure fingers handled the parts without effort, as they would even in the dark. The dull

coated barrels with their internal grav drivers and small bores were shoved to the middle of the table and

the receivers to the edge, in a standard layout. In the frame of these, smaller parts, trigger assemblies and

sights were set in positions personalized by years of practice. The punch guns were rather simple: an

energy unit that slid out and wasn't to be messed with and the frame. Each soldier had his or her own

favorite layout, but all were clearly the product of the same basic training. Dagger sat off at a table by

himself, his sniper rifle being cared for by hands that almost caressed it. Dagger was like that. Always

part of the team, always alone.

Thor pulled the breech of his grav-gun and stared into it while waving his glowing light ball across the

table and down to illuminate it from the bore. As he inhaled the astringent tang of burned metal wafting

from the tube, he cursed at what he saw. The main problem with the weapons was that the ammunition

they had used was substandard. The factory-recommended ammunition was depleted uranium coated

with a carbon-based witches' brew and charged with a tiny droplet of antimatter. The antimatter droplet

was released by a shot of power and then the charge was scavenged from the AM disintegration.

However, the Islendian Republic did not have the facilities to produce such sophisticated ammo, so the

grav-guns were driven off external packs and most of the rounds used were simple depleted uranium with

a graphite coat.

The problem was that at the incredibly high speeds of the rounds, the carbon and then the uranium

sublimed and coated the breech and bore of the rifle with a substance that was damned near

uranium-carbon alloy. And nearly as hard to get off . . .

Thor reached into his ruck for a bulb of soda from his "emergency" rations, and paused. "What the

hell?" he muttered, finding something hard and not bulb-shaped. He grasped it and pulled it out. It was a

rock, about five kilograms' worth. Just a rock.

"You rat bastards," he said disgustedly. It was a running gag. Every time they came back from a

mission or a field exercise, some jackass was able to slip a local boulder into his gear. He must have a

pile of forty of the damned things in the corner of his barracks room now. No one knew why he kept

them. Neither did he, except that they were mementos, sort of. He even had one from Earth.

Everyone laughed aloud, except Dagger, and even he snickered. Gorilla said, "Another rock for your

collection, Thor."

"Yeah, yeah. Rocks, concrete core samples from the engineers, always something. Sooner or later

someone's going to get me busted for smuggling a Rumakian Sacred Piece of Granite or some shit. And

I'll make you guys cough up the duty."

"You'd have to," Ferret said. "Dagger would have all your cash." Everyone laughed at that, even

Dagger.

The hazing about the shootout picked up again.

" 'Hi, my name is Thor, and I can't hit the broad side of a warehouse.' "

" 'Dagger, shoot me now before I try to beat you again.' "

" 'Duh, me Thor, me think me shoot straight.' 'Dat's okay, said the young maiden,' not wanting to

embarrass him, 'I'm thore too!' "

Dagger said nothing. He didn't need to. Thor said nothing, trying to make them pick something else

by being boring.

Ferret made a single comment and shut up. "You better be able to shoot better against the Blobs than

against Dagger," which let the conversation segue into a discussion of what the next mission might be.

There was no question that the next mission would be against the Blobs. There were few other threats

currently, and none that required the special skills of DRTs. The question was whether it would be a raid,

a recon, another casualty-racking attempt at a snatch or some new vac-brained plan from the whiz kids

on the Strategic Staff.

The so-called Blobs, the Tslek, were a recent enemy to the loose federation of planets that made up

the Islendian Confederation. They were dark, soft creatures with no fixed form, that extended

pseudopods for manipulation. So far, not many humans had seen a Tslek up close. At least not to report

back afterwards. Several remote colonies had been lost, their administrative centers smashed into

incandescent vapor by what were reported as kinetic weapons but seemed to pack more energy than

simple rock falls. As with nukes and antimatter weapons, such devices were forbidden among the

civilized races, especially among humans. The shock of the attacks had rippled through space with the

first reports. Reconnaissance and special operations craft had been sent out to determine the nature of

the threat. Some had come back.

The Tslek occupied an undetermined number of planetary systems near the fringe of human

exploration. So far the humans had only found one planet that had a Blob "civilian" presence. Or at least

a moderately large presence, because it was difficult to tell the difference between Blobs that were

military and civilian. The human task force commander had dropped a series of kinetic strikes in

retaliation and retreated. At the moment the situation was something like a "phony war" with both sides

probing forward. One could get just as dead in a phony war as a real one, though. The front was

insubstantial and shifting, but very real.

So far the Blobs had gotten the best of it; the frontiers in that direction had been hammered with

millions of dead colonists as a result. If, or more accurately, when a Blob raiding force got through to the

more heavily populated worlds the civilian casualties would be enormous; on the order of billions.

There were indications from scouting ships that the Blobs were planning on attacking towards the

Core worlds with a large fleet. The humans were grudgingly willing to accept the casualties that came

with this; the normal technique was to let a group attack then slash in behind them with light forces and

sever their supply lines. But the line of advance was the question. While Earth and the Core might not

care, the Islendian Republic didn't wish to be the route used.

The Blobs apparently had the same needs as humans: hydrogen to refuel their ships, spare parts,

oxygen and water and fresh food. They also used the same drive systems as humans, the low energy

"valley drive" that would take ships from system to system along "valleys" between stars called transit

lanes and the "tunnel drive," originally introduced to the humans and their allies by the enemy Posleen,

which at enormous energy cost could "tunnel" at hyperluminal speed through any region of space. This

meant that from time to time they had to resupply with hydrogen for their valley drives and antimatter for

their tunnel drives, besides taking on other consumables. Some of that could be brought forward by

resupply ships. But some of it, fuel especially, was more efficiently gathered along the way. It still made

more sense to have ships resupply on food rather than "grow their own"; plants took up space that could

be used for ammo and "legs" and weren't as efficient at cleaning the air as recycling systems.

For all these reasons the Blobs were going to need an advanced base on their line of march. It would

have certain requirements: it would have to have more than one good transit lane, it would need a

Jovian-type planet for fuel and it would probably possess a terrestrial planet with signs of Blob

agriculture.

The Blobs didn't strictly need a system with an Earth-like class planet, but that was the way to bet.

Not only did it permit areas to grow and process food without the expense of domes and other

necessities on moons but it permitted crew rest in decent conditions. The biosphere also was a

remarkably good cloaking material for all the normal methods of detection; it meant atmosphere to

deflect particles and other life signs to disappear among.

The Blobs did not appear to be stupid and they seemed to use the same general logic system as

humans. That meant that they were as aware of the needs as the humans. And they would guess that the

humans would know this. So they were probably prepared for a reconnaissance of some sort.

The missions related to this might be very nasty, brutish and short. The team knew this, and tried to

avoid admitting it by joking around the subject. Any mission could be their last, and current events were

less than promising. A couple of teams had disappeared lately. Nobody knew where they went, or what

had happened; they weren't on the need-to-know list about other team missions. They simply received

the bald reports that team such-and-so was "missing; presumed lost."

While the team discussed missing comrades, the team commander showed up. He was a familiar

enough sight, working with them daily as he did, and standing orders were not to waste time saluting

unless a field grade officer was along. They were formal enough for discipline, relaxed enough for

camaraderie. What made the team stiffen their postures and grow instantly quiet was the strange creature

accompanying the captain. It was a sight almost never seen to human eyes: a Darhel. In uniform.

The group instinctively bristled. Even after almost a millennium of contact the Darhel were not

popular. They had once been virtual slavemasters of the human race. They still had the reputation of

being dishonorable, untrustworthy Shylocks. The few humans who dealt with them found them to be as

shifty as sand and mean as rattlesnakes; they seemed to take great pleasure not just in making money but

in screwing people while they did so. While none of the team had dealt directly with Darhel before, they

all knew the stories.

Bringing warnings of the Posleen, voracious interstellar beings who stripped planets as locusts do

fields, the Darhel had provided technology and weapons to humanity in exchange for human strategic

expertise. That technology had been rationed out in such a fashion that, while the Posleen had been

stopped, casualties among the inadequately equipped human forces had been horrific. The Darhel always

insisted this had been unavoidable and due to logistical issues, but no one could miss that the end result

was a loss of eighty percent of the human race and nearly a century of the remainder being used as

mercenaries and pawns, while those "relocated for safety" during the war had wound up as scattered

refugees assimilated into alien societies, with a near total loss of their human thought processes. The

Darhel, of course, had graciously helped humanity rebuild and resettle Earth, at "reasonable cost," said

cost being set by the Darhel. It was not a history to inspire trust. Nor had they actually shared

technology—most of what humans had acquired had been reverse engineered from the little that had

survived the war.

In the end, of course, it had turned out to be a grievous mistake on the part of the Darhel. They

should have either left humanity to its own devices or dealt with it fairly. When it became clear that they

had done neither, humanity's response had been . . . human. Some of the Darhel had survived the

sporadic programs of extermination practiced by the survivor states. Some.

This Darhel was pale and translucent of skin with cat-pupilled eyes. Most had green or purple irises,

this one's were purple with a bare turquoise tinge at the edges. His face was typical of Darhel, narrow

and reminiscent of a fox's. His hair resembled that of humans and was the usual silvery black rather than

the metallic gold tones seen more rarely. "Gold" and "silver" regarding Darhel hair meant exactly what the

words said; the hair was not blond. Darhel had pointed ears that tended to twitch under stress, and

sharklike teeth. They didn't smile much. They looked, in fact, like classical fantasy Elves. This one wasn't

twitching in stress, and bore a practiced closed-lip smile of greeting. By its eyes, the smile could mean

anything . . . or nothing.

To make matters worse, the Darhel wore gunny's stripes. The question was, had he earned them

from politicking, as a reward to his Shylock skills, or the hard way, from operating in the field? Almost

unnoticed amid the other shocks, he wore the badge of a sensat above his left pocket.

After thousands of years of striving, humans were finally starting to make actual strides in

extrasensory perception. The military, especially, had started using them for a variety of purposes. Very

few could "read minds" but many of them could sense emotions even at a distance. A few could get a

vague sense of the future.

There were the expected prejudices against them. Despite the fact that few could sense, much less

decipher, actual thoughts, everyone feared them for that potential ability to delve into the private recesses

of the mind. Every sentient being that the humans had met had thoughts that they preferred not see the

light of day. Thus, most found sensats uncomfortable companions. Most sensats, in fact, could just barely

sense emotions and occasionally very strong and focused thoughts. They might get a vision of the last

thing a dying person saw for instance. That didn't make people any happier.

A few were found on the Deep Recon teams. Generally they were empaths who could do things like

spot an ambush by the "lying in wait" emotions of the attackers. The Blobs were detectable by the

sensats. Indeed, because sensats could detect a Blob kilometers away, the Tslek apparently used

extrasensory perception as a normal means of communication.

"Welcome back. I hope it was a good exercise?" the captain greeted them. There was an automatic

but halfhearted flurry of mumbles and "sir"s as the team all but ignored him to stare at the Darhel.

The captain had been prepared for that response, and rather than waste time, said, "Let me introduce

Tirdal San Rintai." The Darhel nodded at the introduction and waited patiently. "Tirdal is a limited

empath, a Class Two, and has completed the qual course for DRT sensat with a secondary skill of

medic. He will be accompanying you on the upcoming mission."

There were mutters and barely audible comments, which reached the surface when Dagger said, "No

offense, sir, Tirdal"—with a faint nod at the Darhel—"but we've been a team for a long time and operate

well together. We don't need unfamiliar personnel in our ranks at the start of a mission, with no prep or

training time. It's more likely to screw things up than help."

The captain fixed Dagger with a stare. "You think so, do you? You know what the mission is, then?"

Before Dagger could even shake his head, he continued, riding over any other arguments that lurked

beneath the surface. "Well, here's the facts: We have a warning order for an insertion on a possible Blob

planet, to recover intel and possibly artifacts and prisoners. The only team that ever made it back from

one of those had a sensat along. So we are taking a sensat. Period. Tirdal is available, trained and has

Level Four sensat scores. He's going with us. Is that all right with you, Sergeant?" His emphasis while

staring at Dagger made it clear he was tiring of Dagger's questioning on every mission order. The man

could shoot like nobody's business, and outstalk a cheetah, but his regard for authority left much to be

desired.

Dagger stared back, firmly though not obviously defiantly, and said firmly, "Understood, sir. Tirdal,

welcome to the team."

At that, Tirdal finally betrayed action, stepping forward to shake hands. "I greet you, Dagger. I'm

sure we can work together." His voice was sonorous and deep and his grip solid as Dagger took it. Then

it was more than solid, a strong, crushing grasp, accompanied by a violet and cyan stare that locked with

his eyes and seemed to look through them into the brain behind.

Dagger pressed down on the hand, hard. Besides being a multiplanet-classed shot he was one of the

strongest men on a team of very strong men. But he couldn't budge the Darhel's grip. After a moment he

felt the Darhel start to press down and it was like having his hand in the grip of a mechanical press. After

a moment's struggle his face finally betrayed a flicker of pain and the Darhel, smiling again, faintly,

released the pressure.

Dagger didn't betray any surprise outwardly, despite what he felt inside at Tirdal's disturbing

presence and strength. "Yeah, no problem," he muttered, trying not to shake his hand in reaction to the

pain.

"I look forward to working with you," Tirdal said with a nod, his vertical-pupilled eyes never leaving

the face of the sniper.

The others shook hands and introduced themselves. Tirdal nodded to each in turn, saying almost

nothing else.

Chapter 2

The premission briefing bore no shattering surprises. There was fuzzy vid from a probe flyby, with

scientific data on geology and meteorology, botany and zoology. They were fuzzy because the probe was

the size of a basketball and had whisked through at meteoric velocities, then done a datadump; anything

larger or less covert would have given away the fact that someone was interested in the system.

Mission gear was listed, some as required, some optional. Another list had forbidden items. No

shocks there, either: nothing that could give away the location of an inhabited planet, no tech gear that

didn't include a self-destruct, nothing personal that was indicative of culture or language, etc. Also

tediously routine for the team was the situation: Enemy forces: unknown. Friendly forces: none. Attached

assets: none. They were needed at once and had only minimal prep time. There was never time to

rehearse it properly, but there was always time to waste a team or two. They would at least get two days

to shake down with their new member. The military was generous in its own way. Day One was today,

all talk. Day Two would be a field exercise.

"The planet is quite Earth-like," the team commander, nicknamed Bell Toll, said. "Climate is

temperate and moderate. I hate to sound too cheerful, but altogether it looks like a walk in the park

compared to our usual missions."

"How do we insert?" Gun Doll asked.

One of the intel weenies briefing them replied, "A stealthed survey ship found an open tunnel to the

system. It was quite unlikely, but there it was. The system they found contains both multiple Jovians and

this high-quality planet. Sensor bots were dropped for their usual sweep, when faint energy emissions and

hyper tracks were detected. The bots performed a cursory biosphere sweep and localized the

emissions."

"It's our job to do a drop," Bell Toll continued, "move to the area and determine, hopefully without

detection, if there is or is not a Blob base in the area. There's something there, but it could be Blobs,

free-colonizer humans or pirates. Or even another, unknown, race. It's up to us to determine which. And

for that we'll need our sensat.

"Tirdal, attention, please," he asked, and Tirdal snapped upright. "Tirdal's been in service for quite

some time as an intel analyst and interrogator. He's only recently been through the DRT course, but has

some experience and time in grade, so, by the chain of command, he will be third in line of command,

after me and Shiva. At ease, Tirdal.

"Class Two, for those of you who slept through all the training sessions, means he can detect

emotions and thought processes, but not reliably acquire actual thought symbols. Level Four means he

can detect out to a variable but undefined range greater than Level Three. He's going to be one of our

early warning systems to keep us from walking into a tea party of Blobs. Also, if he can pick up any signs

from a distance, we may not have to go in as far. I'm sure you all appreciate the advantage of that." They

did. Brave fronts aside, anything that reduced mission risk was a good thing. Everyone took another look

at the Darhel, looking as cool as an Oort planet in his brand-new uniform. Most of the stares were

curious, but a couple were cold. He didn't seem fazed.

"With all that said, are there any questions not addressed in this briefing or your packets?" There

were not. All the questions that the team wanted to ask were on the unofficial forbidden list. "Why are we

doing this shit?" "Are we actually expected to survive?" "Is this a good time to ask for a transfer?"

Questions that flashed through most of their minds, at least from the second mission onward, but could

never be spoken. They were DRT and they hadn't gotten this far by quitting.

"Then you had better get last minute stuff fixed up and check your gear. Zero seven hundred start

tomorrow. The initial oporder will be Thursday at zero nine hundred. We'll probably lift sometime around

seventeen hundred to nineteen hundred hours. That's all. Tirdal, follow me," he finished with a point of his

finger. He knew better than to leave the Darhel alone for now. The team was still unwinding from their

last exercise and wouldn't react well to the stress of an incoming alien sensat. He could already hear the

grumbles.

Despite shorter legs, the Darhel strode easily down the duraplast hallway alongside the captain,

feeling the human's conflicting thoughts. Beneath the turmoil, there was order and confidence. Even more

than regular troops, sensats needed to know their commanders were prepared to deal with issues. Tirdal

felt the coming question arising before Bell Toll opened his mouth. "So what do you think, Tirdal?"

"Of the situation, Captain? Of the team? Of the preparations?"

"Of the team, for now."

"I don't think they like me much," Tirdal said slowly. He said everything slowly. His voice wasn't

taciturn or filtered to be deep and empty, that was just how Darhel spoke. His only expression was a flip

of his right ear.

The pictures to either side of them were more formal, line drawings and holos of battles and locales.

Bell Toll appeared to study them as he walked, though he'd no doubt seen them thousands of times

before.

"They may not like you," the captain said, frowning. "Yet. But small teams require trust and

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摘要：

TheHeroByJohnRingoandMichaelZ.WilliamsonThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright2004byJohnRingo&MichaelZ.WilliamsonAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyf...

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John Ringo - The Hero

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