John Ringo - A Hymn Before Battle

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A Hymn Before Battle

by John Ringo

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.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31841-1

Cover art by Patrick Turner

First paperback printing, October 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ringo, John, 1963–

A hymn before battle / John Ringo.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original"—T.p. verso

ISBN 0-671-31841-1

1. Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction. 2. Human–alien

encounters—

Fiction. 3. Life on other planets—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3568.I577 H96 2000

813'.6—dc21 00-042927

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

This book is dedicated to my loving wife, Karin,

and my wonderful daughters Jenny and Lindy,

for not leaving me while I wrote it.

Living with a writer is a lesser Circle of Hell.

Prologue

"How many worlds does this make?" The dialogue took place before a wall-sized

view-screen. The image was not one to make for happy conversation.

The aide knew the question was rhetorical. As the Ghin aged he was becoming soft,

without direction. Yet powerful still.

"Seventy-two."

"Not including Barwhon or Diess."

"They have not yet fallen."

The answer was silence. Then,

"We will use the humans."

At last!

"Yes, your Ghin."

Silence, a glance at the view-screen.

"That makes you happy, does it not, Tir."

"I believe it to be a wise decision, as all of your decisions are wise, your Ghin."

"But slow to come, late. Without decisiveness, without, what is that human word?

'Élan.' "

The words of the aide's reply were carefully chosen. "Had the decision been reached

sooner, there, perhaps, would have been greater profit. Certainly the loss would have

been reduced."

A long minute later the answer: "The profit will be greater in the short run, surely.

But at what loss in the long, Tir?"

"Surely the programs have taken effect. The humans are controllable."

"So thought the Rintar group."

"Those humans were half formed, brutish. They were unrefined and wild. The new

races are much more malleable and well adjusted to technological controls. They are

minimally dangerous and after the invasion the few that remain will be grateful for any

bone we toss them."

Another long silence as the Ghin stared at the view-screen.

"Perhaps you are right, Tir. But I doubt it. Do you know why I am allowing the

human project to go forward?"

"If you think the premise flawed, I wonder, yes."

Silence.

"Why?"

"Guess."

A pause, a breath, then a longer pause.

"Because we will lose many more worlds without their aid?"

"In small part. Tir, we will lose all the worlds without the humans."

"Your Ghin, our projections indicate that the Posleen will fail if slowed to their

current rate, they will senesce. However, we stand to lose two hundred more worlds

before that happens, surely an unacceptable loss."

"Those projections are flawed as our projections of the humans are flawed. At the end

of this era the humans will be the masters and the Darhel will be an outcast race living on

the edge of civilization scavenging the garbage. And your human project will be the

cause."

The Tir carefully schooled his features. "I . . . question that projection, your Ghin."

"It isn't a projection, you young fool, it's a statement."

On the view-screen a world burned.

Norcross, GA Sol III

1447 EDT March 16, 2001 ad

Michael O'Neal was a junior associate web consultant with an Atlanta web-page

design firm. What this meant in practice was that he worked eight to twelve hours a day

with HTML, Java and Perl. When the associate account executives or the account

executives needed somebody along who really understood what the system was doing,

when, for example, the client group included an engineer or computer geek, he would be

invited to the meeting to sit there and be quiet until they hit a snag. Then he opened his

mouth to spit out a bare minimum of technobabble. This indicated to the customer that

there was at least one guy working on their site who had more going for him than good

hair and a low golf score. Then the sales consultant would take the client to lunch while

Mike went back to his office.

While Mike had fine hair, he played neither golf nor tennis, was ugly as a troll and

short as an elf. Despite these handicaps he was working himself steadily up the corporate

ladder. He had recently gotten an unasked-for raise in lieu of promotion, which surprised

the hell out of him, and other rattling noises had been heard that indicated the possibility

of further upward mobility.

The office he moved into was not much; there was barely room to turn his swivel

chair, it was right next to the break room so several times a day it was overwhelmed by

the smell of popcorn, and he had to install a hanging book rack for his references. But it

was an office, and in a time of cube farms that meant everything. Someone in the

background was grooming him for something and he just hoped it was not a guillotine.

Unlikely—he was the kind of aggressive pain in the ass every company secretly needed.

He was currently in a mood to kill. The overblown applets on the newest client's site

were slowing their page to a crawl. Unfortunately, the client insisted on the "little" pieces

of code that were taking up so much of their bandwidth, so it was up to him to figure out

how to reduce it.

He sat with his feet propped on his overloaded desk, gripping and releasing a

torsional hand exerciser as he stared up at the "Tick" poster on his ceiling and thought

about his next vacation. Two more weeks and then it would be blue surf, cold beer and

coral reefs. I should have gone SEAL, he thought, his face fixed in a perpetual frown from

weight lifting, and become a surfing instructor. Sharon looks good in a bikini.

He had just taken a sip of stale, cold coffee, thinking blue thoughts of Java surgery,

when his phone rang.

"Michael O'Neal, Pre-Publish Design, how can I help you?" The phone snag and

stock answer were performed before his forebrain kicked in. Then he nearly spit out his

coffee when he recognized the voice.

"Hi, Mike, it's Jack."

His feet slammed to the floor with a crash and XML for Dummies followed it. "Good

morning, sir, how are you?" He had not talked to his former boss in nearly two years.

"Good enough. Mike, I need you down at McPherson on Monday morning."

Whaaa? "Sir, it's been eight years. I'm not in the Army market anymore." By nearly

Pavlovian response, he started to catalog everything he would need to take.

"I just got finished talking to your company's president. This is not, currently, an

official recall . . ."

I like that little hidden threat boss, Mike thought.

"But I pointed out that whether it was or not, you would be eligible to return under

the Soldiers and Sailors Act . . ."

Yup, that's Jack. Thanks a million, ole boss o' mine.

"That didn't seem to be a problem. He seemed to be kind of upset at losing you right

now. Apparently they just got a new contract he really wanted you to work on . . ."

Yes! Mike chortled silently. We got the First Onion upgrade! The site was a plum job

the company had been chasing for nearly a year. The account would guarantee at least a

solid two years of lucrative business.

"But I convinced him it would be for the best," the general continued. Mike could

hear other conversations in the background, some argumentative, some subdued. It

seemed almost like the general was calling from a telephone solicitation company. Or

several of his cohorts were making the same calls. Some of the muted voices in the

background seemed almost desperate.

"What's this about, sir?"

The answer was met by silence. In the background a male voice started shouting,

apparently displeased with the answer he was getting on his own call.

"Let me guess, OPSEC?" Any answer to the question would violate operational

security directives. Mike scratched at a spot of ink on the varnished desktop then started

working the gripper again. Blood pressure . . . . It was security and dominance games like

this that had partially driven him away from the military. He had no intention of being

sucked back in.

"Be there, Mike. The SigInt building attached to FORCECOM."

"Airborne, General, sir." He paused for a moment, then continued dryly. "Sharon is

going to go ballistic."

* * *

Mike was cleaning broccoli when he heard the car pull up. He wiped his hands and

opened the door to the carport so the kids could get in, waved and went back to the sink.

Cally, the four-year-old, made it through the door first and got a big, wet hug from

daddy.

"Daddy! You got me all wet!"

"Big, wet daddy hugs! Arrrh!" He gestured at her with soapy hands as she went

shrieking towards her room.

In the meantime Michelle, the two-year-old, had toddled in and handed him her latest

creation from preschool. She got a big, wet daddy hug, too.

"And what is this masterpiece?" He looked at the scrawl of green, blue and red and

flashed a quick helpless glance at his wife, just coming through the door.

"Cow!" she mouthed.

"Well, Michelle, that's a very nice cow!"

"Mooo!"

"Yes, mooo!"

"Juice!"

"Okay, can my big girl say please?" Mike asked with a smile, already headed for the

refrigerator.

"P'ease," she answered, mildly.

"Okay," he reached into the fridge and extracted the cup. "No spill."

"Mess!" she countered, clutching the no-spill cup to her chest.

"No mess."

She carried the cup into the living room for her afternoon video. "Pooh!"

"Cinderella!"

" 'Rella!"

He heard the video player start, courtesy of the older girl as his wife walked back into

the kitchen after a quick change. Slim and tall with long raven black hair and high, firm

breasts, even after two pregnancies she still moved with the grace of the dancer she was

when they first met. She'd joined the club he worked at to improve her muscle tone. He

was the best in the club at muscle management schemes so he got assigned to her,

naturally. One thing led to another and here they were eight years later. Sometimes Mike

wondered what kept her around. On the other hand it would take a crowbar to separate

him from her. Or, at least, the hand of duty.

"Your agent called me at work," she said, "he said you weren't in."

"Oh?" he said, noncommittally he hoped. His stomach had already started to churn.

He pulled a bottle of domestic Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and began hunting for

the corkscrew.

"He says he needs another rewrite, but Dunn may be interested." She leaned back

against the counter, watching him carefully. He was giving off all the wrong vibes.

"Oh. Good."

"You're home early," she continued, crossing her arms. "What's wrong? You should

be excited."

"Umm." He bought time by wrenching out the cork and pouring her a glass of wine.

"What?" She looked at the Chardonnay suspiciously, as if wondering if it were

poisoned. After six years of marriage there was not much he could get past her. She

might not know exactly what was coming, but she could tell it was nasty.

"Uh. It's not bad, really," he said, taking a pull of his own beer. The mellow home-

brewed concoction dropped to his stomach like lead and started doing dances with the

butterflies. Sharon was really going to hit the roof.

"Oh, shit, just spit it out," she snapped. "What, did you get fired?"

"No, no, I got called back up. Sort of." He turned back to the stove, picking up the pot

and dumping the al dente pasta into the colander.

"What? By the Army? You've been out, what? eight years?" The words were low but

angry. They tried to never argue in front of the kids.

"Almost nine," he agreed, head down and concentrating on getting the pasta just right.

The smell of garlic permeated the air as he tossed the crushed cloves into the mix. "I'd

been out nearly six months when we met."

"You're not reserve anymore!" She reached out and touched his arm to get him to turn

around and look at her.

"I know, but Jack called Dave and twisted his arm into letting me go for a while." He

looked up into her blue eyes and wondered why he could not tell Jack, "No." The hurt in

her gaze was almost more than he could bear.

"Jack. You mean General Horner. The 'Jack' who wanted you to get a commission?"

she asked with dark suspicion, setting the wine down. It was her way of clearing the

decks and he took it for a bad sign.

"How many Jacks do you know?" he asked playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

"I don't know him—you know him." She had moved in close to him, crowding his

space and more or less making him back up.

"You've talked to General Horner before." He turned back to the pasta, running from

the argument and he knew it.

"Once, and it was until you got to the phone."

"Mmm."

"And why the hell do they want you?" she asked, still crowding in. He could faintly

feel the heat from her body, raised by a combination of the wine and the argument.

"I don't know." The fettuccine ready, he added the Alfredo sauce, covered and

warming on the stove top. The heady smell of parmesan and spices filled the air.

"Well, call General Horner and tell him you're not coming until we know why. And

fettuccine Alfredo will not get you out of anything." She crossed her arms again, then

relented and picked up the wine for a sip.

"Honey, you know the drill. When they call, you go." He portioned out the kids'

supper, readying trays for them to eat in front of the TV. Normally they tried to eat

together, but tonight seemed like a good night to create a little distance from them.

"No. Not with me," she retorted, gesturing sharply enough to slosh the Chardonnay.

"Not that anybody has asked, but they'd get a little more argument if they tried to get me

back in the Navy. The hell if I'm ever serving on another carrier." She tossed her head to

move an imaginary hair out of the way and waited for a response.

"Well, I guess I don't know what to say," he said softly.

She looked at him for a long moment. "You want to go back." It was clearly an

accusation. "You know, I'm going to have a hell of a time keeping up with both work and

home if you're gone!"

"Well . . ." The pause after that looked to go on forever.

"God, Mike, it's been years! It's not like you're eighteen anymore." With her mouth

pursed into a frown, she looked like a little girl "saving up spit."

"Honey," he said, rubbing his chin and looking at the ceiling, "generals don't recall

you from civilian status, personally, to go run around in the boonies." He dropped his

eyes to meet hers and shook his head.

"Whatever it is, they'll want me for my know-how, not my biceps. And sometimes,

yeah, I wonder if being, maybe, by now, a company commander in the Eighty-Deuce

wouldn't be a little more . . . important, useful, I don't know, something more than

building a really boss web page for the country's fourth largest bank!" He garnished the

generous helping of fettuccine with a chicken breast in garlic and herbs and extended it to

her.

She shook her head, understanding the argument intellectually, but still not happy.

"Do you have to leave this evening?"

She took the plate and looked at it with the same suspicion as the wine. A little

alcohol and complex carbohydrates to calm the hysterical wifey. Unfortunately she knew

that was exactly how she was acting. He knew all about her knee-jerk reaction to the

military and was trying to compensate. Trying hard.

"No, I have to be at McPherson on Monday morning. And that's the other thing, I'm

just going to McPherson. It's not like it's the back side of the moon." He picked up a rag

and wiped away an imaginary smear on the gray countertop. He could see the light at the

end of the tunnel, but with Sharon on the warpath it could just as well be a train.

"No, but if you think I'm taking the kids to south Atlanta you're out of your mind,"

she retorted, losing ground and knowing it. She sensed that this was a critical argument

and wondered what would happen if she said it was her or the Army. She had thought

about it a few times before, but it had never come up. Now she was afraid to ask. What

really made her mad was that she understood her emotions and knew she was in the

wrong. Her own experiences had poisoned her against the military as a career, but not

against the basic call to duty. And it made her wonder what would happen if she faced the

same question.

"Hey, I may be commuting. And it may not be for long," Mike said with a purely

Gallic shrug and rubbed his chin. His dark, coarse hair had raised a respectable five-

o'clock shadow.

"But you don't think so," she countered.

"No, I don't think so," he agreed, somberly.

"Why?" She sat down at the kitchen table and cut a bite of the chicken. It was

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AHymnBeforeBattlebyJohnRingoThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2000byJohnRingoAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPub...

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