Watching how the Ares's pulse cannons and shells literally burned through the Superhive was a pleasure. I felt almost physical pleasure at how each shell, white-hot from the energy flooding it, burned through the inner and outer bulkheads of the Scavenger's starship. Meter by meter, bulkhead by bulkhead.
The Ares signaled about the increasing expenditure of shells, about raising the superreactors' output almost to afterburner limits, but we could withstand that strain. If we hadn't first riddled two Hive Ships, or if the Hippaforalkus and the Endurance hadn't disabled one of the Wraith cruisers, then yes, it wouldn't have worked out so splendidly.
But now...
I felt nothing from the hits of the energy shells from the pulse cannons. Absolutely equally indifferent was what exactly they destroyed—a piece of the Superhive, or a Wraith Dart.
But controlling the shells...
Burning through like a red-hot blade through butter... Yes, at first very hard butter, clearly long kept in the coldest freezer, but then, when the hull is breached, even at the cost of overspending shells... Starships are like nuts: a strong shell outside, some even have shields, but inside—soft pulp.
In the case of Wraith starships—literally.
Knowing the vulnerable points of a Hive Ship, it can be destroyed with five or six shells. To burn a hole one shell in diameter in the Superhive's hull requires ten Lantean munitions.
But inside...
I was the shells, I am the shell myself. I am red-hot and deadly, swift and merciless. My body is bursting with the energy filling me, which I draw wirelessly from the depths of the Ares.
The flight stabilization system, those short tentacle-like appendages in the aft section, make me perfect in flight. I easily evade the Wraith Darts flying toward me and avoid meeting their swift energy streams of suppressive fire.
My external activity sensors, housed in the light-yellow nose section, react to everything happening, record, transmit to every other me, and send data to the Ares's onboard computer. When the first me exhausts himself, destroying another target on my path, the next me does it even more efficiently.
I die so that the next mes are more deadly.
I am the pilot.
I am the projectile.
I am death.
The energy generated by my shields allows me to penetrate any defense, whether energy shields, solid materials, or organic matter. In this star system, there are only two objects to which I will not cause harm. Their names are Ares and Hippaforalkus. Any other object in this system can become my target. And I-the-projectile will dispassionately destroy it. If such an order comes from me-the-pilot. I am here for destruction.
I was created for destruction.
I am the best at destruction.
A projectile (in some translations—'drone') as it is.
Another me, having exhausted my capabilities, detonates, tearing through the main power bulkhead of the Superhive. That is the keel, around which the organic ship's hull itself is grown. The strongest part, stronger than armor.
I died here forty-two times for this to happen, but death does not concern me. I am death itself.
The next me in line feels a strong flow of oncoming air as I pierce one of the main bulkheads and find myself inside that part of the ship where prisoners are held. I am swift and transmit to myself, but to the pilot, information about one hundred eighty-one life signs in this compartment.
I-the-pilot thinks for only a second. I-the-projectiles continue our work.
No regret, no reflection. I am death. I-the-pilot did not aim to kill people, but I-the-projectile will be a merciful death for these people. Even if I-the-projectile and other I-the-projectiles carve this compartment out of the Superhive with our bodies, these people will die. If we don't explode here—they will die.
If we hadn't attacked this ship, these people would also have died. Everyone is mortal. I know this because I am a projectile. I and the next mes bring death to these people—quick and painless. I-the-pilot is grieved by unnecessary casualties, but he knows these people would have died anyway. But at the hands of the Wraiths they would have died in agony. In even greater agony they would have died if left alone on a torn-off chunk of the Superhive. Without energy and life support, their death will come sooner than I-the-pilot can bring his ship to the wreckage and begin evacuation.
Or hundreds of other people serving I-the-pilot would have died to free these unfortunates as a result of boarding the Superhive. I-the-pilot is rational and knows that saving everyone is simply impossible. Breaking this ship into pieces is not enough—it must be burned so that no one can ever restore it.
I-the-projectile know this. We all know this.
Therefore I-the-projectiles are here. We continue to burn the Superhive from within.
We cut through the main power beam—the keel—and this ship begins to fall apart. I-the-pilot gives the command, and I-the-projectile, as well as other mes, split up.
Lantean homing projectiles in action.
Some I-the-projectiles fly to the stern to break through to this starship's reactor and cause a detonation.
Other I-the-projectiles blow up the front part of the ship.
Everything here will perish.
Another I-the-projectile burns through a bulkhead of organic tissue and ribs. That's the Wraith version of hatches. Immediately behind it I see many Wraiths trying to fight decompression.
I-the-projectile and my other I-the-projectiles pass through this corridor, burning the Wraiths. No, we do not grant them an easy death deliberately. I-the-pilot chose the optimal trajectory to reach this ship's energy source.
He does not waste us-projectiles to destroy everything here or punch through every bulkhead or deck. I-the-pilot spends I-the-projectiles wisely and economically, moving by the most efficient paths to his goal.
Burning through organic doors is much easier than doing the same with organic bulkheads. So we save projectiles.
And now, my group of I-the-projectiles is where we need to be. We are in the nose section of the Superhive and are turning everything here into one large seat of internal explosions. The strong outer armor contains our released energy, but it cannot hold. It is not Lantean shields; it is not perfect. The nose section of the ship explodes in a blinding flash. But those of us-projectiles that did not detonate obey the order of I-the-pilot and fly on to kill. There are many enemy Darts here—almost five hundred. That is a lot, and they are all moving toward I-the-pilot.
The second group of I-the-projectiles is also in place. We-projectiles are in the engine room and have found this ship's energy source. Our scanners are sharpened, and we-projectiles do not strike immediately. We-projectiles read the energy readings, scan the structure to know how to do this most efficiently. I-the-pilot is surprised, and we-projectiles all feel it.
There is nothing here but an organic energy source. Nowhere else on the ship is there one. We-projectiles know this.
We-projectiles receive an order from I-the-pilot and get to work. I-the-pilot gave us an instruction—destroy this ship—and he is no longer with us. We do not experience emotions because we are projectiles. We do not feel joy, pain, sadness, or pleasure—we do our job, having received the final target designation.
Direct contact with I-the-pilot is severed; we act independently according to his will.
We sense that another part of us, the same I-projectiles as us, are leaving the Ares's arsenal and rushing toward the swarm of Darts. We-projectiles tear the Superhive into the smallest pieces, rip it apart, burn it, detonate it, deform it, destroy it. Such is our purpose. We are weapons. We are damn dangerous ultimate weapons. That is what I-the-pilot thinks of us.
And again I-the-projectile, and I am in battle.
I am merciless, but selective. I receive target designation to destroy enemies. I know that the Ares gave the same target designation to its onboard cannons. They try no less than us, but there are too many enemy Darts.
Five hundred fighters from all ships. No, already fewer. I-the-projectile and the pulse cannons work perfectly.
We destroy that group of Darts that was about to destroy the damaged Nomad starship showing no signs of movement. We know it is the Swift—because I-the-pilot knows that. And he gives us the target designation to protect this ship, not to let it die.
His will is law. I-the-pilot cannot be mistaken, so every I-the-projectile acts perfectly.
We are faster than Darts, smaller, more agile, more deadly. There are forty of them, four of us. They shoot—we fly. They maneuver—we are faster. They don't panic—we know no emotions. We only know that in the rear part of each Dart there is a small area of quasi-organic matter. It resembles a pleura and through it a gathering beam is projected. Every I-the-projectile knows that is where the Dart is most vulnerable.
And we fly there.
We are too fast, and the Darts are too small for us to consider how exactly we pass through them. Too small a target. We only have to fly into the pleura and pierce the Dart straight through, and it detonates.
But we are already far away.
We burn through the next targets. We feel that one of us is destroyed by enemy fire. So now we have not four against twenty, but three against seventeen. We don't calculate probabilities—we destroy.
When two of us remain, and our charge would have been enough for several more Darts, we report ourselves to I-the-pilot. And immediately receive an order—there are more Darts. This group has targeted a ship called the Endurance.
The second Nomad ship, like the first, is damaged and cannot move. It tries to shoot back, but the effectiveness of its cannons is weak. We-projectiles are more effective.
There were ten of us, Darts—one hundred four. A minute later there were five of us left, and no Darts left. But we learned that the black dome canopy on a Dart is much more effective for I-the-projectile to strike than the projection pleura.
We learned this from other projectiles that are now protecting the Lantean ships. The five of us act according to the will of I-the-pilot.
We fly toward the largest group of Darts.
They're heading toward the Lantean cruisers. Our sensors calculate their trajectory — those "Arrows" intend to attack the damaged but still fighting Hippaforalkus. Ares and Hippaforalkus fire their weapons at full power; the former launches more and more I-projectiles. Why? We can handle it! There are twenty-five of us, and only a hundred seventy-three of them. A hundred seventy-two. A hundred fifty. A hundred thirty. There are twenty-four of us. Twenty-three. Three hundred fourteen Arrows — another group that was hiding behind the damaged Hive Ship has arrived.
There are sixty of us.
Ares docks with Hippaforalkus. Two hundred ninety-five Arrows fly toward Hippaforalkus. There are fifty-eight of us. Now there are a hundred six of us.
We pierce, burn, destroy.
There are fewer of us, and fewer of the enemy.
More of us keep arriving, but Ares' calculations show the Arrows don't just intend to shoot Hippaforalkus. They intend to ram it.
Amateur copycats.
I-projectile, and I am the best.
The six Arrows I just pierced from cockpit to engines won't harm the Lantean ships. Our scanners detect Ares' energy field deforming.
The I-pilot willed it so.
The shield thins; it stops hugging the hull of one ship. The energy curtain turns into a cocoon surrounding the locked-together starships of Atlantis.
We-projectiles sense the energy from Ares' reactors stop flowing to us. That's not a problem — we have enough energy to act on our own.
Another I-projectile dies next to me — a Wraith Arrow shot it down. Not with its cannon fire — with its hull. It had a different target; this one was accidental. Well, it still counts as a destroyed target.
I-projectile will take over the target of the unexpectedly destroyed I-projectile. It's not hard for me — I still have enough energy for seven strikes.
The first, second, third went into a turn but missed; the fourth I pierced through the bottom; with the fifth I entered the engine and exited through the pilot; with the sixth I pierced from side to side; with the seventh I pierced the cockpit floor and… got stuck. Oh, I have damage. I scan the Arrow's pilot, who winces and gasps for air escaping through the breach. He doesn't want to die, and I want him dead.
Of course I detonate, because I am death.
I see myself explode three hundred meters away from myself. Good work, I! And now I'm adjusting my trajectory, selecting six Arrows whose movement falls in a single plane for destruction.
Two seconds, and their movement falls into three million sixteen thousand twenty-two planes up to a centimeter thick — the debris is spinning, and each piece has many planes.
My sensors detect the first rams. Twenty-seven Arrows from the first wave attacked the ship's shield. They're all destroyed, but we detect the stretched shield dropping to forty percent.
Second wave — fifteen Arrows; we also detect the drop. It would have been larger, but we destroyed two-thirds of the Arrows on approach. Well, more accurately — we and the impulse cannons of both ships.
The third wave is the largest.
There are a hundred five of them; there are only six of us. We're fully autonomous and destroy the Arrows approaching the ships. Five of us, four, three, two… New us are rushing in; there are only twenty Arrows left, and new us pounce on them.
The I-pilot gives target designation to an I-projectile to pursue ten Arrows from the third wave. They missed?
Given their previous trajectory, it's obvious they should have splattered against the stretched shield. But instead, they pulled a "high-G climb" and sped toward the planet at maximum velocity.
They're running.
We kill the fourth and fifth waves; we note the ship's shields are dropping to twenty percent. We're becoming less effective because we're destroying the closest targets. Any Arrows. Because we're in autonomous search mode — that way we don't need to transfer energy from the super-reactors.
That energy goes to the shield and slowly increases its power.
The I-pilot only controls three of us.
We pursue the Arrows heading for the planet.
Me, the one on the right, destroys two Arrows but gets caught in the fire of a third. He dies, but takes it with him.
Me, the one on the left, destroys an Arrow, evades, and destroys another. He takes out three.
Me, the one on the right, destroys two Arrows and self-destructs when internal energy reserves drop critically, taking one more with him.
I have a lot of energy; I'm fresh from the arsenal. I'll have enough to hit all four Arrows.
An I-projectile under direct I-pilot control. I-projectile knows the fifth wave is destroyed. We-projectiles finish off the sixth and final one. It's the smallest, so only those of us with low internal charge act. The rest return to Ares' arsenal. So few of us remain… but we did good work today!
An Arrow that tried to change course and intercept me underestimated my energy charge. My shields take the hit, then I sharply veer aside, burning through another Arrow. Under cover of its debris, I attack the one that fired and pierce first the canopy, then the pilot's head, then the headrest of his seat, burn out the equipment in the rear, and exit through the engine.
And right there, already in the lower atmosphere of the dead planet, I enter the red nozzles of a second Arrow. I trace the reverse path and exit through its nose. The Arrow exploded, but I left it far behind.
They distracted me from the last Arrow. It's far ahead, but my speed is also increasing from pumping energy. I catch up — I'm faster, I'm more powerful.
I crash into the engine, melt the Arrow's rear section, break through into the pilot's cockpit, burn through the control panel, feeling the wind gusting through the open cockpit for a second. I pierce the Arrow and fly out of it.
And at the same moment, I fly into the event horizon of the Stargate.
And the Arrow I damaged flies in right behind me.
I-projectile loses contact with the I-pilot. Autonomous search-and-hunt mode. But there's nothing nearby. Not the slightest hint of anything that could be a Wraith target. Within my sensor range — nothing.
Except the damaged Arrow.
The Gate closes behind me; streams of energy rapidly leave me. I need to act here and now.
A protocol for such cases is embedded in me. I must not fall into enemy hands, and my secrets must not be revealed. But I need to do this efficiently.
There's nothing left for me to do but target and blow up the already downed Wraith Arrow.
A millisecond before detonation, I detect a Wraith next to the Gate. If I had more energy, I would have reacted to it. But I'm nearly depleted. I can't fall into enemy hands.
An Arrow, then. An Arrow. I can't hope — I don't know how — but I can choose an effective target to hit. Just a few degrees to the side, and I drive my body into the Arrow's liquid fuel leaking from the rear section I destroyed.
I don't know how to hope, but by my calculations, the force of this explosion should be enough to destroy the fleeing Wraith too.
* * *
Holy mother, re-birth me, please…
I don't think any other sentient being in the known galaxies has ever experienced a "trip" like this. Forbidden substances compared to Lantean military technology — that's nothing, a puff of smoke. I couldn't have imagined such a visual-disorienting trip even in my worst nightmare.
What kind of monsters came up with direct projectile control? It's outright torture for the brain!
If before I considered direct connection with Ares something beyond normal technological criteria, then this… Being in one place and in a hundred at once, feeling every destruction, every maneuver… No wonder I literally tumbled out of the chair.
Right into… not exactly hands.
Warm, soft, springy… Are those two nearly depleted I-projectiles? Why are they skin-colored, and the casing isn't yellow-black but black, leathery…
Or…?
My head was literally lifted up. Inside my skull, the battle footage was still replaying; the disorientation and sensory deprivation were so bad that I didn't immediately realize what I was doing…
"Are you feeling better?" Larrin asked me. There was concern on the girl's face… To hell with concern! She's panicking!
"The hell happened?" I asked. No, not like that. I croaked. My mouth felt like a branch of the Sahara that a pack of stray cats had pissed in during March. Dry, awful, and hopefully my breath doesn't always smell this bad.
"You tell me!" The girl helped me sit up, leaning my back against the side of the chair. A couple of people appeared and immediately started scanning me with Ancient devices. "In the middle of the battle, Ares gave a warning that you were controlling more than the established projectile limit! Why the hell did you do that?!"
"I was… I was in the fight," was all I could say to her. At least without explaining how I was simultaneously every projectile under my control, how I was projectiles hundreds of kilometers apart, how I burned, pierced, blew up… I don't fully understand it myself, honestly.
"Subdural hematoma," the first technician declared. "Third region on the left."
"Subarachnoid on the right, sixth region," the second reported.
Something's not right with me.
"Is that what you call his bloodshot eyes?" Larrin clarified.
There was a ringing in my head. I lowered my head, looking at the blood dripping onto my jacket. Where's it dripping from? So, one drop, another, they're pretty close. Ah, a nosebleed, no big deal… Wait! Where did those other two come from? Higher than the first ones, and the distance between them is bigger…
And two more, but these are on my collarbones…
Wait! Why is Larrin's chest smeared with blood? Did a Wraith feed on her, or… Um… I was trying to wipe the blood off, I guess? Otherwise, what are my hands doing there… No, stop, why does she have blood on her hips? There's no blood there, there are my palms and… What am I even doing? I'm supposed to have something wrong with my health, and I'm touching Larrin…
Ah!!!
I'm not touching her, I'm holding onto her! That's right, I'm nauseous! I'm just holding onto her so I don't fall. That's why I grabbed both thighs — the poor sick guy could get pulled in either direction. But judging by the blood smears on her cleavage, I guessed wrong about the "grip" tactic. I should have… God, it hurts and feels awful at the same time.
"No, Captain Larrin, that's not related to the scleral hemorrhages. Mikhail needs to be urgently transported to Atlantis! Our medbay here won't help…"
Hmm… Why didn't I grab her by the shoulders? That would be more convenient and reliable!
Larrin looked at me with a mix of fear and determination.
Oops, I think she saw it too. Trou-ouble-e-e-e…
"Pulsar take my lungs! He's bleeding out!"
And I don't understand why my hands were exactly where they were… And why my fingers were clenching!
When it went dark, a single thought pierced my brain.
I was grabbing her ass!
Awkward…
What happened next — I don't remember.