Doveshire
Chapter 5
Outside Doveshire Spaceport
McAuliffe VI
Nearly a week on Mac Six, and the spaceport was nearly cleared. That did not mean the Army could come in, not yet at any rate. Kilrathi strong points were still within weapons’ range. That meant they could shell the spaceport, which they frequently did, or shot down anything attempting to land. That, in turn, meant the Marines’ job was incomplete. Even clearing out those strong points would not end free the Marines. They would still have to hold the line outside of the city while the Army landed. Once a division or two of infantry and armor were dirt side, then the Marines could leave this rock.
For Sullivan, leaving could not come too soon. The idea of thinking beings, even those as brutal as the Cats, trying to kill him no longer bothered him. It was war, and both sides had their job to do– it just so happened the Terran Confederation Marine Corps was better at it than the Kilrathi Army. No, what bothered him, and would haunt him for the rest of his days, was what the Cats did. Suicide bombers, human shields, and now this–
Sullivan, and his squad, or rather the survivors, stood around another dead Cat. Even dead, the Kilrathi looked intimidating. He was more massive than two Sullivans, perhaps even three. His jaw lay slack, revealing nasty looking canines, and revealing a graying tongue hanging out of the mouth. Not totally convinced this Cats was not playing possum, Fuchian shot him once in the head with his plasma rifle. After that, there was no doubt.
Examining the dead alien, Sullivan was surprised to see even the Cat’s gear was alien looking. The plasma rifle– at least he assumed it was one– ended with a four-pronged projection. They were bayonets of a sort, spaced out around the barrel at ninety degree intervals. Unlike bayonets of long past days, these blades were fused with the rifle. He had in his possession a utility knife, a wicked looking curved blade, that looked more talon than knife. The rations did not look so alien; some type of dried meat or another. The Cat wore a belt that attracted most of the interest.
So much so, that a medic, a Captain at that, scanned it with his portable sensors. Like the red and black uniform, the belt was made of leather. It was an odd color, a pale tan. Just looking at it gave Sullivan the shivers, and for good reason.
When the Captain looked up at the grunts around him, he just shook his head in resignation. “What’s the verdict, Sir?”
The Captain let out a sigh that declared he saw more of these belts than any man should. “It’s human, if that’s what you’re wondering Sergeant. Beyond that– I’ll have to take it back to the lab to see if we can identify the victim.”
Just looking at the leather belt made out of human hide made Sullivan want to lose what little he ate for lunch, and lose it violently. He tried not to think if the poor soul was dead or alive when skinned. Worst of all, this was not the only such belt. Marines were finding them all over the battlefield. The rumor mill claimed that these belts were made from men the Cats personally killed in combat. Identifying the remains was not easy, for the leather could have come from the original conquest of Mac Six, or from a dozen other battles on an equal number of worlds.
“Sir,” one of the grunts, a Private Morris, asked nervously. “Are you finding any corpses out there that have been defiled? You know, parts cut off?”
“If you mean mutilated, no. Cats don’t think that way. Defilement of a sexual nature doesn’t impress them in the least bit.” The Captain understood just what Morris was trying to ask. Having certain parts of the body removed was a fate worse than death. At least the dead had no worries.
“Their insults run more along culinary lines,” Fuchian, a veteran of many such atrocities, explained. He turned to the Captain. “Any of those sort of defilements?”
The Captain nodded. “All too many. Just yesterday I examined a butcher’s shop with a freezer stuffed full of quartered people.”
Sullivan heard the stories, though not from official propaganda circuits. Demonizing the Cats was one thing, and not too difficult to do. Displaying the extent of their brutality was another matter. Before enlisting, he never heard of humans who were shot, skinned and left hanging on meat racks. The Cats would eat them, though they seemed to prefer humanity’s livestock over the masters. No, the Cats mostly made this sort of bloody mess for terror’s sake.
The Captain did not go into details about what he found. Not good for morale, Sullivan supposed. Same reason the news never showed dead infants crammed into ovens on the Five O’clock news. Sullivan never saw such a sight, but knew it was going to haunt his dreams. What little sleep he managed to catch was full of the sort of visions that belong in a demented horror movie director’s head.
“Why do they do it?” Sullivan heard himself ask. It was a foolish question.
The Captain shrugged. “To them, being treated like livestock or prey animals is the ultimate insult. It’s not enough that they have to burn the city down while they’re pushed back, they have to break the city’s spirit as well.” The officer glanced around the spaceport’s perimeter, and further out into what use to be downtown Doveshire. “Looks like the Kilrathi are already well on to accomplishing the former.”
Sullivan never knew hatred. Bitterness and resentment, but those passed. What burned in him had to be close to the genuine article. Maybe the Cats’ Navy had a sense of honor, but their soldiers did not. What sort of savages, not satisfied with pillaging burning, resort to turning their victims into clothing? Or chunks of frozen meat. By the way the Doc spoke, Sullivan wondered if the Cats did anything like this before the Marines returned. The faces of the civilians he and his squad have ran across said they suffered a lot, and they were only the Terrans that the aliens ignored.
There was still forced labor camps throughout occupied space, not to mention slave pens and markets throughout the Kilrathi Empire. The Varni were reduced to chattel, those not lucky enough to escape to Confed. Most of those, living on worlds closest to their former homeworld, were now under the Cats’ claws. What the Cats did to their conquests was nothing compared to what Confed did with the Wu. After conquest, the Wu were assimilated, and now behave like good little boys and girls. Kilrathi showed no interest into turning their victims into Cats. Sullivan knew more about Wu than any other aliens, enough to know that their culture ran parallel to humanity, making it easy for the ones off the reservation to accommodate themselves.
Mac Six was nothing but new experiences, all of them infuriating. Sullivan felt rage boiling in his gut. Maybe Confed should kill them all, rid the universe of the monsters. It might not make them better than the Kilrathi, but the Cats fought in absolutes. It was ‘us or them’ all the time, and Sullivan was determined that his side would survive.
Fuchian had the same idea, but for the moment he was more concerned about his squad. “Come on, Marines, let’s get a move on. Pretty stupid for us all to bunch together like this.” Fuchian hid an embarrassed grin.
The Captain nodded. “It would be best to make you nice target in a place that I’m not currently occupying.”
Fuchian saluted, taking the hint. “Good luck finding who that originally belonged to.”
The Captain sliced off a piece of the belt into a biological sample tube. “Watch your backs.”
Sullivan wondered what Confed did with all the belts they captured. Probably burned them. Sullivan could think of nothing else to do with them. Burying chunks of humans did not make a whole lot of sense. Of course, burial never made sense to any Spacer. The dead on Earth Station had their water and nutrients reclaimed and recycled into the farms. The rest was shot out towards the Sun, a burial in space. Sullivan knew some of the Marines refused to eat anything from a station or habitat because of that. It was the same silliness as fishermen refusing to eat crab, because those crabs might have scavenged off dead sailors.
“What’s that jar head doing now?” McCoy asked, interrupting Sullivan’s train of thought. Sullivan shook his head and shrugged. What jar head? The city was full of them. “Over there,” he pointed at four Marines gathered around a dead Cat.
Other Marines noticed too, including the squadron’s leader. Fuchian scowled at the other Marines. Sullivan saw that all four had knives, including one wicked looking Kilrathi blade. They were cutting away at the Cat. “Are they skinning him?”
Fuchian continued to scowl. “Idiots. Don’t any of you ever let me catch you doing that. Claws are one thing, Cat-skin rugs are quite another.”
Watching those Marines take the hide of the dead Kilrathi made Sullivan wonder what this war was doing to humanity’s soul. Thirteen years of war, and his fellow humans were already becoming as callous as the Kilrathi. Or perhaps reverting to a more savage state. Sullivan rescinded his earlier thoughts about assimilation. Perhaps Terrans and Kilrathi were more alike deep down than anybody cared to admit. No matter how warm a day, the idea sent a shudder down his spine.
Chapter 5
Outside Doveshire Spaceport
McAuliffe VI
Nearly a week on Mac Six, and the spaceport was nearly cleared. That did not mean the Army could come in, not yet at any rate. Kilrathi strong points were still within weapons’ range. That meant they could shell the spaceport, which they frequently did, or shot down anything attempting to land. That, in turn, meant the Marines’ job was incomplete. Even clearing out those strong points would not end free the Marines. They would still have to hold the line outside of the city while the Army landed. Once a division or two of infantry and armor were dirt side, then the Marines could leave this rock.
For Sullivan, leaving could not come too soon. The idea of thinking beings, even those as brutal as the Cats, trying to kill him no longer bothered him. It was war, and both sides had their job to do– it just so happened the Terran Confederation Marine Corps was better at it than the Kilrathi Army. No, what bothered him, and would haunt him for the rest of his days, was what the Cats did. Suicide bombers, human shields, and now this–
Sullivan, and his squad, or rather the survivors, stood around another dead Cat. Even dead, the Kilrathi looked intimidating. He was more massive than two Sullivans, perhaps even three. His jaw lay slack, revealing nasty looking canines, and revealing a graying tongue hanging out of the mouth. Not totally convinced this Cats was not playing possum, Fuchian shot him once in the head with his plasma rifle. After that, there was no doubt.
Examining the dead alien, Sullivan was surprised to see even the Cat’s gear was alien looking. The plasma rifle– at least he assumed it was one– ended with a four-pronged projection. They were bayonets of a sort, spaced out around the barrel at ninety degree intervals. Unlike bayonets of long past days, these blades were fused with the rifle. He had in his possession a utility knife, a wicked looking curved blade, that looked more talon than knife. The rations did not look so alien; some type of dried meat or another. The Cat wore a belt that attracted most of the interest.
So much so, that a medic, a Captain at that, scanned it with his portable sensors. Like the red and black uniform, the belt was made of leather. It was an odd color, a pale tan. Just looking at it gave Sullivan the shivers, and for good reason.
When the Captain looked up at the grunts around him, he just shook his head in resignation. “What’s the verdict, Sir?”
The Captain let out a sigh that declared he saw more of these belts than any man should. “It’s human, if that’s what you’re wondering Sergeant. Beyond that– I’ll have to take it back to the lab to see if we can identify the victim.”
Just looking at the leather belt made out of human hide made Sullivan want to lose what little he ate for lunch, and lose it violently. He tried not to think if the poor soul was dead or alive when skinned. Worst of all, this was not the only such belt. Marines were finding them all over the battlefield. The rumor mill claimed that these belts were made from men the Cats personally killed in combat. Identifying the remains was not easy, for the leather could have come from the original conquest of Mac Six, or from a dozen other battles on an equal number of worlds.
“Sir,” one of the grunts, a Private Morris, asked nervously. “Are you finding any corpses out there that have been defiled? You know, parts cut off?”
“If you mean mutilated, no. Cats don’t think that way. Defilement of a sexual nature doesn’t impress them in the least bit.” The Captain understood just what Morris was trying to ask. Having certain parts of the body removed was a fate worse than death. At least the dead had no worries.
“Their insults run more along culinary lines,” Fuchian, a veteran of many such atrocities, explained. He turned to the Captain. “Any of those sort of defilements?”
The Captain nodded. “All too many. Just yesterday I examined a butcher’s shop with a freezer stuffed full of quartered people.”
Sullivan heard the stories, though not from official propaganda circuits. Demonizing the Cats was one thing, and not too difficult to do. Displaying the extent of their brutality was another matter. Before enlisting, he never heard of humans who were shot, skinned and left hanging on meat racks. The Cats would eat them, though they seemed to prefer humanity’s livestock over the masters. No, the Cats mostly made this sort of bloody mess for terror’s sake.
The Captain did not go into details about what he found. Not good for morale, Sullivan supposed. Same reason the news never showed dead infants crammed into ovens on the Five O’clock news. Sullivan never saw such a sight, but knew it was going to haunt his dreams. What little sleep he managed to catch was full of the sort of visions that belong in a demented horror movie director’s head.
“Why do they do it?” Sullivan heard himself ask. It was a foolish question.
The Captain shrugged. “To them, being treated like livestock or prey animals is the ultimate insult. It’s not enough that they have to burn the city down while they’re pushed back, they have to break the city’s spirit as well.” The officer glanced around the spaceport’s perimeter, and further out into what use to be downtown Doveshire. “Looks like the Kilrathi are already well on to accomplishing the former.”
Sullivan never knew hatred. Bitterness and resentment, but those passed. What burned in him had to be close to the genuine article. Maybe the Cats’ Navy had a sense of honor, but their soldiers did not. What sort of savages, not satisfied with pillaging burning, resort to turning their victims into clothing? Or chunks of frozen meat. By the way the Doc spoke, Sullivan wondered if the Cats did anything like this before the Marines returned. The faces of the civilians he and his squad have ran across said they suffered a lot, and they were only the Terrans that the aliens ignored.
There was still forced labor camps throughout occupied space, not to mention slave pens and markets throughout the Kilrathi Empire. The Varni were reduced to chattel, those not lucky enough to escape to Confed. Most of those, living on worlds closest to their former homeworld, were now under the Cats’ claws. What the Cats did to their conquests was nothing compared to what Confed did with the Wu. After conquest, the Wu were assimilated, and now behave like good little boys and girls. Kilrathi showed no interest into turning their victims into Cats. Sullivan knew more about Wu than any other aliens, enough to know that their culture ran parallel to humanity, making it easy for the ones off the reservation to accommodate themselves.
Mac Six was nothing but new experiences, all of them infuriating. Sullivan felt rage boiling in his gut. Maybe Confed should kill them all, rid the universe of the monsters. It might not make them better than the Kilrathi, but the Cats fought in absolutes. It was ‘us or them’ all the time, and Sullivan was determined that his side would survive.
Fuchian had the same idea, but for the moment he was more concerned about his squad. “Come on, Marines, let’s get a move on. Pretty stupid for us all to bunch together like this.” Fuchian hid an embarrassed grin.
The Captain nodded. “It would be best to make you nice target in a place that I’m not currently occupying.”
Fuchian saluted, taking the hint. “Good luck finding who that originally belonged to.”
The Captain sliced off a piece of the belt into a biological sample tube. “Watch your backs.”
Sullivan wondered what Confed did with all the belts they captured. Probably burned them. Sullivan could think of nothing else to do with them. Burying chunks of humans did not make a whole lot of sense. Of course, burial never made sense to any Spacer. The dead on Earth Station had their water and nutrients reclaimed and recycled into the farms. The rest was shot out towards the Sun, a burial in space. Sullivan knew some of the Marines refused to eat anything from a station or habitat because of that. It was the same silliness as fishermen refusing to eat crab, because those crabs might have scavenged off dead sailors.
“What’s that jar head doing now?” McCoy asked, interrupting Sullivan’s train of thought. Sullivan shook his head and shrugged. What jar head? The city was full of them. “Over there,” he pointed at four Marines gathered around a dead Cat.
Other Marines noticed too, including the squadron’s leader. Fuchian scowled at the other Marines. Sullivan saw that all four had knives, including one wicked looking Kilrathi blade. They were cutting away at the Cat. “Are they skinning him?”
Fuchian continued to scowl. “Idiots. Don’t any of you ever let me catch you doing that. Claws are one thing, Cat-skin rugs are quite another.”
Watching those Marines take the hide of the dead Kilrathi made Sullivan wonder what this war was doing to humanity’s soul. Thirteen years of war, and his fellow humans were already becoming as callous as the Kilrathi. Or perhaps reverting to a more savage state. Sullivan rescinded his earlier thoughts about assimilation. Perhaps Terrans and Kilrathi were more alike deep down than anybody cared to admit. No matter how warm a day, the idea sent a shudder down his spine.