Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9
Page 106
"So they have, Priscilla," he said, staring at the tactical screen, where the blockade was outlined, ship by deadly ship, cutting the Dutiful Passage off from Val Con—and from Korval's future.
He sighed.
"So they have."
The annunciator sounded as Shan began the calculations necessary for the final definition of the secondary equation. He called "Come!" without taking notice of the fact and dove deeper into the beguiling intricacies of vector-graphs, real-time movement, gravitational fluctuations, relative mass ratios, velocity transfer rate, and the potentiality of random speed shift.
A spiraling approach such as the Passage was currently committed to was impossibly complicated even without an Yxtrang armada between them and the target planet, he thought hazily, manipulating factors of seven. The math comp suggested applying a factor of 267 to shift potential and he OKed that with a finger-tap.
Not that the Yxtrang had taken any particular note of the battleship in their midst, after an initial flutter of radio exclamation. It was to be expected, however, that they were reserving their most serious displeasure for the Passage's closest approach, and if one extrapolated a grav-flux rate directly proportional to the movement of the primary natural satellite…
Equation framed, the computer announced some little time later. Shan blinked at the screen.
"So you say." He sighed and leaned back, calling up a Healer's relaxation drill to chase away the ache in shoulders and back.
"Well," he said to the computer, tapping the go key. "If you think you've got it framed, let's see it, don't be shy."
"Captain?"
"Eh?" He glanced up, blinked the larger room into focus, and blinked again as he discovered the figure of his foster son, perched uneasily on the edge of one of the two visitor's chairs across the desk.
"Hello, Gordy. I didn't hear you come in, but I expect I must have let you in, mustn't I? Math does such very odd things to one's perceptions, don't you find?"
"Sometimes." Gordy's face was paler than usual and showing heretofore unsuspected lines. He pointed at Shan's computer. "I've been doing some math myself, if you've got a minute to check me."
Such seriousness. One should not have lines of grimness sharpening one's features at nineteen. Shan sighed and extended a long arm, saving the frame with a rapid series of keystrokes. He glanced up again.
"The name of your file is?"
"Murder."
Shan stared, ran a quick scan of that utterly serious emotive pattern and lifted both brows. "Auspicious."
The corners of Gordy's mouth tightened, in no way a smile, and he folded his hands tightly together on his knee. "Yessir."
Murder was a series of three interlocking equations, as deceptively simple as haiku. Shan's hands went cold on the keypad as he scanned them. He looked at Gordy, sitting so still he fairly quivered with strain.
"These are quite attractive. Would you mind awfully if I frame my own set?"
Some of the stress eased from the boy's eyes. "I was hoping you would."
"Fine. A few moments' grace, please. Get yourself something to drink, child—and bring me a glass of the red, if you will."
"Yes, Father." Melant'i shift—and of a sort one rarely had from Gordy, who was after all a halfling, and full of a great many useless notions regarding dignity. Shan returned his attention to the screen.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat back and picked up his glass, tasting the wine before he looked across at the waiting boy.
"I regret to say that your projections seem accurate in the extreme. My own calculations indicate explosive conditions reached eight nanoseconds before your model, but I suspect this is merely a reflection of the difference in our ages. Youth is ever optimistic."
Again, the tightening of the mouth, while the brown eyes shone with abrupt tears.
"I ran a sim," he said, voice grating huskily and then cracking. "Worst case, we lose everybody, Shan."
"Precisely why it's called worst case." He tipped back in his chair and had another sip of wine. "Don't look so ill, child. You've served warning. The patch on that thrice-damned pod is an unacceptable stress point. If we have to maneuver suddenly—if we have to maneuver and fire at the same time— poof! As you say, we lose everybody." He shrugged. "Nothing for it but to go out and do a proper fix." Gordy stared. "With all those Yxtrang out there?"
"Well," said Shan, with a casualness Priscilla would have known was all sham, "I don't expect they're going to be leaving soon, do you?"
"You are not going out there to repair that pod mount!"
Shan paused with the wine glass halfway to his lips, face etched in disbelief. "Your pardon, Priscilla? I cannot believe that I heard you correctly."
Black eyes flashed and her mouth tightened ominously. "You heard me."
"Well, if you will have it, I did." He moved to the bar and set the untasted glass next to the decanter of red before turning to her again, a frown on his face. "Need I remind you that I am captain of this vessel?"
"All the more reason for you to stay away and let someone else do it!" she cried, body taut as a harpstring, projecting passion with such force Shan's teeth ached.
He took a deep breath. "I suppose you have someone else in mindT' he inquired, keeping any hint of irony out of his voice.
Priscilla glared. "Yes, I do. Me."
"Oh, much better!" he approved, and the irony this time was impossible to leash.
He was warned by the flare of heat against his cheek, had time to think a thought and reach before the wine erupted from the goblet and, given direction by Priscilla's fury, smashed into a storm of blood-red droplets a whisker's breadth from his face.
"Oh dear," Shan said softly, looking down at the carpet. "We seem to have made a mess, Priscilla."
"A mess…" She was looking a trifle dazed, as well she might. The amount of finely tuned energy required to move a coherent volume of wine the specified distance with such rapidity and without breaking the goblet was certainly considerable. She closed her eyes and whispered something Shan thought sounded suspiciously like, "Mother grant me patience," before opening them again.
"Shan," she said carefully; "what is that?"
"That?" He caught the glimmer of what his construct must look like to her Inner Eyes and smiled.
"Oh, that! Well, I don't know how it should happen, Priscilla, but I became concerned that you might be going to dash a glass of wine into my face. Given the conviction, I thought it expedient to arrange for a shield of sorts. Pretty clever I thought it, too, especially on such short notice. But now I perceive that I should have arranged for something a bit more—encompassing—for here's the carpet, all spotted up and—"
"Damn the carpet! Shan—" Passion of a different sort broke and he found his eyes full even as hers spilled over and she was that quickly across the room, cupping his face in her hands.
"Shan, for sweet love's sake, don't go out there! Something—something horrible—will happen. I—"
Gently, he put his own hands up, running his fingers into her black curls and looking closely into her eyes. "A foretelling, Priscilla? Something that you know is true?"
His palms were wet with her tears. He saw the uncertainty in the back of her eyes before she shook her head. "I—I'm not sure." Passion flared once more. "Let me do it. The tests—"
"The tests show that you rate either excellent in manipulation and very good on speed or very good in manipulation and excellent in speed. The same tests show that the captain rates consistently excellent in both manipulation and speed. We have two Master pilots on this ship—the captain and the first mate. It's sensible to have one with the ship at all times. Since I out-test you on the repair module—just barely, I admit it!—and since speed and manipulative excellence are both very likely to be factors in making the needed repairs, I am the best choice." He sighed and dropped all shields, letting her see the truth in him.
"This is no act of heroism, I swear it to you. If Ren Zel, Seth, or Thrina were more
able, the task would be theirs."
Priscilla's face was troubled. "But not mine," she murmured.
Truth was truth, and only truth was owed, between life-mates. "Only," he admitted, "under severest compulsion."
She stepped away from him, shaking her head. "You'd rather make me watch you die."
"But I have no intention of dying, Priscilla!" he cried, with counterfeit gaiety.
And felt her pain in his own heart, twisting like a sudden knife.
Outside repair was tedious, nerve-wracking work, in this case made more nerve-wracking by the interested presence of several Yxtrang warships: That the residents of the warships were more than a little vocal in their interest had early on moved Shan to cut his open beams to three: direct to the Passage, direct to Seth, and conference.
Seth was assigned as pointguard between Shan and the interested enemy, a task he undertook with a worrisome degree of enthusiasm. However, though two flights of insystem fighters had passed foolishly close to the edge of the Passage's range during the last few hours of welding, sweating and swearing, Seth, the Passage and the Yxtrang had all managed to keep fingers from firing studs. Shan indiscriminately thanked every god and goddess he could think of for this rare display of moderation on all sides, and sweated even more in the heavy-duty suit, in an agony to finish before someone mislaid their common sense.
"I believe that's sealed," he murmured at too long last. "Ren Zel, check me, if you please. I don't really feel up to coming back outside tomorrow to patch the keyhole."
"Equations set and sim running, Captain." Ren Zel's smooth-toned and proper Liaden voice was as bracing as a cool breeze. "We have compliance to the one hundredth and fifth percentile, Captain."
Relief so exquisite it was almost pain. "Wonderful. Seth, my sharpshooter, we're going back inside. Allow me, in the fullness of time, to buy you a glass of that reprehensible rotgut you drink."
"You're on—ah, hell, here we go again. Yxtrang flight-squad just inside eyes—screen eight. Must be flying school today."
"Let's hope it's not target practice, shall we?"
"They've been real polite so far," Seth commented. "I'll swing out and give you some room, Captain. The sooner I get a glass of rotgut in my hand, the happier I'm going to be."
"Spoken like a sane man, Mr. Johnson. Back off to vector sigma-eight-three, and I'll slide around to Bay Six."
"Gotcha. Changing vector—now."
"Passage note following vectors and track. Intend to intersect with Bay Six in—Seth! Screen four!"
Two of the Yxtrang craft had peeled out of formation, local velocity increasing to an insane level. Seth threw his own vessel into an evasive tumble that should have skated him toward the Passage's well-protected belly and safety. Of a sort.
But Seth did not chose the life-saving maneuver. Instead, his tumble spun him away from the Passage, vectoring with the Yxtrang fighters.
One came after him, gun turrets tracking as they held the target despite the craft's maneuvering. The second fighter kept on—a straight, one would have said suicidal, run in toward the heart of the Passage. Toward Shan.
Multiple voices filled the void's radio frequencies. Shan's "Seth, return to ship!" was nearly overwhelmed by Priscilla's calm, "Safety interlocks off, full battle condition. On my mark, gunners."
Seth's voice broke into the end of Priscilla's instructions, on the dedicated beam between the lifeboats. "One family's enough. I'm on your man. They're after the lock."
It was all true in the tumbling way things happen in space; Seth's course had altered enough that his gun was tracking the lead enemy, the ship tracking him began to maneuver its way closer, and the lead Yxtrang was closing rapidly on both Shan and the lock he'd need to enter.
"Your screen six," came Priscilla's calm voice, this time tinged with an ice that made even Shan's blood run cold.
"This is the attack. Gunners, your mark. Three and Five spot Seth. Teams Four and Six spot the captain. Everyone else— standard defense."
Screen six showed a flight of five fighters whose meandering courses had suddenly become one.
The fighter tracking Shan veered away from the collision course, and Shan's reflexes brought him back toward the lock, and then away, away…
"Shan, we…"
"Can't risk an open lock. I'll loop around and see…"
"They're pairing up on you, Shan," came Seth's warning.
Shan felt a momentary touch of love so sweet and full it nearly overwhelmed him. Then he felt a wrenching he understood all too well; Priscilla had gone behind her strongest shields, as she must. As he must.
"Shan, close in on pod four!" Seth urged.
Shan cursed the little lifeboat: fighter it was not, despite the add-on guns. More massive than the fighters by dint of its planetary capability, it was never meant to fight a space battle.
He stabbed at the release button, flinging the valuable remote repair unit into space to gain a measure of response.
"Shan!"
Seth's scream came at the instant the first Yxtrang fired; then there was static and a missile to be dodged and another. Shan felt the g-forces pushing him sideways as the little craft answered helm and then the first Yxtrang ship was pieces in the void as Seth's elation echoed across the radio and the second Yxtrang was turning ever so quickly for another run at Shan.
Shan's screens glared bright as Dutiful Passage went to war.
The very first concern was the larger fighter flight; the two that were behind that, closing at high speed with some larger ships intermingled, would wait.
Priscilla ignored the screen that showed Shan's ship: he'd done as Seth suggested and closed in on the Passage as best he could. Her concern now was weapon-mix and security; it wouldn't do to show their full capability quite yet.
"Team Two," she said quietly into her mike. "Fire at will."
The ship's automatics cut in. She felt the minute tremble as the guns began their rapid fire and the ship compensated. It would be seconds before the Yxtrang crossed their path, and a good radar system might give them warning. Priscilla spoke to the mike again.
"Team Three, wide area coverage around Team Two's center. If you get a veer, target it in."
"Cluster incoming; looks serious." This from Ken Rik on the inner bridge.
Priscilla's attention snapped to screen three—several of the larger ships farther out had launched their weapons and were already dropping away from their escort of fighters. Too far for a missile shot. Still.
"Team One, your target is the hindmost of the midrange ships in Sector Three; your next target is next closest to us. You are cleared for two bursts each. At will."
Her eyes had already found the sight she wanted to see: Shan's boat close in to the Passage, firing an occasional burst toward something out of her sight.
The next screen showed it: Seth was still hanging away from the Passage, staying between Shan and the remaining fighter from the original attack group. He seemed to have earned some respect from the Yxtrang pilot.
A shudder went through the ship, followed by another.
"Team One. Bursts away, Priscilla," Vilobar's voice in her ear was calm. Perhaps he was calm. Inner senses stringently locked away, she chose to believe so.
The beams were a battleship's weapon. The beams— pulses actually—technically moved at just under the speed of light and carried with them a baleful mixture of particles, magnetic flux, and high speed atomic nuclei. She looked to her screens.
Unanticipated, Team One's bursts tore through the incoming cluster of missiles, and a few of the intervening fighters as well, leaving behind an awful shadow of explosions. A moment more, and the hindmost ship was incandescent fog.
Radio noise, already full of sputters and crackles from the first beam's passage through the Yxtrang, became a roar and hiss, and a second roaring followed as the second of the midrange ships followed its sister to vacuum.
"Fleas! Fleas!" Seth's voice was insistent in her ear. "Fleas!"
Watching, she thanked the Goddess for Seth, for his loyalty, and behind her Wall, among that which was locked away for this while, she feared—terribly—for his life.
For, in fighting to stay between Shan and the enemy, Seth had encountered a horde of the stealthy fleas—one-man ships barely more than a powered and hyper-armed space suit.
On visual she saw what she feared: his boat was dodging a dozen or more of the things, and though he had speed, they were a cloud around him, each firing and trying to attach weapons meant to mine a warship's hull.
"Seth!"
That was Shan, and now his boat was closing, firing, whirling, ramming.
"Twenty-three, Shan," Seth said. He might have been counting cargo pallets. Then, sharper—"I see their mother!"
The little boat whirled purposefully, the guns firing at a small dark spot in space as it picked up speed. Out, out, into the cloud of fleas and beyond. Away from the Passage.
"No!" Shan's voice was strong with Command. It made no difference.
The side of Seth's boat erupted. It spun, then—incredibly—straightened course, moving yet toward a nearly invisible spot against the stars.
"Damn," Seth said, and he was gasping. "Drinks are on me! Thirty-three." A pause. "Don't do anything stupid, Shan."
Then Seth's boat crumpled and exploded against the dark plastic mother ship of the Yxtrang fleas.
"Priscilla!" Shan's voice, high and hoarse.
"Teams Five and Three. Take it out." The ship shuddered and the bursts were away. The fleas' mother died in a flare of vapor.
"Priscilla, accelerate," Shan—no, the captain said into her ear. "There's a cloud of fleas closing on you."
His boat was spinning, moving, dodging, guns flaring— and each move taking him further and further from the Passage. From safety.
"Shan—"
"That is an order," he said, cold in command. "Accelerate!"
"Yes, Captain." Behind the Wall, she screamed and railed and rent her garments in anguish.
On the war bridge, she spoke quietly into her microphone, relaying the order to accelerate.