by Sales, Ian
Abruptly the blue sky visible through the scuttles drained away to black, like ink colouring water. The stars, what few could be seen, ceased their twinkling and shone hard and bright and serene. A glow rose from beneath them and they travelled across the gleaming edge of the sky towards their target.
“Got her yet?” Lotman asked Tovar.
The cargo-master twisted a pair of knobs on the console before him. “I think so. Sixty-eight miles. Bearing twenty-eight degrees to port.”
“Not bad for dead reckoning,” the pilot replied.
Dai sent a signal to the sloop. They had discussed its contents as they traversed Geneza. No sane captain would allow an enemy boat to dock without good reason; and so they needed good reason. A traitor, they decided. Someone who wished to carry a message in person to the Serpent back on Shuto. But who? Not the Admiral—she was too well-known, and no one would believe that she had turned.
Casimir Ormuz, however…
It was likely the Serpent’s captains knew of him, were aware that the Admiral followed him. Perhaps they even knew of his background. If so, that might make his abrupt betrayal all the more plausible.
The signal claimed Ormuz was aboard the launch and had important information he wished to reveal personally to the Duke of Ahasz. The sloop should allow him to dock and then prepare for topologic travel to the Imperial capital.
“Will they believe it?” asked Lotsman.
“They can’t afford to ignore it,” Dai replied. “Doesn’t mean they’re going to be stupid about it, though.”
According to the data discovered by Tovar on his console, the ship they were approaching, Desert Runner, was a Zokeveni class sloop, with a crew of three officers and nine rateds.
Lotsman brought the launch in close to the sloop, nudging it nearer with gentle tweaks of the gas-rockets. Once he had it lined up with a hatch on the flank of Desert Runner, the sloop extended an accordion tube. A thump rang through the boat as it engaged.
“This is it,” Lotsman said. He interlaced his fingers and pushed his hands way from him until his knuckles cracked. He was enjoying this and he wondered how he’d managed to survive all those dull years as a pilot aboard Divine Providence.
They made their way aft to the boat’s airlock. Dai cracked the hatch and stepped inside. She opened the outer hatch and swung it wide. She stood there, framed in the doorway. Beyond her, Lotsman could see a short undulating tunnel and at the far end another hatch. Standing in that hatch were a pair of rateds wielding billy-clubs.
A face appeared at the rateds’ shoulders. “Where, I say,” it called, “is this chap Ormuz?” The officer blinked in surprise. “Er, miss,” he added.
Dai ignored him. “Coming across,” she said.
She launched herself out of the boat and hurtled along the tube towards Desert Runner. Tovar followed immediately after. Lotsman watched them fly away from him like flung objects and waited for the impact. Sure enough, after spinning about in mid-air, they hit the rateds feet-first. All four dropped to the deck in a tangle of limbs and yells.
Now Lotsman took a running jump out of the launch’s hatch. Fists held before him, he arrowed towards the officer in Desert Runner’s airlock. He watched as the man looked down in terror at Dai and Tovar and his two rateds; and then up at the fast-approaching pilot. Lotsman’s fists struck him and bowled him over backwards.
“Oof!”
Lotsman had landed on the rateds and one of their billy-clubs jabbed him in the ribs. He clambered gingerly to his feet. All three of the sloop’s crew were out cold. Dai and Tovar were already on their feet.
“You made enough of a racket,” Lotsman complained.
“Couldn’t be helped,” snapped Dai, dismissively.
She stepped out into the gangway. A sequence of thuds and grunts followed soon after. Lotsman looked at Tovar, who shrugged. They heard a cut-off yelp. Lotsman grinned.
The two of them joined Dai and set about subduing the rest of the crew of Desert Runner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tempest yawed abruptly to port. Rinharte put out a hand to steady herself and felt foolish. She remained steady on her feet; it was only the view ahead which swung sickeningly.
“Romi,” she ordered, “plot me a course out of this mess.”
This orbit had become too dangerous for the troop-transport. It was Rinharte’s own fault, of course. She had revealed her hidden main-gun and now the enemy destroyers were flocking.
Tempest shook and her hull groaned at some near-miss. A torpedo, perhaps, imploding a few hundred yards away.
The view ahead pitched up through ninety degrees, the curved plain of Geneza sliding down and out of view. To Rinharte’s surprise, Maganda also had the helmsmen roll Tempest through one hundred and eighty degrees so she did not present her keel to the enemy. A smart move and one Rinharte herself should have remembered.
The troop-transport began to move, slowly at first but accelerating as quickly as she was able. The battle above Rinharte’s head began to slide astern.
Where was Szhen? There was no sign of Tempest’s escort.
A warship loomed large ahead, her keel crossing the troop-transport’s path. “Hard a port,” called out Rinharte. She crossed to her chair and peered at the repeater glass on its arm. Jelzoor had identified the vessel ahead: Rombolo, an enemy destroyer.
She returned to the front of the bridge and watched as Rombolo drew closer. Gradually, the destroyer’s keel began to drift to the side as Tempest changed direction. It was going to be close. And, Rinharte realised with mounting horror, closer still to Geneza’s atmosphere. Ahead, past the destroyer, Rinharte could see a blurred line, black above, glowing blue below.
“Bring us up forty degrees blue,” she ordered. “And twenty degrees green.”
Would it be enough?
The minutes crawled by. Tempest closed with Rombolo. The destroyer did not seem to have noticed the ship closing on her keel —
No.
Rombolo rolled.
Tempest slid by the destroyer. But Rombolo brought her superstructure to bear. As the troop-transport moved past, something struck her keel. The hull rang, a loud dull sound.
No one on the bridge said anything. Into the silence fell more sounds—a hammering from far below. The hull creaked. Something far aft, in the ship’s engineering spaces perhaps, made a deep, resonant boom.
“Venting from the bottom deck!” called out Tomrer, the carpenter.
“Send down a damage control party to seal the hatches,” ordered Rinharte.
“Ma’am,” acknowledged Maganda, and she bent to the caster at her station.
It would have to be stewards. Tempest did not have sufficient crew for dedicated damage control.
“Hull breach in engineering,” called out Tomrer. “Mr Silnik is asking permission to abandon.”
Maganda now spoke up: “Ma’am! We’ve lost Suchu! Sucked out! There’s no way to seal the bottom deck.”
Rinharte, surprising herself with her own calmness, asked, “Mr Tomrer, how badly are we damaged?”
“Bottom deck is mostly open, ma’am. Engineering is breached and losing air.”
“We’re not going to survive this, are we?” She gestured vaguely—she had not required an answer. “Very well. Prepare to abandon ship.”
This was the end. Tempest could not survive. Her keel was damaged, and would likely not last much longer. The engineering spaces were no longer reachable.
Maganda hurried to her side. “Ma’am, we can’t abandon ship. We’re too close to atmosphere. If we jump in air-hoods, we’ll burn up.”
“Is she still answering the helm, Mr Yul?” Rinharte asked.
The rated at the leftmost wheel nodded.
“Then turn us about and get us into a higher orbit.” She turned to Maganda and bent lower to speak quietly. “Romi, see if you can get a signal to the boats on the ground. Perhaps they can get here in time. Do it quietly, ple
ase; I’d sooner not get the crew’s hopes up.”
Maganda nodded eagerly. “Yes, ma’am!” She turned about, hurried from the bridge and entered the signals house.
Rinharte gave a sad smile. The pinnaces could never reach Tempest before the ship came apart. Her crew were experienced enough to know rescue was near impossible. But Maganda… Rinharte was not so cruel she would dash the young woman’s hopes.
Tempest suddenly bucked, as if rebuking Rinharte for lying to Maganda. Rinharte felt her feet momentarily leave the decking. She landed badly and stumbled. Behind her, she heard a rated hit the deck heavily and let loose a volley of oaths.
Tempest was surely dying. And they would all die with her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Vengeful lurched, throwing the Admiral against the railing. She grabbed the balustrade to prevent herself tipping over into the conning-tower well. The sharp reports of snapping wood sounded from decks below her. Straightening, she put a hand to her side. She had hit hard; there would be a bruise below her ribs soon.
Her other hand remained on the baulstrade. She felt it vibrate. Something was wrong. A deep thrum echoed up the well, followed by a series of strained creaks and groans.
She turned to the communications-console. “Report!” she snapped.
Vengeful had taken a nasty knock. A shot from a main-gun? Or a torpedo?
“Direct hit on one of the power toroids,” reported Lieutenant Hayomernok. “Losing power in toroids two and four.”
They had insufficient power to fire the main-gun.
A lift rising up the conning-tower well caught her attention. She leaned over the railing and recognised the ascending figure as Ormuz. As if sensing her gaze, he turned and looked up at her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He shrugged.
“It is not safe here,” she told him.
She stepped back, glanced down at the battle-consultant’s glass and reached a decision. Vengeful could do no more harm. Perhaps. She left the Captain’s Bridge, marched around the gallery and scrambled down the ladder to the Pilothouse. Behind her, she heard Ormuz arrive on the gallery.
Mate Gulon turned at the Admiral’s approach and quailed. She ignored him and marched to the windows which formed the forward bulkhead. “I shall navigate from here,” she told the cox.
“Navigate where?” asked Ormuz.
She turned. Ormuz stood at the foot of the ladder from the gallery.
“To the nearest available target.”
Vengeful was not beaten yet. Her mines gone, her torpedos all launched, her main-gun incapable of firing.
She could still ram.
“Target?”
The Admiral ignored him. She scanned the heavens. Yes, there: an enemy cruiser. She plotted an intercepting course in her mind’s eye:
“Fifteen degrees green, thirty degrees blue.”
Gulon acknowledged her order and passed it to the two helmsmen.
“What are you going to do?” demanded Ormuz. He was now at her side.
“Ram an enemy cruiser.”
For a moment, he did not reply and she wondered what he was thinking.
“There are no lifeboats aboard,” he said.
“Correct. Navy ships do not carry them.”
He nodded. “Neither did Divine Providence.”
“Are you ready to fight, Casimir?”
She turned and looked up at him. He was no more than a handful of inches taller than her, but until now she not noticed his height. It seemed on odd thing to remark on and she wondered that she had done so. Her senses, she decided; they seemed preternaturally sharp. And everything she saw, heard, sensed set her mind spinning and considering and calculating.
“Fight? How?” he answered. “You’re about to kill us all.”
She was glad to see he did not appear afraid. But then, neither had Ahasz—and, she remembered, she had been with him when there’d been occasion to show fear.
“Vengeful will survive and, if I have plotted right, there will be a way to take the cruiser.” She gave a fierce grin and teased, “There’s opportunity yet to kill the enemy. I know how keen you are to do so.”
“I’m not keen!” he protested hotly. “I’m no coward, Flavia, but you know my feelings on what we do today.”
“Then perhaps you should have taken a different path on Kaupulan, Casimir.”
Oh, but she was glad he had not done so. Without him, she would not be here now.
“You have approximately fifteen minutes to impact. I’ll have my marines—Ah.” She grimaced. “No. Major Skaria took them all with him. It shall have to be provosts.”
He sighed. “Very well. What do you want me to do?”
“Take me that cruiser.” She pointed at her intended target. “Fight your way aboard, Casimir. The rest of us will follow you.”
“And then?”
“Then my crew need not perish with Vengeful.”
She had plans. This battle was not over yet. Her fight was not finished. She could see beyond it a greater vessel, twice the enemy cruiser’s length, with a conning-tower larger than many frigates. She knew that warship. Empress Glorina, the enemy flagship.
She glanced at Ormuz and felt properly grateful for the role he had played in this. She would see that he was rewarded.
After all, he had given her so much.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Something struck Tempest, probably debris. Rinharte held up her hand to forestall another damage report. She did not turn round, but continued to stare out of the windows at the front of the bridge.
The troop-transport was dead in space. After managing to limp above the space battle, her engines had finally died. The crew—all those who had survived—now waited on the quarter deck for…
For what?
Rescue? It was unlikely. Tempest could last no more than another fifteen minutes. Her troop-deck was now in vacuum and her hull had been hammered and holed beyond its capacity to maintain its integrity. Worse, Rinharte had lost crew. It pained her that she had been unable to prevent their deaths. If she hadn’t used the hidden main-gun on that enemy ship, Tempest would not have been seen as a target. Troop-transports were to be left alone—it said so in the Fighting Instructions.
It was entirely illusory but Rinharte could almost feel her ship coming apart. In her imagination, plates peeled away from the hull, revealing airless engineering spaces, even now frosted with the cold of deep space. A shudder: and another piece of Tempest went sailing off into the blackness; and another piece of Rinharte went with it.
At least she wasn’t expected to remain aboard Tempest as the ship finally fell apart. The melodramas had invented that tradition. A good captain survived to fight another day, to command another ship.
But Rinharte could see no way to abandon Tempest.
“Ma’am!” yelled Maganda.
Rinharte turned to the young woman. She was pointing forwards, a look of amazed delight on her face. Rinharte followed her gaze. A dark speck had appeared on the face of Geneza, was powering up from the planet’s atmosphere as if rising from the deeps.
A pinnace.
It couldn’t be one of Tempest’s. There hadn’t been time.
And now a second one behind it.
Coincidence, thought Rinharte. It was just two boats off on some other errand.
Again, “Ma’am!” This time from the hatch to the bridge.
Rinharte turned. The signalman stood there, framed in the coaming and waving a piece of paper in one hand. He was grinning.
“It’s Marine-Captain Kordelasz, ma’am! He’s coming to fetch us!”
No! It couldn’t be. How could he…?
Rinharte turned back to the windows. She squinted, as if her eyesight could turn telescopic. Kordelasz! Come to rescue them. How had he known?
No matter. She turned back to face her crew. From their faces, she guessed they imagined she had arranged thi
s. Dear Lords, she thought. They will be insufferable from now on. When she saw Maganda’s face, Rinharte’s heart sank. No person deserved such admiration; certainly not Rinharte herself.
Now was not the time to nip such hero-worship in the bud. Calmly, Rinharte ordered, “Everyone to the docks. Prepare to abandon ship.”
She was the last to leave the bridge. Maganda hovered in the hatch, from her expression mentally urging her captain to hurry. Rinharte knew there was time yet. She turned about and sadly regarded her first, and likely last, command. Tempest had been a good ship. No, more than that. A troop-transport with a hidden main-gun. Rinharte had no reason to be ashamed of her captaincy.
Gesturing at Maganda to proceed, Rinharte left the bridge. The two of them marched quickly down the ramps, through the quarter-deck and upper-deck, and into the pinnace docks. All six of the boat-hatches were already open and, happily, the force-curtains preventing the atmosphere from escaping still functioned.
A pinnace appeared in one of the great rectangular openings in the hull. It nosed its way inwards as if curious, and slowly, inevitably, slid along one of the top jetties. The boat’s prow began to split and open, even before its gas-rockets had brought it to a halt. As the bow-doors yawned wider, Rinharte saw a figure standing within.
Kordelasz.
He was grinning.
“Need a ride?” he called, and laughed.
The pinnace bumped against the end of the dock. The bow-doors were fully open now. Kordelasz ran down the ramp and leapt lightly onto the jetty. He sketched a flamboyant bow to Rinharte.
“Must you leave everything to the last minute, Garrin?” Rinharte complained. But she was smiling, and she knew he’d take it as the jest it was intended to be.
“Sorry, ma’am. Got held up by an army down below. Are we good to go now?”
The second pinnace was nosing its way into the adjacent dock. Rinharte gave instructions—so many in Kordelasz’s boat, the remainder in the second one.