The Starwolves

by Thorarinn Gunnarsson

  "I have the answer to that question," she said firmly.

  "I am sure you do. And Dveyella has a completely different answer. So it remains for me to decide. And you are not helping matters."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. Dveyella is nicer than you."

  The lift doors opened and Velmeran entered quickly. Consherra only stood and stared in disbelief, unable under the circumstances to indulge her temper. Before she could decide what to do, the door closed in her face.

  "Dveyella indeed! What does she have that I do not?" she demanded of the closed door. In her fury she paced in a complete circle, returning to stand before the lift doors. "You will come back to me yet, Velmeran! You have no idea of where you are supposed to be going!"

  Valthyrra Methryn pushed the best pace she could, cutting her jump from Boulder to Bineck to only thirty-six hours. She wanted to catch up with Keth before the Union had the opportunity to move him to some more secure location. But that also meant that she did not have time to service all her fighters as she would have liked, so that more than half of the packs had to go out again in the shape they were in, fresh from the last battle.

  The pilots had their own way of preparing themselves for the coming battle, spending their last few hours enjoying a precelebration. A party, small, quiet and private, helped to distract them from worrying excessively about what lay ahead. And Kelvessan were, by natural inclination, excessive worriers. Velmeran, as the only member of the assault force who was also a permanent resident of the ship, acted as host. His pack, like all others, was housed together in a suite of nine apartments that opened upon a large common room that included all the comforts the pilots were given in return for their hazardous duty. The walls were paneled, with wooden beams to support a ceiling that did not look metal. The floor was carpeted, although showing some wear since the Methiyn's last overhaul, with comfortable loungers and a large sofa bolted into place. There was audio and video equipment for their entertainment, and shelves with a wealth of books secured behind locking glass doors.

  Aside from the members of Velmeran's pack and Dveyella's team, there were only two other guests. Baressa had come looking for Velmeran in time to receive a special invitation. The other guest was Consherra, uninvited and unexpected, refusing to say how she even knew of this little celebration. That was not so hard to figure out, since she led a procession of three automated carts overflowing with food... and all automatons were under Valthyrra's command. But no one questioned her right to attend, once they saw that food.

  "This is a nice place you have," Dveyella mentioned as she sat alone with Velmeran in one corner. Velmeran lifted his head to glance around the room, as if seeing it for the first time in his life. When not involved in business, he was about the most innocent, unassuming person she had ever met. Already she had seen that he seemed unable to take a compliment for what it was; he always weighed it and then himself in comparison, to see if it was deserved.

  "You have a nice group of pilots in your pack," she said, deciding to try again.

  "Do you think so?" Velmeran asked, somewhat concerned.

  "Yes, of course," she insisted. "They are young and innocent. That is very refreshing to a pack of battle-weary veterans like ourselves."

  "Young and innocent?" Velmeran asked, laughing to himself. "Does that include Baressa and Consherra? You see in them two of the sharpest tempers on this ship."

  "Baressa?" she asked in disbelief. Baressa was busy in the opposite corner conferring with Baress, having discovered that they shared the same name. They appeared to have more in common than just names, to judge by the undue interest she had in his injuries and his tale of how they happened.

  "Actually, I cannot imagine why Baressa is acting so silly," Velmeran said, mystified. In his years as a student, he had always looked upon her as what a pack leader should be. He was shocked and annoyed to see her acting like a... a person!

  "I can understand," Dveyella said suggestively. "In fact, I feel like acting a little like that myself right now."

  "Well, I hope I never do!" Velmeran declared. Dveyella sighed softly. If they stayed together, she was either going to have to grow him up or become very blunt.

  "Eat!" Consherra ordered, seeming to appear from nowhere to force a large hot roll with cheese into Velmeran's hands. "Valthyrra says that we will be coming into system in about four hours."

  Dveyella shrugged. "I guess that we did not get started in time to have any real fun. Some things might have to wait until later."

  "I certainly hope so," Consherra muttered coldly.

  Dveyella glanced up at her sharply, at first in surprise, but then with an appraising look that became shrewd.

  "Yes, I do like to take my time," she responded in an insinuating voice. "But not too long. I – for one – believe in taking advantage of my opportunities."

  "Well, you certainly impress me as the type," Consherra remarked cattily.

  Velmeran chewed his roll, blissfully unaware of the battle that raged over his head.

  "Well, Meran, I certainly envy you," Baressa said as she and Baress approached at that moment. "Not many pilots get a chance to do the things that you will. You should learn a few things that the regular pilots never know."

  "You will have to share your secrets when you come back," Consherra agreed guardedly.

  "If he comes back," Dveyella corrected her.

  "What do you mean?" Baressa asked anxiously, misunderstanding her.

  "I mean that if he works out as well as I expect, I might not be willing to let him go again," she explained. "I will still be shorthanded even when Baress comes back to work."

  No one was more surprised to hear her say that than Velmeran himself. He had already known that he had two futures for the choosing, but he considered that choice a purely personal and private one. He certainly did not consider it to be a matter of contention between two and possibly three factions aboard this ship.

  "Velmeran, is this what you want?" Baressa asked gently, startling him out of his own thoughts. He was surprised by her apparent concern for his desires.

  "Yes, I want it," he admitted slowly. "But I also want... what we talked about. I do not know which."

  "But you think you will be able to decide after you fly with Dveyella's pack this first time?" she inquired with the same gentleness, as if all she wanted was what pleased him most.

  "No, I doubt it," he admitted frankly. "That will only make it harder for me to decide. And yet I also know that I am not going to be able to decide until I do."

  Baressa considered that and nodded thoughtfully. "Do what you feel you must, and have faith that you have made the right choice."

  She turned to leave, but Consherra, nearly speechless with indignation, blocked her path.

  "What are you doing?" the first officer demanded. "You said that you were going to talk to him."

  "And so I did," Baressa answered impatiently as she forced her way past. "But I said nothing about coercing him to do what you want of him."

  "You know how much we need him," Consherra insisted.

  "Of course. But I also..."

  But I also believe that he will, in the end, do what is expected of him. Or so Velmeran finished for her in his mind, after her soft voice was lost beneath the music that his students were playing rather loudly, or perhaps, he realized, his conscience was only too willing to supply that answer, because he knew it to be true. Doing what he wanted might satisfy his desires, but doing what was expected of him, what he took to be his duty, satisfied his needs. And ultimately he wanted the future that would allow him to accomplish the most.

  "Is this your room?" Dveyella asked suddenly, glancing at the door to her right.

  "Yes, it is. Would you like to see?" Velmeran was quick to seize upon that as a chance to escape the others, if not his own thoughts.

  As Dveyella followed him into the cabin, she happened to see Consherra, still conferring hotly with the others, staring at her in sudden alarm. Resisting
the temptation to stick out her tongue, she ducked into the room quickly, stepping away from the door so that it would close.

  As pack leader, Velmeran had the largest room in the suite. As always, the small bed folded into the wall; Kelvessan did not sleep unless driven to the point of exhaustion. There were two large reclining chairs and a fairly large desk with a terminal for access to the ship's computers. As outside, the floor was carpeted and portions of the wood were trimmed with real wood. There were two suit racks near the bed, one holding his old armor while the other displayed the new. A small kitchen area was partially removed from the rest of the room by cabinets, a welcome luxury for a people who had to eat tremendously, while a bathroom and closets filled the wall adjacent to the bed.

  That was all standard, and Dveyella had seen its like on many ships. What did interest her were the things that he had done to make it his home. Curtains closed off an entire blank wall to the left of the door, suggesting that a large window lay beyond rather than a metal bulkhead. He had also brought in his own audio equipment, and enclosed shelves that contained his generous selection of books. A drawing table was mounted near the desk, so that she wondered if he had done the handful of paintings that hung about the room. One showed nine girls, obviously human, in some manner of archaic armor, each one bearing a spear, their golden capes flowing in the wind as they rode flying horses through a dark, stormy sky. Another depicted a dragon seated atop a mound of gold, glaring menacingly at a tiny figure that was so nearly invisible as to be just a vague shadow. Velmeran apparently liked fanciful subjects.

  "Do you like it?" Velmeran asked.

  "Yes, very much," she agreed. "It reminds me of why I wish that I had a home of my own."

  "And something that I would have to give up, if I went with you," he reflected thoughtfully.

  Dveyella turned to look at him. "Could you really leave, with so many people counting on you to become Commander-designate?"

  "I really do not know," Velmeran said, indicating for her to take one of the two large chairs. "I know that Mayelna plans to retire in twenty years, more or less. And that is a little soon for me. I think that I might be ready to command this ship in twenty years. And yet..."

  "Yes? What would you like most?" Dveyella prompted him when he hesitated.

  "I want to fly – I have to fly – for a time yet to come," he explained haltingly. "I would prefer to be Baressa's Commander-designate when she takes command of the Methryn after Mayelna retires. I would be her present age before she is ready to retire. But that would be asking too much."

  "Not at all," Dveyella insisted. "In fact, that sounds very good to me. This is what we should do. You fly with me this time. Then, if things work out and it is still what you want, we will get together with Baressa and Valthyrra and work out a deal."

  "Do you think that they would agree to that?"

  "I imagine so, as long as you are willing to return when Mayelna retires."

  Velmeran nodded thoughtfully. "Fair enough. But is that fair to you, that I should fly with you only twenty years?"

  Dveyella shrugged, unconcerned. "Twenty more years and I will be more than willing to retire from special tactics myself. Then we will return."

  Velmeran glanced up at her. "We?"

  "The Methryn seems like a good ship to retire to," she said quickly, reluctant to be too forward out of fear of frightening the boy. But that plan suited her very well indeed. She could have him entirely to herself, away from the Methryn and Consherra, for twenty yearsor until he grew up. The only remaining question was why she thought she needed him so much in the first place.

  Sector Commander Trace handed the message file to Councilor Lake and leaned back against the edge of his desk as he considered the problem. In his possession was one Starwolf, old but undamaged from his impact with a carrier, as well as one fighter that had not fared as well. A damaged fighter was unimportant; Union technicians could understand and appreciate Starwolf technology, but they could not reproduce it. They could build fighters that were a rough approximation of the black wolf ships, but no pilot could fly such a ship and even the best computer guidance systems were inadequate. He needed his own genetically engineered pilots. And he needed this captured Starwolf to show him how to make his own.

  "Sir?" the messenger prompted him gently.

  "Be patient, son," Donah Trace said. "It will take you a few days to overtake that carrier, so we can spare a few minutes to find the best answer."

  "Well, at least they showed more sense than I thought they would," the Councilor said as he shut the lid on the message file. "Not such a bad plan, actually. A very good plan, in fact, if you make the mistake of underestimating the abilities of the Starwolves."

  "But not good enough, since we're not going to make that mistake," Donalt answered, and struck the edge of the desk in frustration. "Damn! While they were trying to use their brains, why didn't they just stick him in this courier. He could have been right here now, in the one place in the entire sector where the Starwolves cannot get at him. Was that idea even mentioned?"

  "Yes, sir," the messenger admitted reluctantly, fearful of the Sector Commander's displeasure.

  "And there was, I suppose, some reason why that was not done?"

  "Yes, sir. It was felt that the five guards my courier can carry would not be enough to keep the prisoner under control. There was no military escort to protect my ship, and no cargo facilities for the wreckage of the fighter."

  "The fighter? That fighter is of no value to me. But no one has ever kept a five Starwolf." He paused and glanced shrewdly at his uncle. "If they are following at a discreet distance, is it most likely that they are using a silent beacon?"

  "Yes, that is a possibility," Lake agreed.

  "And such a beacon would be located on the ship rather than in the suit of the pilot?"

  "They do carry a distress beacon in both the ship and the suit, but those we know about. A secret tracking beacon, however... certainly in the ship. They could not hide a long-range beacon in the suit."

  "Then this is your message," Trace said as he turned back to the messenger. "Make your best time back to Bineck. The prisoner is to be transferred into your ship, along with two sentries and as many live guards as will fit. Then have the fighter put aboard a destroyer that is to make best speed for... shall we say the big sector shipyards at Karran? Do you have that? Do you need written orders?"

  The messenger shook his head. "Verbal will be enough, under the circumstances."

  "Good. Remember to say nothing of your orders over radio, since there may be ears you know nothing about."

  "Military escort, sir?"

  "Hell, no! You might as well broadcast your plans aloud! Your only hope is in secrecy and speed. Besides, the sector fleet couldn't save you if they want you bad enough. Hurry, now."

  The messenger saluted quickly and disappeared out the door of the Sector Commander's office. Donalt shook his head slowly at the stupidity of the human race in general and underlings in particular. Councilor Lake stood by the window, his hands in his pockets as he stared out across the underground city of Vannkarn. But his thoughts on the matter were plain enough. He was smiling as if at some private joke, amused with his own thoughts.

  "It's too late, you know," he remarked after a long moment.

  "Yes, I know that. These long delays in travel time are working against me. I've only just now found out what's going on, and for all I know it might already be over." Trace glanced over at him, irritated. "You don't have to look so damned pleased by it all."

  "I'm not exactly pleased," Lake answered. "I'm as frustrated as you to realize that we can never deal with Starwolves on their own terms. And yet, where Starwolves are concerned, I have learned to never be too hopeful or depend too much on luck."

  "They make their own luck," Trace said. "That is what I want for us."

  "You want your own Starwolves?" Lake asked, turning to look at him. "What if our people cannot duplicate their genetic design?"<
br />
  "Then we clone the one we have," Trace insisted.

  "We can surely tamper with his genetic material enough to make use of the information it contains to create our own viable race."

  Lake nodded thoughtfully. "Good idea. But what then? Will your new Starwolves serve you willingly?"

  "It's not a question of will. As long as we bring them up from the start without a thought in their head except for what we put there, they will be machines to serve us. But I can see that you don't like the idea of using real Starwolves."

  "I prefer that we learn how to make our own," the Councilor admitted. "Then we can order their obedience to our will. What if real Starwolves have some instinctive urge to fight us? You could find that your own weapon has turned against you."

  -7-

  The late morning sun hung just over the horizon far to the south. Summer was nearing its end and the long day would end with it, for the sun would soon fall below the edge of the world and not rise again for half a year.

  The northern polar region of the planet Bineck was in most ways like that of any other world where human life could dwell. Both poles were open ocean, bordered only in part by continents that lay mostly in warmer climates. Bineck was a cool world; even the equator was only temperate and the poles were bitterly cold even in the height of summer, with massive floes of thick ice. Nothing lived on those icy plains, not when the little life that did exist on that world struggled for survival in warmer regions. A few fish did swim below the ice but they were, in truth, only colonists, no more native to that world than the people who had planted them there.

  Three small ships shot down through the clear, cold sky through the very center of the magnetic pole, only a few hundred kilometers from the planetary axis. They fell with tremendous speed, nose down with their engines idling to hide them from scanner detection. The transport and two fighters descended wrapped only in the protection of their atmospheric shields, allowing them to move at tremendous speeds with little bother from atmospheric friction. They had begun their approach well outside detection range, building to speed and then drifting along a carefully plotted course that permitted them to complete their run without having to develop the engine power that would give their presence away, braking gradually with minimum reverse thrust.