Swords Above the Stars

by Roman Zlotnikov

  “A good death, the Eternal One would be impressed.” He shook his head and turned to Don Krushinka. “Have you noticed anything strange, old man?”

  The flagship captain grinned. “Well, that strange ship was so huge that it was hard not to notice.”

  “I’m not talking about that crappy ship.” Old Fart shook his head.

  Don Krushinka stared at him.

  “Remember what they did when they blew up the first ship?” continued the old don.

  “Nothing,” replied Don Krushinka cautiously, still not understanding where this was heading.

  “That’s right,” confirmed Old Fart, lifting a finger in admonishment. “And when the last scout ship moved towards a collision course?”

  Don Krushinka shuddered as if someone had punched him in the temples.

  “My God! There were no Scarlet Princes!”

  The old Don nodded. “That is perhaps the most important thing we have learned from this raid.”

  Yv, dumbfounded, rubbed his face. Incredible! Until now, the Scarlet Princes had been present as senior commanders at every battle. Even the captain of a ship which was carrying out a solo flight was certainly commanded by a Scarlet Prince, and now we have an entire squadron without even one in command...

  There could be no other explanation. No Scarlet Prince would allow so many mistakes to be made and would never allow a successful maneuver to be repeated twice. On the basis of past experience, it was safe to assume that if a Scarlet Prince was on Outpost, it would always be in command in a fight, or flying out to meet on that monster ship, or fly directly from Outpost. Everything they knew about the Scarlet Princes screamed this out loud. So, most likely, there were none on Outpost. Yv closed his eyes at the prospect. In any event, despite unpleasant surprises in the form of a monster ship, they still had a chance.

  Part IV

  THE BATTLE

  1

  There was a feeling that the air was still full of the echoes of a majestic melody. Perhaps it was the sound of the leaves on the trees, or the tree trunks themselves continuing to vibrate in unison, filling everything around with inaudible sounds that were felt through the skin or the stomach.

  Don Krushinka rose from his knees and put on his hat. For his entire life, organ music had left him in awe. To this day, his heart couldn’t accept that a sound of such power and splendor could be created by just one person and not a whole orchestra.

  Such sensitivity, in his opinion, was inappropriate for an old soldier—and a rugged admiral, but realistically, during his long life, Don Krushinka had to understand that this was not his worst shortcoming. Looking around at the faces of the kneeling dons, he could truthfully, once again, console himself that he was not the only person here who was shedding a tear.

  Finally, silence fell above the huge forest valley where the dons had gathered together for the funeral Mass. The foliage frozen, and the birds, deafened by the powerful sound of the organ had not yet renewed their chirping. Don Krushinka sighed and turned to the field altar. Padre Ngomo smiled at him; his bright white teeth shone from his black face. Nearby Friar Smith slowly extinguished some thick, twisted candles.

  “Thank you, Father,” Don Krushinka nodded. “It was a wonderful service. Brother Lame Rhino would have appreciated it.” He sighed. “Of course, if he could have attended his own funeral service.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. I enjoyed it myself.” The padre again stretched his lips into a smile and slipped on the hood of his robe over his slightly overlong tonsure. Unlike the militant orders of monks or semi-official Vatican clergy, who always depilated their tonsure, he was content with the usual electric shaver. “You know, I used my notes that I put together for Serrated Blade’s funeral service, but I don’t remember that Mass as well as I would like, so I was a little worried this time. However, I don’t think I have ever celebrated a Mass in front of such a large crowd of people before, and this time I felt an unprecedented inspiration. So, this time everything went well.”

  Don Krushinka waved him off good-naturedly. The dons were already rising from their knees and noisily moving off to their ships or shuttles. Judging by the dons’ loud voices, the Mass had been appreciated by everyone. The padre swept them with a paternal gaze, then nodded and headed for his ship, the Big Trouble. He was not only a spiritual person, but the gunner on this frigate and Friar Smith was the chief engineer on the Lame.

  Don Krushinka shrugged and felt again as if his shoulders were bending under the weight of an invisible burden. The strange feeling of despair that had tormented him last week came over him once again.

  It was more likely that it had all started much earlier, just before he plunged himself into work and had no time to look around and listen to his own feelings, so as soon as he was under less pressure ...

  He walked slowly toward the far edge of the forest where a huge log cabin rose up three floors with a roof covered in shingles. It was the field headquarters, built in four days by hundreds of Dons gathered together from all the ships, who during their hard, military service had, for whatever reasons, become master carpenters.

  On the second floor, in a tiny little room, which was considered his office, Don Krushinka squeezed along the wall to a table, kicked back a planed bench, and turned on a mobile console. On the screen appeared a man on duty at headquarters.

  Don Krushinka sighed and muttered, “Where is Old Fart?”

  “He went to wet his throat.”

  Don Krushinka frowned. According to his calculations, there was no more than a week left prior to departure. So much remained to be done, and his acting chief of staff ...

  Then he shook his head, angry at himself, asking himself what was he whining about? In the end, Old Fart had done nothing to be reproached for. He did all that was required of him, and recently, when Don Krushinka had been overcome with depression, he had done even more.

  “What’s new?”

  The man on duty shrugged. “Do you want the latest update?”

  “Let me have it,” sighed Don Krushinka again.

  “Into memory or on screen?”

  “Put it on screen but be quick.”

  The face of the man on duty disappeared, and lines of information quickly ran against a blue background. Don Krushinka didn’t concentrate on them. He didn’t need the information on every ship. It was enough to aggregate the data on the level of the readiness of the squadrons and the fleet in general. After the information upload finished, with a few clicks, the old don put together all the data into a table and focused on the numbers. For all five squadrons, the level of readiness was about sixty percent. Experience told him that by the time of departure, it could reach ninety per cent, but then falter. If they had another month or two, or even a year, still they would not achieve one hundred percent readiness. So, everything was going fine.

  In reality, he was not even hoping for such a figure. To be completely honest, Don Krushinka was somewhat surprised at Tera’s generosity.

  During the last month, nearly seven hundred thousand tons of equipment and materials had been delivered to the temporary base of the don’s fleet. Also, the deliveries were made not only to ships that had been hired officially but also to those who were with them, hoping for the law of ‘live prize.’ When he mentioned this to his ‘old lady’, Sandra smiled.

  “My girl said that if they really want to die free, they should at least rest in freshly painted coffins.”

  Don Krushinka, as he remembered, shook his head in disagreement.

  “As far as I know, you have problems with the high command of the fleet, and with the Peers. Do you think it’s a good idea to annoy them and also incur cost overruns? My guys have ordered so much that the noise and sound of ships over the forest goes on around the clock. For many, this is their first chance for repairs in ten years, and here the material and equipment are for free, so the people are working up a sweat. I think we are lightening the royal treasury quite nicely.”

  Sandra pursed her lips t
ogether tightly.

  “That is our concern, my Whiskered One.” She paused and added, in a suddenly bitter tone, “We have staked everything on this. If we recapture Outpost, then everything will be forgiven, if not ... I’m afraid we will have a new queen.”

  Don Krushinka sighed and turned off the screen. What was happening to him? It would seem that he should be happy. Only Sandra knew how depressed he had been all these years in the situation of a favorite pet under a powerful noble. It was true, all the courtiers and hangers-on, running around Sandra’s court quickly realized that he was not a little dog, but rather a full-grown wolfhound and that he may not like them flirting with men, as was acceptable in their circles.

  Everybody was finally convinced after another failed assassination attempt, during which Sandra was badly injured and he went berserk. He tracked down the assassins and literally chopped two dozen people into pieces.

  At the time, all the news programs showed Don Krushinka leaving from the trattoria in which he had caught the conspirators. with a bestial face, a burn mark from a ray gun to his side, and a coating of dried blood around his wildly glowing eyes.

  Since then very few dared to approach him if Sandra wasn’t present. To some extent, his reputation played into their hands. He was seen as nothing more than a guard dog. However, despite all of Sandra’s efforts, he was overcome by a wild longing.

  Even when he was involved in the revival of the power of the fleet of the kingdom, spending days and days poring over drawings of ships and fortresses, and on a new version of the rules of engagement for the fleet, this feeling would not leave him.

  All that changed when they entrusted him with the recruitment of the new fleet! It was as if at least a hundred years had fallen from his shoulders. All the illnesses, which had plagued him over the last year, disappeared without a trace, and when he learned that his contract was, in essence, the salvation for the ranks of the noble dons, he felt in seventh heaven.

  However, the closer it came to the decisive day, the more he moped. Why? It was not for fear of The Enemy. Don Krushinka had wiped out plenty of trolls with his famous axe, and once even managed to take out a Kazgarot.

  When had this noble don feared the good fight? He had no fear for his life. He had lived a long life and made enough meritorious deeds to quietly stand before the Lord, all the more so if he was destined to fall in battle against the unholy army.

  Of course, now he would like to live longer. After all, he had a family, a wife, and a daughter, Tera ... he really thought of her as his daughter, no more no less... even if he rarely heard expressions of gratitude from her ... even blood-related children are not always affectionate towards their parents.

  He had every reason to be proud of his daughter. How many fathers could boast that? Even this was not a reason to fear for his own skin, especially since in the upcoming battle his position was perhaps the safest in the entire fleet. Any fleet is careful to save its admiral and to get to them, The Enemy would have to first pass through a dense system of five hundred ships, which would not be easy meat for their wicked teeth. So, what was the matter, then?

  Don Krushinka sighed again. Maybe it was the responsibility? On more than one occasion he had stood as the leader of fleets, on which the fate of kingdoms and republics had depended, but he had still never commanded such a fleet before, and never before had the lives and futures of those whom he considered his family depended upon his efforts.

  The door swung open, and Old Fart appeared on the threshold. Noticing Don Krushinka’s penetrating gaze, he smiled good-naturedly and barely managed to squeeze his voluminous belly in the remaining space in the small room, where there was not even enough room for one person.

  Old Fart’s appearance exactly matched his latest nickname. Fat, with bushy gray eyebrows, a ragged gray beard, and dry, wrinkled skin. However, the young Dons, who saw before them a mangy old grouch, often ended up looking ridiculous and stupid, because they did not know that he used to be known as Bulldog Jaw, and he didn’t get the nickname for his appearance alone.

  “Well, old man, are you still worried about something?”

  Don Krushinka looked at him askance. “We have a maximum of a week, but the squadron—”

  Old Fart did not let him finish. “So what? What are you so bothered about? This is no ordinary situation we have here, so even if you take the problem by the throat, you still won’t get any further on. We are dons! Every captain knows what is expected of him. Everyone is doing everything possible to make sure his ship makes it back from this scrap in one piece. Do you doubt it?”

  “That may be so, but ...”

  Old Fart waved him away. “You can make things easier.”

  Don Krushinka stared at him.

  “Set the departure date.” Old Fart shrugged.

  Don Krushinka was thoughtful, then shook his head slowly.

  “I can’t. The departure date will be decided by the headquarters of the fleet of the kingdom.”

  “What do the headquarters decisions have to do with you?” Old Fart shook his head stubbornly. “Their business is to develop a plan, set a date, a time, and a rendezvous point. When we leave this planet is completely down to you. Then the captains will know how much time they still have left, and you can stop annoying everybody with your sour ugly mug. I’m already tired of telling the captains that you simply have stomach cramps.”

  Don Krushinka stared at him, puzzled, then laughed aloud. When he stopped laughing, Old Fart grunted and rose from the bench. “Well, what do I tell the squadron?”

  Don Krushinka reflected a moment. “Announce that the launch day will be,” he brought a calendar up on screen, “the fifteenth, in exactly one week, but everything should be ready by the morning of the fourteenth. I think it is worth holding another Mass for the granting of our victory.

  Old Fart nodded.

  “Good, then if we are lucky, we will greet Christmas with a victory!” He took a step toward the door but paused and casually said, “Don’t you think that we are not really trusted here? A few people came to me. Red Faced, Ragged Ear, even some of the veterans. They want to draw up their own plan just in case.” he made a frivolous gesture with his fingers. “I take it that you don’t object?”

  Don Krushinka froze. It smacked of betrayal. At the same time, he knew that something like this couldn’t do any harm. In the end, it was The Enemy invasion ten years ago that pushed Karsaven to rebellion.

  “I would like to look at your notes. It would suit me if, say, I accidentally stumbled upon them on my desk.”

  Old Fart nodded and walked out the door. Don Krushinka still sat there, staring into space, then pulled himself together. In the end, it wasn’t easy for the girls either, and he could do nothing to help them but to honestly fulfill his share of the work.

  Besides, he suddenly felt the oppressive sense of hopelessness leave him somehow. From the side of the console, there was the sound of an incoming call. Don Krushinka shrugged and turned back to the screen. It was time to put an end to his worries and get back to work. He pressed a button and Beer Keg’s face came up on the screen.

  “Hi, Admiral!” He smiled, though a little stiffly. “We are already in the system, and, I swear by Saint Mafusail we will be in your neck of the woods in no later than seven hours’ time.”

  Don Krushinka’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “You were quick. I didn’t think that any ship, other than a courier was capable of such speed.” He shook his head and squinted slyly. “Maybe you have smuggled something from the Scarlet Princes?”

  Beer Keg grinned from ear to ear at this.

  “Well, aren’t you the joker! If you remember, we recently stayed at New City, and while we were there Stubborn Bull considerably emptied the Pope’s purse. That’s why he refused to take time for repairs. The repairs took very little time, and they managed to do it on a normal landing pad, without special equipment. I swear by Saint Jeremi, you look to be over your worries?” he added carefu
lly.

  Don Krushinka grinned through his mustache.

  “It is said that you have put together an alembic spirit still?”

  Beer Keg winked.

  “So what? Is it stipulated in your contract that we have to abstain from something strong before the operation starts?”

  “God, no,” laughed Don Krushinka. “How could I make such a demand from the noble dons, especially when they are on vacation, even at the public expense, as you are? I just thought it would not hurt the guys to help disperse any melancholy.”

  Beer Keg shook his head in amazement. Traditionally, during a raid or a search mission, ships enforced prohibition, as stipulated by contract from time immemorial, and preparation of the ship was considered part of the campaign.

  “So how do we ...”

  Don Krushinka waved him away.

  “I gave the order to finish all work by the morning of the fourteenth, so that we will have an evening and a day to relax and celebrate Mass.”

  Beer Keg nodded. “OK, we have time.” He thought for a moment, trying to figure out something in his head, then giggled, “I swear by Saint Brigita, every brother will get no less than a gallon, and many a head will ache in the morning ...” He looked off to the side. “Here’s the captain poking me in the back. He has some official information for you.”

  “OK, chatterbox, why did you speak to me first?”

  Beer Keg chuckled again.

  ‘Yes, Old Fart once mentioned that you grind your teeth for the slightest reason. So, I acted sort of like ... a lightning rod.” With these words, Beer Keg disappeared, and in his place on the screen appeared the skinny face and wedge-shaped beard of Stubborn Bull.

  “Message to the admiral from the Blasco Ninyas.”

  “The admiral is here.”

  “We have a message, encoded category A.”

  Don Krushinka squinted at the screen with access to the program and hit a few keys which switched the console to encryption mode. Then he turned to a corner of the desk and opened a steel box with a coating of kelimit, pulled out a crystal containing his personal code which he had received at the headquarters of the fleet, and stuck it into the receiver.