Adrienne Martine-Barnes
Page 2
“Would you rather boil in Krispin’s pot?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then trust me. Have I ever led you wrong?”
“There was that bar on Estra six years back. . . ” “And there was that party at the Fridian embassy when you got some mutant weed and started breaking up the place, and I had to haul your carcass out before the shore patrol arrived.”
“Fancy you remembering that. You were pretty smoky that night yourself. By your command. Here I go to attack the soft underbelly of the Coalchee Protectorate. This is so mad, it might work.”
“Thank you, friend ... for everything. And good hunting.”
Buschard gave him a hard stare, an eyebrow raised above the deep blue eyes, saluted and was gone. Gilhame watched him leave and stood staring at the portal after it closed. Listening to the tinny voice in his earpiece, he walked restlessly around the command center, peering over the shoulders of his technicians and speaking to some of them. He was aware that the original ur Fagon had never talked with his staff, and it amused him to see how his inexplicable camaraderie unnerved them. Fortunately, they were too well trained to remain distracted for long.
“Frikard!”
“Sir!” The man was beside him almost immediately.
“When Commander Buschard is away, I want the rest of the fleet in a sinister-wing formation. Put us across to 12D494.”
“Sir?”
“That’s right. I want to get ’em from behind.” He grinned his terrible grin. “Move it!”
Gilhame returned to the dias. Since his first disorientation, he had “found” many of the memories of his host body. Information was still coming in fits and starts, confused by fragments from other lives and times, but now, at least, he had full command of the military knowledge of the real ur Fagon. He realized that however unpleasant the man had been, he was an extremely brilliant and capable commander. At thirty-three he was young for his command, but Nelson had been young too. The thought puzzled him, for he could not recall who Nelson had been.
He used his computer again, ignoring, for the most part, the reports coming into his earpiece. Instead, he read the official biographies of Admiral Krispin, and his own principal staff—Buschard, Frikard, et al. Gilhame read rapidly, familiarizing himself with the habits and careers of the men who served under him. He sensed rather than saw Frikard’s approach some time later.
“Sir.”
“What is it, Ven?” In the four years that the able and admirable Frikard had served with the original ur Fagon, never once had the Admiral addressed him by his given name. Gilhame saw the slight look of surprise as he used it now unconsciously, and wished that “he” had not been quite such a platinum bastard.
“We are in position as commanded, sir. Their drive units are messing up their sensors; they don’t even know we are behind them. And, sir, Admiral Krispin is . . . here. He is very angry.”
“Good. Angry men make stupid mistakes. Hmm. I wonder if he would like to see the show? Put him in restraints uid have a security team bring him up here. Hand and leg restraints, Frikard. After we are engaged—which should he very soon.”
“About six minutes, sir.”
“1 suppose I’d better begin to pay attention now.” Gilhame yawned. “Do you know, space battles can be a dead bore? Are they into the minefield yet?”
“Yes, sir. Those new Sokull mines are playing hell with their fighters and light destroyers. Will you give the order to release our fighters from cold-sleep soon?”
“Soon, but not until the Coalchee are well into the asteroid belt. I don’t want to lose any more of our men to our own weapons than I must. A double-edged weapon, these prime-rhythm bombs. I wonder what kind of mind invented them? I’ll release the fighters as soon as we are engaged.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gilhame now listened to the earpiece and displayed the battle on his screen. Then they were upon the ships of the Coalchee fleet, torpedoing their drive units from behind and leaving them stalled in space.
The three-part battle unfolded as he watched. At one end of the line of battle his fighters darted in to engage the Coalchee that had survived the Sokull mines. About one third of their fighters and several of the smaller destroyers had been disabled; the Sokull mines continued their mindless slaughter of friend or foe, for there was no way known to allow a machine to distinguish the prime rhythm of one species from another. Individuals, yes; groups, no.
At his end of the battle line there was a kind of inexorable progress as his cruisers and destroyers attacked the Coalchee from the only position in which they were truly vulnerable. Then Buschard’s ships appeared, a sudden circle of colored lights almost at the midpoint of the Coalchee formation. They attacked the flagship’s escort, then surrounded it and used their tractor beams.
Gilhame laughed. It was a sudden, horrid, grating noise in the quiet room. He enjoyed the realization that he had thwarted Admiral Krispin’s plan to have his fleet spread out like decoys on a lake. Instead, it was cutting a superior force into manageable chunks and chewing it up.
Frikard, standing nearby, looked up at the sound. The old man sure wasn’t smoky, but he also seemed unlike himself. Frikard puzzled over this. He had fought a number of battles with ur Fagon, but he had never heard him laugh. He looked again at the cup of var and could see that it was almost untouched. The flacks would call it another “ur Fagon miracle.” The Admiralty would deplore ur Fagon’s unconventionality, as they always did. His men would shake their heads and say he was possessed of a demon. They always did. But at that moment, Frikard saw him as a man dispossessed. The idea vanished as the portal opened and the security team escorted Admiral Krispin onto the bridge.
Krispin hobbled in in the leg shackles. He was a big man, nearing his fiftieth year, a little soft in the middle and white at the temples of his red hair, but still powerful. His uniform had been torn at one shoulder during his capture, and the color of his face was an unlovely red.
“What is the meaning of this?” he roared at ur Fagon.
Gilhame stopped laughing and turned his head slowly to look down at Krispin. He smiled thinly. “I have brought you here to watch the destruction of your ally, Admiral.” He gestured towards his own screen and then pointed at one in Krispin’s view. “See? Even now my brave Buschard takes Group Commander E-varit’s ship in tow. Tell me, why did you sell out? Did you lose your nerve? Did they offer you rewards? Or did you think to placate them by my death? Pard got your tongue? Oh well, it will make interesting conjecture for my leisure hours.”
“Ally? Sell out? What the devil are you talking about, you curvant war-freak?”
An explosion shook the Black Dragon. It shuddered like a living thing but did not falter. The banner on the wall rustled, and the dragon on it seemed to stir, then settle.
The cup of var next to Gilhame’s arm rattled slightly. Then the room was still for a moment.
Frikard listened to his earpiece. “Only minor damage,
sir.”
“Good. It felt like the port docking bay.”
“Just so, sir.”
“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. My dear Admiral, it is obvious to even the meanest intelligence that you were either in league with E-varit or else your battle plan was a piece of the worst miscalculation since the Battle of Nerene. I will know for certain after I see Commander E-varit. Or dead-brain him. Whatever. It matters not. Somehow, I don’t think he will defend you.”
All the color had drained from Krispin’s face. “I’ll see you broken.”
“Vragado, mere vragado. You won’t see anything but the exile world—if you’re lucky; or a penal cell, if you are not. The Diet is rather abrupt with traitors, not to mention His Imperial Majesty. Of course, I will submit the whole matter to the Imperial Adjudicator’s office. Hmm. The fun appears to be over. Yes, the remnants are running. I wonder what kind of a reception they will get at home? I don’t think it will be pleasant. Do you have any casualty figures yet, Frikard?”
“Yes. Rather well. How many dead?”
“Dead, sir?” That was a statistic ur Fagon commonly demanded, and Frikard always hated giving it. The Admiral often took the loss of men as a personal affront, and Frikard feared a little the rage that followed casualty figures. “More than two thousand, so far. The Healers are pretty busy.”
“Make certain they get posthumous recompense and are in my dispatches. That number comes out of the Krispin levy before the Imperium takes its pound of flesh. What shall we call this one, Frikard? You did most of the work. You name it.”
Frikard’s angular face turned a curious pink. Several of the technicians nearby were unabashedly eavesdropping on the conversation. “Thank you, sir, but I couldn’t.” “Name it!”
“Yes, sir. The Battle of the Vardar Straits, then, if you will.”
Vardar Straits? Good, very good. The minstrels can do something with that, can’t they? We must never forget the poets, Ven. They keep us alive long after we are dust. Have that piece of dogshit taken back to the brig. Buschard will bring E-varit—unless he is dead—aboard. Have him piped on board with full honors. For the moment, he is our guest, not our prisoner.”
“I see, sir.”
“Bring him to my quarters. I want you there; Commander Buschard; Colmeni; that psycho-historian—what’s her name—Darkcut? And get a Witness.”
“Yes, sir.” At a wave from Frikard, the security team left with Krispin.
Gilhame saw the question in his second’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I have not lost my mind. Have some durek sent up— fruit, cheese. I want it to be a very cozy little luncheon. What do the Coalchee like to drink? I seem to remember they have a fondness for Rurian wine, but I doubt we have any on board. I have some Grentarian brandy in my quarters, but that would hardly be appropriate under the circumstances, would it?”
“No, sir.” Admiral Krispin was a native of Grentar. “Tell me, do we have any of that Nabat elixir?”
“Medic Vraser might have some, sir. I’ll ask.”
“Fine. If he does, invite him too. I won’t take a man’s wine without sharing it with him. Besides, he is a truth-seer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Let’s make it dressy and formal. Full-kit for all our people. You seem bewildered, Frikard.”
“No, sir.”
“You are a very poor liar.” Gilhame grinned, and
Frikard found that the sight became less disquieting with familiarity. “There are many ways to deal with an enemy, Ven. One of the best is confusion. If the Emperor ever gives me a patent, that might be my motto: Confusion to the enemy. And what better way to befuddle Group Commander E-varit than to be kind to him when he is expecting just the opposite?”
“Very good, sir.” Frikard found himself smiling back at ur Fagon and nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed it. He spoke into his headset and began arranging the Admiral’s little “party.”
Chapter II
In the end, it was rather a large party. Frikard, sensitive to mood in an almost feminine manner, received the defeated Coalchee Group Commander as he would have greeted an admiral of his own navy. The inclusion of two additional guests, A-gurit, Captain of E-varit’s flagship, and an unnamed Havassit priest nonplussed him only a moment. He lead them to quarters where they could wash up and gave them an opportunity to regain some composure before taking them to ur Fagon, though it was debatable that any Havassit was ever discomforted. Certainly Frikard had never heard of any such incident.
When the portal opened, Frikard saw the Admiral. He was standing next to the psycho-historian, Darkcut, his midnight head bent down to catch the tiny woman’s words. Principal Medic Vraser, in the deep blue uniform of the Healers, was smoking a large pipe and staring at ur Fagon’s narrow back. Buschard had found time to bathe and change into his dress whites, his hair still damp so that its golden color was deeper. In one corner of the room, Culmeni, Frikard’s executive officer, was tuning his harp. As he shepherded his charges in, Buschard gave him a glance and a shrug. Neither of them could recall such a gathering under ur Fagon’s command. But then, ur Fagon never behaved as one expected. It was what made serving under him such a challenge.
Gilhame ur Fagon turned in mid-sentence to greet them.
He observed the three men with Frikard, quirked an eyebrow and stepped forward. “Ah, our guests. Do come in, gentle—persons,” he ended in deference to the unknown sex of the Havassit priest. When dealing with a race which has four distinct sexes, the neuter is always politic.
The Admiral looked at the newcomers. The Coalchee were fairly typical of their race: white-haired, pale-skinned and white-lashed around their nearly triangular eyes, short and stocky. Their home world was dim and watery, and they were light-sensitive, so the illumination in the room was low. Ur Fagon knew they counted family before self, clan before family and the state above all; that they built their cities near the sea whenever possible; and practiced the curious custom of salting the bodies of their dead for burial. He felt a slight sadness at the thought of their battle casualties, blasted to bits by the Sokull mines, dead with no chance for the careful rituals they believed would carry them to the Coalchee afterworld. Heaven and hell were mere philosophical concepts to the Dragon, but he had a deep respect for the concepts, harboring a deep suspicion that there was something beyond Glass Castle, if he could only find the way.
E-varit and A-gurit stood stiffly, formally rigid, their short statures emphasized by the taller Kardusians. Only the psycho-historian would greet them at eye-level. But ur Fagon sensed they were righteous fellows, men he could like, and felt a spurt of anger that chance should make them his adversaries.
He indulged in a brief, bitter thought about that ludicrous document, the Ten Nations Compact, and all its foolish predecessors, treaties which made liars of honorable men. All the Compact achieved was limited wars. That it had arisen from the hard necessity of the chaos following the collapse of a dozen or more space-going cultures after the curthel invasions did not lessen his cynicism, for the Compact was a marvel of political expediency and special interests. The Coalchee had gotten a very small piece of the pie, and they wanted and needed a larger one. Their preference for cool, watery worlds and an expanding population made it a necessity. This did not explain why they should fight in the Vardar Straits. He hoped to find an answer to that question before the end of the meal.
Gilhame passed from his study of the Coalchee to the priest. The Havassit had the appearance of a stripling male, long hair caught back by clips, beardless, flat— almost invisible—nose, soft brown eyes and generous mouth. The marks on his robe proclaimed him a priest of the second degree, putting his age at seventy-plus. The Havassit were a complete contradiction to him, the smallest of the Ten Nations and the most powerful. They were so powerful that they maintained no navy and remained unscathed. Every fifty years or so, some ambitious admiral would go renegade and try to take a Havassit planet. They would simply vanish—ships, men, everything. There was never even debris. The Havassit were psychics of a high order, traveled everywhere as priests and were widely held to be wizards. Ur Fagon had a not very vague suspicion that they could tell him the answer to the riddle which was himself, but would never do so.
“Group Commander E-varit. I am Admiral ur Fagon.”
“I am not unfamiliar with your countenance. This is Captain A-gurit.”
“Captain.” They bowed formally.
“And this is Lepus con Gessar of the Sceni sect on Harva.”
“Your Reverence.” More bows. “You have already met Commanders Frikard and Buschard. This is Lieutenant Darkcut. Kessie—Group Commander E-varit, Captain A-gurit, Reverend con Gessar; Principal Medic Farren Vraser and Captain Tchan
Culmeni. Why don’t we all sit down?”
Frikard glanced around the room. In the corner he saw the hooded form of an official Witness of the Imperial Adjudicator’s Office, with the rod and recorder of its position. The shapeless robe of the Witness made it impossible to guess sex, age or anything else. Then he looked at the table.
The long board was covered with a red cloth on which golden dragons danced and capered. Frikard knew that the thing had been embroidered by the Woman of Dalari after the Battle of Kremore, but he had never seen it in use before. What other little surprises did ur Fagon have in store? Bowls of floating flowers and platters of fruits, vegetables and cheeses were placed along the table. Even in the dim light, the multicolored crystal glasses and plates seemed to shine.
Vraser arose stiffly and limped over to the table, his hip joint shattered beyond the Healers’ art. Culmeni set aside his harp, and the rest of the party moved hesitantly towards the table.
Admiral ur Fagon took his place at the top of the board and waved Commander E-varit to his right and Captain A-gurit to his left. Lieutenant Darkcut sat beside E-varit, with Buschard on her other side, and the priest took his place at the far end of the table. As it was a meal, Vraser, the Medic, took precedence over the other officers and sat next to A-gurit, leaving Frikard and Culmeni to fill in that side of the table. The empty chair beside Buschard seemed to gape at them.
When they were all seated, ur Fagon asked in a quiet voice, “Reverend, will you bless the board?”
The priest looked at him for a moment with his liquid brown eyes, then began. “Here is quietude. Here is stillness. May the food on this table sustain our bodies and the essence of sanctity sustain our spirits through all eternity.” The calm center of the priest’s blessing touched everyone with the Havassit gift.
“Thank you, Your Reverence. Some wine, Captain. We have durek, Nabat elixir and Kathian wine.” Gilhame, after an exchange of glances with Kessie Darkcut, turned his full attention to E-varit’s flag captain. She smiled and offered some wine to the Group Commander. She, alone of the people in the room, was as diminutive as the Coalchee, and E-varit found himself looking directly into her eyes. After what seemed to him to have been hours of craning his neck up to converse with giants, he found her attention and friendly gaze curiously restful.