Counter-Measures

by W. Michael Gear

  Chrysla tasted blood, aware that she'd bitten through her lip. Now, shaken and jittery, she bent to the task of wrapping Mac's vacuum-puffy hands.

  "Mac?" she whispered. "Are you going to live for me? Damn it, live for me! "

  She was still talking when Josh appeared at her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze before he began inflating casts around Mac's legs and arms.

  "All right, Lady. We'll move the wounded to the launch now. You can sit with MacRuder and the others, monitor them for us. Pen and I have to transport the bodies across. "

  Chrysla glanced at him, seeing the compassion in his eyes. "Better to have Pen sit with them. She's more competent than I in a medical emergency. I'll help you with the dead, Corporal First."

  Respect grew in his eyes. "Very well, Lady."

  To remove the wounded, Pen had cut a hole in the LCs hull on the rotation axis. One by one, they removed the flight crew, MacRuder, and the single soldier from the assault deck.

  Chrysla worked woodenly, not quite accustomed to the sense of falling but unwilling to let herself get sick. Somehow, as she stared into the faces of the dead, the weakness of vertigo paled in comparison to the loss of these brave friends: Red, his head smashed flat. Viola Marks, eyes bugged from decompression. Hansen, frozen tongue protruding. Vendet, pupils glazed ice-gray from the cold. Richmond, streaks of flaking blood crisscrossing his face like a web. And all the rest of A Group.

  Chrysla had trained with them, earned their respect. And now these friends had become broken shells of rapidly freezing meat and bone.

  As she struggled with stiff limbs, levering the bodies around the damaged LC, Chrysla swore to herself. Ily and Arta are going pay for this. By the quanta, I swear, I'll find them.

  "Who are they?" Arta Fera asked as she watched the monitor which depicted the pursuing yacht.

  Ily sat in the command chair, the worry-cap covering her head. Through the ship's speaker, she replied, "Who do you think, Arta? Who would have commandeered a Regan vessel, especially one with those performance characteristics, to run us down?"

  " It couldn't be." Arta shot a sly glance at Ily's reclined form. "She wasn't well enough, Ily. When I handed her to you, she had no more resistance than cirrus in vacuum. Besides, that wouldn't explain how she could know we left Terguz for Ashtan, or that we'd taken the CV instead of Victory. "

  The worry-cap hid Ily's expression. "Nevertheless, I can feel her. Intuition.

  It's Skyla. "

  Arta returned her attention to the holo tank which plotted their vector as well as the pursuer's. "From these data, she'll overtake us before jump. What then? You've told me that yacht of Tedor Mathaiison's mounts two heavy guns.

  Are you planning on shooting it out?"

  " 1 suppose you have another alternative? Stopping to parley? Perhaps an offer to bed one of them, if he's a man?" A pause. "I think not. We need to shoot, kill them if possible, or at least slow them down until we can make the jump.

  Once in null singularity, we're safe."

  " You're assuming we can last that long." Arta ran slim fingers through her gleaming wealth of auburn hair. "They do have better targeting data than we do. "

  "But we have something they don't . . . a CV. Also, unlike them, we have something else they don't have. Desperation. I have been figuring the targeting based on their current tra ectory. I'm taking one chance, Arta. As soon as they are in range, I'm taking a shot at them.

  Immediately after that, I'm pushing us to whatever acceleration is necessary to outrun them. You will need to prepare yourself. The ride may be unpleasant."

  Arta studied her companion through slitted eyes. "And if we overload the reactor? Won't we go up like a small sun? "

  Ily chuckled, the sound of it tinny as the speaker sought to cope with the odd phonemes. "Then we'll die, Arta. The advantage is that we'll die quickly ...

  and free. Or would you rather surrender and allow Skyla to twist her revenge out of you? She's never struck me as a forgiving person."

  Arta propped herself on straight arms as she stared into the tank. The familiar thrill had begun to warm her guts. "Race them, Ily. Give it all we've got. " She threw her head back, smiling to herself. "Just get us into the jump."

  "I plan on it."

  "Yes, I'm sure you do." Delight danced in the amber depths of her eyes. "I have a feeling, Ily. Deep in my guts, I know you'll pull us through. Then all we need is a simple revectoring and I have a man awaiting my caress."

  "Already have him in bed, do you?"

  Arta's melodic laughter filled the cramped bridge. "Oh, Ily, I'm not even slightly worried about that. I'm just not sure how I want to kill him. For someone as important to us as the professor, and what he can give us once we reach Itreata, I need to have a special way of killing him. Something a psychologist can savor and study as he dies."

  Sinklar reclined in one of the form-contouring chairs aboard the assault craft that carried him and Staffa to an orbital rendezvous with Chrysla.

  Something like a thousand loose ends had to be taken care of prior to shipping from Targa. At the same time, Myles Roma had shifted from one impossible assignment to another. Where once he'd raced the clock to develop and modify software for the Formosan project, now he struggled to investigate the effects of the Mag Comm's growing influence in Free Space.

  The machine now dominated its up-link to the stars, filling the subspace net with requests for data; it had begun the task of coordinating the economies.

  The transition had proceeded more smoothly than Sinklar would have believed.

  But then, both of the Empires had been used to taking orders by computer. The future appeared a little less grim for the first time since the Myklenian conquest.

  Provided the Mag Comm had told Staffa the truth. "Such a pensive look," Staffa noted as he settled in the next seat. The haggard desperation had been replaced on Staffa's features with a look of simple fatigue.

  "Trying to put things into perspective, that's all," Sinklar answered. "And, of course, I'm hoping we made the right decision about the Mag Comm."

  Staffa flipped his ponytail off of his left shoulder, lingering doubt in his gray eyes. "We'll know within a month of modifying Countermeasures. If the Mag Comm breaks the Forbidden Borders, as it has claimed it will do, we've nothing to worry about. If, on the other hand, nothing happens, we'll be spacing for Targa again . . . to level the mountains. The machine knows. I made it perfectly clear."

  "Time to put up, shut up, or fold the tapa hand?" "Exactly." Staffa gave him a critical appraisal. "Incidentally, you did a good job down there while I was dealing with the machine. I want you to know how much I appreciate you taking over a lot of the duties."

  Sinklar gave him a crooked smile. "It happens every time I set foot on Targa.

  "

  Staffa steepled his fingers. "Would you be willing to take over more? A great many things are going to occupy us now. We're the government for Free Space.

  Granted, the Mag Comm can coordinate the economies, but governing is more than production, distribution, and consumption. Politics, as usual, will attempt to rear its ugly head as the Administrators recover their balance and seek to restore their power. We can't afford to go back to the old ways-whether the machine can break the Forbidden Borders or not."

  "What did you have in mind? I mean, you've got it all now, where are you going?"

  "Enfranchisement for the people." Staffa resettled himself, a frown deepening on his forehead. "The time has come for the people to take responsibility for themselves. The question is, Sinklar, how do we implement that? How do we fashion a society where the people must take control of their destinies? The original lure of the despot is to promise the people that in return for power, he'll solve all of their problems. "

  "No one has ever created a people's government. As a student of human history, I know it simply has never happened. " Sinklar spread his arms wide. "Perhaps it's an impossibility, Staffa. Perhaps it's bred into us. Even the an
cient history book had one picture after another of war. Our nature might be to lead and follow, not to share either responsibility or power." He made a face. "I wish I could have read that book. Not just looked at the pictures. Maybe the answer is suggested by some fact from our past. "

  "Maybe. " Staffa's expression appeared smug.

  In the ever present comm monitor, Chrysla had appeared, pristine and beautiful in the light of Targa's sun.

  After a pause, Sinklar asked, "You haven't mentioned the Others, Staffa. What about them? What if they move against us when the Forbidden Borders go down?

  Have you given any thought to that possibility?"

  He nodded, eyes on the starship they were approaching. "We're charting a course through unknown space, Sinklar. First we must reach equilibrium with the Mag Comm. Perhaps, if we can come to a balanced relationship with that intelligence, the Others will perceive of us as less of a threat. Then again, they may not."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "For one thing, I'm planning on having ships ready to go. I want people out there as soon as possible. We've a whole universe to explore. Now, assuming the Mag Comm can break the Forbidden Borders, I want humans ready to burst through the hole, heading in all directions as fast as they can. There's no going back, Sinklar. This time we've got to have them organized, ready to survey, report, and explore. "

  "A pressure relief." "Pardon me?"

  "Pressure relief. Just like a valve in a reactor cooling tower. If the pressure builds up, the system starts to boil.

  If too much fluid boils, it explodes and the reactor goes critical and melts down. A pressure relief valve allows the excess to bleed off before things go critical. That's the lesson, Staffa. The Forbidden Borders haven't allowed the pressure to bleed off. Instead, the only bleeding was done by humans when we reached our carrying capacity inside this trap."

  "I couldn't have said it better myself." Staffa smiled. "And now you know why I struck my deal with the Mag Comm. If it can break us out, we're all safe, Sinklar. Oh, individual planets may still have problems with despots, but humanity as a whole can move to new territory when the pressures build. We no longer need face only the options of death and adaptation. Now we can move, find new suns, exploit new planets and asteroids.

  "And perhaps we can learn to avoid the frequencies the Others sing on."

  They had closed on the mighty battleship, the assault craft settling into the warship's belly as bay doors slid back to expose the garishly lit AC deck.

  "Hope? Is that what we're discussing here so innocently? " Sinklar wondered, his thoughts turning to memories of the planet below them. Ghostly images of Hauws, Gretta, Butla Ret, and so many others now dead lingered in his mind.

  I was insane the last time I left Targa. And this time? How far have I come?

  Grapples sent thumps and shivers through the vessel as it came to rest in its dock. Even through the insulated hull, the whining of the bay doors could be heard while metal screeched and hydraulics hissed.

  "Job well done," Staffa praised to the assault craft's comm. To Sinklar, he added, "And now, if you'll accompany me to my quarters, we'll drink a toast to success, check the comm for messages, and if we find no incipient disasters, we'll take time for a rest while we space for Itreata. "

  "Check for messages. You mean from Skyla?" Sinklar gave him a slow smile.

  "You've been worried, haven't you? "

  Staffa nodded, taking the lead as he walked back to the hatch, saluting crew people on the way. "She wasn't well

  when she left. Kaylla has had flags out all over the system to keep an eye out for trouble."

  "She would have called about something serious" wouldn't she?"

  "Those were my instructions. Skyla knew we were on Targa. I think . . . yes, she would have called. She understood that I wouldn't have interfered unless she wanted me to." Staffa leaned his head back. "She would have. She would . .

  . "

  "Staffa," Sinklar soothed as they passed the hatch into Chrysla's warm interior. "She's not in trouble. And if she were, we'd have heard something."

  Sinklar smiled. "It's just a hunch, mind you, and I don't really know the lady, but I suspect that she'd make a hell of an impact if she ran into trouble. We'd be feeling the repercussions."

  "Maybe." They entered the lift, and Staffa instructed it to take them to his deck. "But then, I didn't merit more than a whisper when I sank out of sight on Etaria. "

  "She's not you. She's planet wise. Born and raised in the hard section of Sylene, wasn't she? She's no iazaceat, Staffa. From what you told me, you were. "

  The lift doors opened and let them into the corridor leading down to Staffa's heavy double locks.

  Inside Staffa's personal quarters, the huge fireplace still sat, framed on both sides by the big Ashtan doors. Staffa pointed to the dispenser. "Pour us two glasses of your favorite. While you do that, I'll start going through the communications.

  "'Affirmative." Sinklar walked to the dispenser, grabbed two drinking bulbs from the case, and opted for Asthan single malt.

  When the bulbs were filled, he passed through the left Ashtan door and into Staffa's office. He handed one to his father while he pulled up a gravchair and settled into it.

  Staffa was checking off routine reports, okaying actions taken by Tap, Tasha, and Kaylla.

  Then the screen formed into a familiar face. Angry fire gleamed in those amber eyes, passion adding color to that perfect skin. Sinklar cursed as he came warily to his feet. "Arta Fera, pus eat your miserable soul."

  "Fera?" Staffa asked, pressing the play button. "Or Chrysla? "

  "It's the eyes. Look at her. Notice the emotion boiling . "Staffa? This is Chrysla. You'll receive this on delay because of the dilation. We're moving at 0.8 C, revectoring to try and match with Wing Commander Lyma.

  "I hope everything is proceeding satisfactorily with the Seddi machine. I once heard the Praetor talk of the Mag Comm. It has extraordinary powers. In the meantime, you should be aware of several things.

  "First, Ily Takka and Arta Fera are currently being pursued by Wing Commander Lyma and her assistant. At present, Takka and Fera are fleeing in a CV on vector zero seven four by one one five by three four one. According to Rysta, the vector plot would seem to indicate that Ily is making for Riparious. We believe that if she escapes Skyla, she'll drop back in, revector, and choose another destination.

  "Second, Ily and Arta landed on Ashtan, disguised, and had some sort of dealings with a geneticist there. Arta murdered him in her usual way. She also murdered the CV pilot on the orbital terminal. As part of their escape, they routed their stolen freighter toward Imperial Sassa. Gyton went in pursuit of the freighter while Wing Commander Lyma chased the CV.

  "Staffa, the freighter was a decoy. Mac tried to . . . She closed her eyes, lips working as she struggled against a terrible pain.

  Sinklar had bent forward, hanging on every word. "Come on, damn it! Mac did what?"

  As if she heard, Chrysla opened her eyes, the terrible fierceness burning bright. "Mac and elements of his Section tried to take the ship. You know, dropped in the LCs, trying to match and board. If Ily was there, they'd take her and Arta. If not, at least they thought they could recover the ship."

  "No." Sinklar cried. "Not Mac

  Chrysla's composure was cracking again, as she said, Staffa, the freighter exploded. Reactor overload. We got most of the bodies. Mac . . . Mac's paralyzed, Staffa. His neck is broken, and he's got terrible injuries."

  Sinklar gaped at her, stunned, his heart hammering at the pain in her words.

  It couldn't be! Not Mac!

  " Staffa, " Chrysla pleaded. "I need to take him to Itreata You have the best medical care there. Grant me this. Order Gyton to Itreata.

  Let me save him. Do with me what you will, but let me save Mac."

  She swallowed hard, gaze dropping. "Please, Staffa. I'll do anything for you.

  I'll never ask anything of you again. If the past means
anything to you, do this."

  The screen went blank.

  Sinklar slammed the desktop. "Rot it all, Ily! If that man dies, I'm coming for you. Not the hell of the Rotted Gods, or the pus-dripping quanta will stop me. "

  Staffa clamped an iron hand on Sinklar's wrist as he stood. "Easy." He glanced at the monitor. "We received that two hours ago. Dilation being what it is, they hardly know it's been sent. " He exhaled. " Chrysla's still torturing herself."

  "Mac," Sinklar whispered. "What did she mean, about saving him? What about Itreata? "

  "I have the finest medical facilities in Free Space." "Then get him there!"

  Staffa watched Sinklar rub his hot face, memories of Mac's wry smile and glinting blue eyes already beginning to haunt him. And other features, amber-eyed and burning with passion, lingered there also, blending with the concern and desperation of love.

  "Rotted Gods, what a mess. " Sinklar paced, heart breaking at the thought of Mac, wounded, dying.

  "I guess I no longer have to wonder about Mac and Chrysla. " Staffa had picked up a laser pen, rolling it between his fingers as he stared absently at the monitor.

  "Mac's been in love with her since he rescued her on the Markelos. He thought he'd slip away, hunt Arta down. See if he could heal himself that way. Get over his love for her.

  "And I let her go to him. Poor Mac."

  Sinklar gave his father a skeptical glance. "Poor Mac? He's in love with your wife! "

  Staffa nodded, lips compressed to a thin line. "She's in love with him. You saw her face, the confusion and fear." "All right, I guess the shimmer skin's slipped out of the bag. What are you going to do about it?"

  Staffa tossed the pen onto his desk. "Clear them for Itreata, of course."

  "And that's it?"

  Staffa gave him a wry appraisal. "Sinklar, I'm no suffering saint! Of course it bothers me. I loved the woman ... still love her as a matter of fact. I probably always will. I never had enough time with her.

  Don't you see? I'll always regret that I never got to have that life I was working for. With her. With you. It's like a hole torn out of my life. -