Ganwold's Child

by Diann Read

  The thunder of landing rockets swelled, then subsided, and the shuttle hovered on its thrusters. Around him, the troops scrambled free of their seat straps, adjusted battle harnesses, retrieved rifles from bulkhead racks. Then the aft hatch grated open, admitting a wave of wet heat and moonlight mottled with smoke, and the platoon leader shouted from the forward section, “Move out, double time!”

  Tristan shoved himself out of the web seat and moved, and the others came close behind.

  Several shadows stood clear of the ramp and the thruster wash: platoon leaders, company commanders, and Chesney. Armored and armed like her troops, she pointed, gestured, gave orders.

  Tristan tried to lose himself in a knot of soldiers, but Chesney spotted him. She caught him by the shoulder, and he cringed, half expecting for a moment that she would shake him, as gan mothers did to discipline their young. But she only said, “Have you lost your stabilizers, Tristan? What in great space do you think you’re doing?”

  “This is my battle!” he said. He had to shout it over the roar of thrusters as the empty shuttle lifted from the landing zone.

  “Like crikey it is!” Chesney’s vision followed the shuttle, too, banking away over the tops of the trees. “Blast it!” she said. “Now I can’t even send you back to the ship! Those crates aren’t coming back until we’ve cleaned out this hole.”

  When she returned her attention to him, she wore a grim expression. “I don’t have any choice now but to take you along, so you listen to me, hotshot, and you listen good. If you so much as try to get out of my reach, I’ll have you put under guard in restraints like a prisoner of war! You got that?”

  The fire in her eyes left no doubt that she’d do it. Tristan said only, “Yes’m.”

  She watched the troops form into platoons and move out in different directions. “Come on then,” she said, and her voice had softened slightly. She started to turn away—but then she stopped short. “You don’t even have any boots!”

  “I can’t walk in them,” Tristan said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, don’t expect anybody to carry you when you step on a burr beetle.”

  * *

  “. . . no response from air defense batteries thirty-nine and forty-eight,” a human voice said over the speakers. “Several hits were registered in those sectors. Scan shows multiple light craft on approach to . . .”

  Pa’an paused in his pacing to study the tracks on the holotank map through narrowed eyes, and his lips curled back from his teeth.

  “Sire!” said the human at the communications console. “Message coming in from the Issel system.”

  Pa’an turned around. “Put it on the holotank.”

  The holographic map and tracks vanished. Another human face, larger than lifesize, replaced it, one of Governor Renier’s chief generals at the Isselan Command Post.

  Pa’an had grown weary of human faces, hairless and tuskless and impotent as a whelp’s. He snarled, “What is it?”

  “Word from Yan, sire.” The general appeared apprehensive at facing him even across lightyears of space. “Our task force there was outnumbered and overwhelmed. The survivors were forced to retreat. It’s absolutely imperative that you hold Assak Base on Saede.”

  Pa’an curled his lips back from his fangs. “I will not fail.”

  * *

  The night air steamed with vapor rising from soil and foliage, laden with the scents of vegetation and decay. Its heat plastered clothing to skin with sweat and made every breath an effort. It felt like traveling through Issel’s blue caves again, Tristan thought, except for the scream and flash of fighters overhead and the shock of explosions shaking the ground underfoot. One step ahead of Chesney, two behind the platoon leader, Tristan pressed a hand to his side and forced himself to keep up.

  A stench of decay persisted over the biting scent of smoke as they marched. When a fitful wind struck him full in the face, Tristan gagged. He and Pulou had once come upon a peimu carcass, dead for three or four days and only half eaten. It had smelled like that.

  A shout rose from up front in the loose formation, and several members of the platoon drew up around the bole of a tree.

  “Umedo,” said Chesney when two or three soldiers played their palm lights over it. “At least, it was. Looks like a masuk execution.”

  The corpse was vaguely humanoid but its face seemed unfinished to Tristan. It had mere slits where its nose should have been, tympanic membranes in the place of ears. Its eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets, its mouth was contorted in a silent scream, and all were caked with a milling layer of insects.

  It had been tied to the tree trunk and laid open with a knife stroke from gullet to groin. Carrion eaters had long ago disposed of its entrails.

  Grimacing at the odor of decomposition, Chesney pulled a knife from the back of her web belt and severed the cord that held the umedo’s hands. It fell forward into bloodied undergrowth, and the flies rose up in a cloud.

  Chesney sheathed her knife and motioned at the platoon leader, and he said, “Move out.”

  Resuming their positions, the troops moved easily through the trees, probing the dark on all sides through nightvision helmet visors.

  Several minutes later, the soldier in the point position raised his hand in a signal to halt, dropped to his belly, and crawled forward. Only a brief ripple of fern fronds showed where he had disappeared.

  The platoon leader touched his headset and turned to glance at Chesney. “He says the trees end about five yards beyond him and there’s a clearing in front of the tunnel entrance. Says the ground’s been torn up by tracked vehicles, but there’s no sign of personnel outside the entrance or in the vicinity.”

  Chesney nodded. “Tell your troops to take their positions, and have the other platoons report when they’re in position.”

  In another few yards, Chesney and the platoon leader went to their bellies, and Chesney pulled Tristan to the ground, too. “Keep your head and butt down.”

  “I know how to do it!” Tristan panted. “I hunted peimus this way on Ganwold.”

  It had been easier then. His shoulders and legs hadn’t ached from lack of use. His back and side hadn’t throbbed from the pull at recent wounds. He locked his teeth and pushed himself forward.

  Concealed behind the trunk of a fallen tree, the lieutenant pulled his voice pickup away from his mouth enough to say, “All platoons are in place, ma’am.”

  Chesney nodded. “So now the waiting begins.” She passed her electrobinoculars to Tristan.

  He scanned the clearing beyond, focusing on the tunnel entrance. It looked like a yawning mouth at the base of the mountain. They lay far to its left but with an unobstructed the view of the entrance. The binoculars made it seem they lay almost at its mouth, though it was at least fifteen yards away.

  “They’ve got my mother in there,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes,” said Chesney, “along with a few other people we’d like to take alive.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Wait.” Chesney looked across at him. “A couple of Spherzah were dropped on the mountain about the time we landed. They’re going to penetrate the complex and open up that main entrance from the inside. And when they do, we’re going in.”

  “But, my mother—”

  “My people know she’s in there,” said Chesney. “They’ll get her out.”

  Tristan glowered. Restless, impatient, he fidgeted with the damp soil under his hands, raking at it with his fingers.

  Chesney eyed him. “Look, hotshot,” she said, “this isn’t a game and I didn’t just send you to the bench. It’s a dirty business and it costs lives. Too many of ‘em. Your mother’s going to be rescued. That’s what counts, isn’t it? A moment of glory isn’t worth dying for.”

  Tristan glanced over at her, teeth clenched. She met his glare and held it, the way Pulou would have.

  Tsaa’chi is serious thing. Always, someone d
ies.

  Pulou.

  And Weil and Nemec.

  And Larielle.

  Tristan’s hand curled around a ball of soil.

  Is anger important enough to die about?

  * *

  A sudden siren blasted through the Command Post. Everyone stiffened. A light began to flash on the security monitor, and the sergeant at its console spun around in his chair, his face pale in the half-light. “The controls to the main shield door are malfunctioning!” he said. “It’s opening up!”

  “Override!” shouted a human officer, leaping toward the console. “Enter the code for override!”

  The younger human did. A system failure light flashed on the console.

  Thunder rumbled in the passage beyond, the heavy bootfalls of masuk security troops running toward the main loading area.

  Pa’an rose from the command chair, gesturing at a masuk subordinate. “Bring the woman to me,” he said, and reached for the naked knife in his belt. “It is time to learn how much she is worth as a hostage.”

  * *

  “This is it, ma’am.” The platoon leader glanced over at Chesney, touching his earphone, and gathered himself into a crouch. “Our men report deactivation of all the shield door controls. The main entrance is opening up!”

  Chesney spoke into her helmet’s pickup. “Company commanders, the barricade is going down. Move in on my order, weapons set to fire. Expect return fire.” She glared at Tristan. “And you stay behind me and stay low, got that?”

  He only nodded. His mouth had gone dry.

  He heard the scraping shriek of the shield doors retracting. The mechanical scream echoed between the mountain and the forest.

  “Move!” Chesney barked, and sprang from her concealment.

  Tristan cleared the log close behind her, winced at the impact of landing, and clamped a hand to his side.

  Two hundred shadows emerged from the trees as if from a different dimension and swept across the clearing like tsigis in a swarm.

  Chesney’s platoon burst through the tunnel entrance first. Bright energy whistled at them across the dark of the loading area, and soldiers on either side of Tristan went down.

  The troops hit the deck, rolling for cover. Infrared rifle sights picked out masuk snipers crouching in the corners. Spherzah rifle fire riddled their concealment. The platoon leader signaled his troops to advance.

  Something stirred at the tunnel’s rear doors. Chesney shouted, “Hold your fire!”

  Two figures moved to the center of the loading area.

  One was small, wrapped in a pale robe, fragile in the limited light and her captor’s hold. The other appeared dark as the cavern in which he stood. His bared tusks gleamed like the blade he held to his hostage’s throat.

  Tristan’s heart contracted at the sight of his mother in the masuk’s grip. “Pa’an!” he said. The name turned into a hiss through his teeth.

  Jwa’lai was important enough to die for.

 

  Twenty-Six

  Tristan jerked the knife from the back of Chesney’s web belt and sprang past her. “Pa’an, you jou!” His voice rang across the loading area. “Let go of her!”

  Pa’an’s blade flicked toward the sound of the shout. “Whelp!” he snarled, and tightened his grip on Darcie.

  “Let her go!” Tristan shouted again. He felt like a gan in tsaa’chi. He advanced warily, in a crouch, ready to spring.

  Behind him, Chesney’s marksmen raised their rifles, waiting for a clear shot.

  But Pa’an took a combat stance, holding Darcie hard to himself and shifting the knife in his hand.

  * *

  Destrier cleared lightskip near enough Saede for the gravity well to pull it into braking orbit. With the planet turning from lighted side to night in the forward screen, Horsch said, “Open communications with Ouray.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The comms officer worked over her console.

  In a few minutes she said, “Ouray reports that the attack is underway, sir. Air defense systems are down and our ground troops have penetrated the subterranean base.”

  “Tell them reinforcements are on the way.” Lujan turned toward the lift doors off the bridge and said, “Call my landing force to the aft shuttle bay.”

  * *

  Tristan leaped at the masuk headlong.

  Pa’an shoved Darcie away and planted his feet wide, his knife poised to impale.

  Tristan shunted it aside with his own. His momentum flung them both to the floor. He turned the fall into a roll and came up on his feet. He staggered at the shock through his body and steadied himself.

  They circled for a moment, testing each other with thrusts and feints. Tristan felt a rush of heat through his blood, felt his muscles loosening up. The giddiness and shakiness passed. Baring his own teeth, he lunged at the masuk’s midsection.

  Pa’an pushed his blade away and snarled at him.

  * *

  She had no strength left. When the masuk pushed her away, Darcie crumpled to the floor and lay still. She couldn’t lift her head. She could barely breathe.

  Somewhere, someone shouted, “I’ll watch out for this one. The rest of you, secure the base. Move it!”

  Bootfalls rang up the length of the tunnel, echoed beyond the opening through which the masuk had dragged her. She heard a scuffed footstep close beside her. Firm hands raised her up. Her head sagged back, but it let air into her starving lungs. She gulped at it and gasped, “Tristan?”

  “No, Darcie.” A woman’s voice. “He’s—doing all right. Lie still.”

  Her eyes flickered open. It took a few moments to recognize Chesney, wearing Commodore’s crests. Chesney had been only a lieutenant when Darcie saw her last.

  A flash caught Darcie’s focusing vision. She turned her head.

  * *

  Edged steel drove at Tristan’s chest. He dodged sideways, dove in under Pa’an’s guard. His knife point caught in a tunic fold. The masuk roared at the slice, and smashed his arm down across Tristan’s.

  Fire shot through bone and nerve, convulsing Tristan’s knife hand. He fumbled for his weapon, dropped to one knee to save it. Pa’an brought his knee up sharply under Tristan’s jaw.

  The blow snapped him backwards, sending a shock through ribs and right side, sending his knife spinning across stone.

  Pa’an planted a boot on its blade and bared his canines. “Foolish whelp!”

  Stunned, Tristan stared up at a silver glint over his head. His lip streamed blood.

  Pa’an’s knife came down in a flashing arc.

  Tristan rolled clear. Fingers scrabbled on stone, closed about the hilt of his knife. Coming to his feet, he took the masuk in a flying tackle.

  Pa’an went down on his side with Tristan on top. They grappled, lethal steel gleaming inches from either throat.

  In another moment, Tristan found himself flung onto his back with a force that winded him. Cold lightning whistled across his vision. He jerked his head away. The dagger clinked into stone, close to his ear.

  He twisted, using one leg for leverage to wrench himself over. The movement pulled at some laceration along his ribs. He ignored it, seizing Pa’an’s right wrist with his left hand.

  * *

  Landing lights pierced the jungle like alien eyes, uncovering the landing pad concealed beneath the foliage. The shuttle hovered over it for a moment and then settled on pillars of thruster fire.

  Lujan scanned the steaming growth beyond the landing circle as the hatch opened. The sky was turning pale to the east. He switched on the headset in his helmet and narrowed his eyes at what he heard.

  “This way,” he said, and motioned his troops to follow. “Move out.”

  He swung the energy rifle off his shoulder, disregarding the twinge there. He’d had the bindings removed. The analgesic patch and regen infusion had done their work; only a little soreness remained, as if he had overworked his arm.

  He moved
out with the ground-consuming stride of a warrior accustomed to the forced march. Around him, the troops spread out in patrol formation and found themselves hard pressed to keep up.

  * *

  They pushed apart. Came to their feet together.

  Panting, trembling, Tristan locked his left hand over his right side and adjusted his grip on his knife. Sweat plastered his uniform to his flesh, smarted in myriad raw spots across his back. He circled with Pa’an, watching his eyes, watching his blade.

  The masuk lashed out.

  The knife point caught Tristan’s sleeve, ripping it to the elbow. Cold steel grazed his skin. He staggered back, stalling for time to catch his breath, to gather a little strength.

  The battle had taken them to the far end of the main cavern, where the thin, shifting veil of dust they stirred up separated him from his mother and Chesney.

  Pa’an jabbed at him, a couple of rapid feints. Tristan dropped back, barely managing to parry.

  The passage from which Pa’an had come, through which the troops had gone, loomed behind him. Pa’an deliberately steered him toward it. Tristan tried to circle around, to maneuver away from it, to hold his ground. But the masuk countered him and lunged. He only had one way to evade.

  At the moment he retreated into the passage, shadows fell across the tunnel entrance.

  * *

  Lujan glimpsed only Chesney first, kneeling in the middle of the loading area floor and supporting someone on her arm. One of the casualties, probably. The shapes crumpled on the floor and the stench of blood and burned flesh confirmed that there were several. “Secure the area and get the medics in here,” he ordered the platoon leader at his shoulder, and crossed to Chesney at once.

  It wasn’t a dying soldier she held.

  He sank to his knees. “Darcie.”

  He could only whisper her name, but she lifted her gaze to his. “Lujan?” She sat up, weak but without assistance, and stretched out a hand to touch his cheek, his jaw, as if she didn’t trust her eyes alone.

  He couldn’t speak. He cradled her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers.

  Her eyes clouded with fear when he drew back. “Tristan!” she whispered.