Ensign Flandry df-1

by Poul Anderson

  “I didn’t say it’s wise to leave them with no out but to try and destroy us.” Flandry shrugged. “That’s for the statesmen, though, I’m told. I only work here. Please shut up and let me figure my approach curve.”

  Korych flamed over the edge of the world. That sunrise was gold and amethyst, beneath a million stars.

  The communicator buzzed anew. “Foreseer,” said the Merseian, “you may board your ship for a limited time provided we accompany you.”

  “Regrets,” Hauksberg said. “But quite impossible. I’m after material which is for the eyes of Protector Brechdan alone. You are welcome to board as soon as I have it in this boat, and escort me straight to Castle Afon.”

  “I shall convey the foreseer’s word to my superiors and relay their decision.” Blankoff.

  “You’re wonderful,” Persis said.

  Hauksberg barked a laugh. “Don’t fancy this impetuous young hero of yours includin’ me in his Divine Wind dive.” Seriously: “I s’pose you figure to escape in an auxiliary. Out of the question. Space patrol’ll overhaul you long before you can go hyper.”

  “Not if I go hyper right away,” Flandry said.

  “But—snakes alive, boy! You know what the concentration of matter is, this near a sun. If a microjump lands you by a pebble, even—”

  “Chance we take. Odds favor us, especially if we head out normally to the ecliptic plane.”

  “You’ll be in detection range for a light-year. A ship with more legs can run you down. And will.”

  “You won’t be there,” Flandry said. “Dog your hatch. I’m busy.”

  The minutes passed. He scarcely noticed when the call came, agreeing that Hauksberg’s party might board alone. He did reconstruct the reasoning behind that agreement. Dronning Margrete was unarmed and empty. Two or three men could not start her up in less than hours. Long before then, warcraft would be on hand to blast her. Hauksberg must be honest. Let him have his way and see what he produced.

  The great tapered cylinder swam into sight. Flandry contacted the machines within and made rendezvous on instruments and trained senses. A boatlock gaped wide. He slid through. The lock closed, air rushed into the turret, he killed his motor and stood up. “I’ll have to secure you, my lord,” he said. “They’ll find you when they enter.”

  Hauksberg regarded him. “You’ll not reconsider?” he asked. “Terra shouldn’t lose one like you.”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Warn you, you’ll be outlawed. I don’t aim to sit idle and let you proceed. After what’s happened, the best way I can show my bona fides is to cooperate with the Merseians in headin’ you off.”

  Flandry touched his blaster. Hauksberg nodded. “You can delay matters a trifle by killin’ me,” he said.

  “Have no fears. Persis, another three or four towels. Lie down on the deck, my lord.”

  Hauksberg did as he was told. Looking at the girl, he said: “Don’t involve yourself. Stay with me. I’ll tell ’em you were a prisoner too. Hate to waste women.”

  “They are in short supply hereabouts,” Flandry agreed. “You’d better do it, Persis.”

  She stood quiet for a little. “Do you mean you forgive me, Mark?” she asked.

  “Well, yes,” Hauksberg said.

  She bent and kissed him lightly. “I think I believe you. But no, thanks. I’ve made my choice.”

  “After the way your boy friend’s treated you?”

  “He had to. I have to believe that.” Persis helped bind Hauksberg fast.

  She and Flandry left the boat. The passageways glowed and echoed as they trotted. They hadn’t far to go until they entered another turret. The slim hull of a main auxiliary loomed over them. Flandry knew the model: a lovely thing, tough and versatile, with fuel and supplies for a journey of several hundred parsecs. Swift, too; not that she could outpace a regular warcraft, but a stern chase is a long chase and he had some ideas about what to do if the enemy came near.

  He made a quick check of systems. Back in the control room, he found Persis in the copilot’s seat. “Will I bother you?” she asked timidly.

  “Contrariwise,” he said. “Keep silent, though, till we’re in hyperdrive.”

  “I will,” she promised. “I’m not a complete null, Nicky. You learn how to survive when you’re a low-caste dancer. Different from space, of course. But this is the first time. I’ve done anything for anyone but myself. Feels good. Scary, yes, but good.”

  He ran a hand across the tangled dark hair, smooth cheek and delicate profile, until his fingers tilted her chin and he bestowed his own kiss on her. “Thanks more’n I can say,” he murmured. “I was doing this mainly on account of Max Abrams. It’d have been cold, riding alone with his ghost. Now I’ve got you to live for.”

  He seated himself. At his touch, the engine woke. “Here we go,” he said.

  14

  Dawn broke over Ardaig, and from the tower on Eidh Hill kettledrums spoke their ancient prayer. Admiralty House cast its shadow across the Oiss, blue upon the mists that still hid early river traffic. Inland the shadow was black, engulfing Castle Afon.

  Yet Brechdan Ironrede chose to receive the Terrans there instead of in his new eyrie. He’s shaken, Abrams thought. He’s rallying quick, but he needs the help of his ancestors.

  Entering the audience chamber, a human was at first dazed, as if he had walked into a dream. He needed a moment to make sense of what he saw. The proportions of long, flagged floor, high walls, narrow windows arched at both top and bottom, sawtoothed vaulting overhead, were wrong by every Terran canon and nonetheless had a Tightness of their own. The mask helmets on suits of armor grinned like demons. The patterns of faded tapestries and rustling battle banners held no human symbology. For this was Old Wilwidh, before the machine came to impose universal sameness. It was the wellspring of Merseia. You had to see a place like this if you would understand, in your bones, that Merseians would never be kin to you.

  I wish my ancestors were around.

  Approaching the dais beside a silent Hauksberg, his boots resounding hollow, bitter incense in his nostrils, Abrams conjured up Dayan in his head. I too have a place in the cosmos. Let me not forget.

  Black-robed beneath a dragon carved in black wood, the Hand of the Vach Ynvory waited. The men bowed to him. He lifted a short spear and crashed it down in salute. Brusquely, he said: “This is an evil thing that has happened.”

  “What news, sir?” Hauksberg asked. His eyes were sunken and a tic moved one corner of his mouth.

  “At latest report, a destroyer had locked detectors on Flandry’s hyperwake. It can catch him, but time will be required, and meanwhile both craft have gone beyond detection range.”

  “The Protector is assured anew of my profoundest regrets. I am preferring charges against this malefactor. Should he be caught alive, he may be treated as a common pirate.”

  Yah, Abrams thought. Dragged under a hypnoprobe and wrung dry. Well, he doesn’t have any vital military secrets, and testimony about me can’t get me in any deeper than I am. But please, let him be killed outright.

  “My lord,” he said, “to you and the Hand I formally protest. Dominic Flandry holds an Imperial commission. At a minimum the law entitles him to a court-martial. Nor can his diplomatic immunity be removed by fiat.”

  “He was not accredited by his Majesty’s government, but myself,” Hauksberg snapped. “The same applies to you, Abrams.”

  “Be still,” Brechdan ordered him. Hauksberg gaped unbelieving at the massive green countenance. Brechdan’s look was on Abrams. “Commander,” the Merseian said, “when you were seized last night, you insisted that you had information I must personally hear. Having been told of this, I acceded. Do you wish to talk with me alone?”

  Hang on, here we go. I boasted to Dom once, they wouldn’t take me in any condition to blab, and they’d pay for whatever they got. Nu, here I am, whole-skinned and disarmed. If I’m to justify my brag, these poor wits will have to keep me out of the interrogation
cell.

  “I thank the Hand,” Abrams said, “but the matter concerns Lord Hauksberg also.”

  “Speak freely. Today is no time for circumlocutions.”

  Abrams’ heart thudded but he held his words steady. “Point of law, Hand. By the Covenant of Alfzar, Merseia confirmed her acceptance of the rules of war and diplomacy which evolved on Terra. They evolved, and you took them over, for the excellent reason that they work. Now if you wish to declare us personae non gratae and deport us, his Majesty’s government will have no grounds for complaint. But taking any other action against any one of us, no matter what the source of our accreditation, is grounds for breaking off relations, if not for war.”

  “Diplomatic personnel have no right to engage in espionage,” Brechdan said.

  “No, Hand. Neither is the government to which they are sent supposed to spy on them. And in fact, Dwyr the Hook was planted on me as a spy. Scarcely a friendly act, Hand, the more so when urgent negotiations are under way. It happened his sympathies were with Terra—”

  Brechdan’s smile was bleak. “I do not believe it merely happened, Commander. I have the distinct impression that you maneuvered to get him posted where he would be in contact with you. Compliments on your skill.”

  “Hand, his Majesty’s government will deny any such allegation.”

  “How dare you speak for the Empire?” Hauksberg exploded.

  “How dare you, my lord?” Abrams replied. “I am only offering a prediction. But will the Hand not agree it is probably correct?”

  Brechdan rubbed his chin. “Charge and counter-charge, denial and counter-denial … yes, no doubt. What do you expect the Empire to maintain?”

  “That rests with the Policy Board, Hand, and how it decides will depend on a number of factors, including mood. If Merseia takes a course which looks reasonable in Terran eyes, Terra is apt to respond in kind.”

  “I presume a reasonable course for us includes dropping charges against yourself,” Brechdan said dryly.

  Abrams lifted his shoulders and spread his palms. “What else? Shall we say that Dwyr and Flandry acted on impulse, without my knowledge? Isn’t it wise to refrain from involving the honor of entire planets?”

  “Khraich. Yes. The point is well taken. Though frankly, I am disappointed in you. I would stand by a subordinate.”

  “Hand, what happens to him is outside your control or mine. He and his pursuer have gone past communication range. It may sound pompous, but I want to save myself for further service to the Empire.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Hauksberg said venomously.

  “I told you to be silent,” Brechdan said. “No, Commander, on Merseia your word is not pompous at all.” He inclined his head. “I salute you. Lord Hauksberg will oblige me by considering you innocent.”

  “Sir,” the viscount protested, “surely he must be confined to the Embassy grounds for the duration of our stay. What happens to him on his return will lie with his service and his government.”

  “I do request the commander to remain within the compound,” Brechdan said. He leaned forward. “Now, delegate, comes your turn. If you are willing to continue present discussions, so are we. But there are certain preconditions. By some accident, Flandry might yet escape, and he does carry military secrets. We must therefore dispatch a fast courier to the nearest Terran regional headquarters, with messages from us both. If Terra disowns him and cooperates with Merseia in his capture or destruction, then Terra has proven her desire for peaceful relations and the Grand Council of His Supremacy will be glad to adjust its policies accordingly. Will you lend your efforts to this end?”

  “Of course, sir! Of course!”

  “The Terran Empire is far away, though,” Brechdan continued. “I don’t imagine Flandry would make for it. Our patrols will cover the likeliest routes, as insurance. But the nearest human installation is on Starkad, and if somehow he eludes our destroyer, I think it probable he will go either there or to Betelgeuse. The region is vast and little known. Thus our scouts would have a very poor chance of intercepting him—until he is quite near his destination. Hence, if he should escape, I shall wish to guard the approaches. But as my government has no more desire than yours to escalate the conflict, your commandant on Starkad must be told that these units are no menace to him and he need not send for reinforcements. Rather, he must cooperate. Will you prepare such orders for him?”

  “At once, sir,” Hauksberg said. Hope was revitalizing him. He paid no attention to Abrams’ stare.

  “Belike this will all prove unnecessary,” Brechdan said. “The destroyer estimated she would overtake Flandry in three days. She will need little longer to report back. At such time we can feel easy, and so can his Majesty’s government. But for certainty’s sake, we had best get straight to work. Please accompany me to the adjacent office.” He rose. For a second he locked eyes with Abrams. “Commander,” he said, “your young man makes me proud to be a sentient creature. What might our united races not accomplish? Hunt well.”

  Abrams could not speak. His throat was too thick with unshed tears. He bowed and left. At the door, Merseian guards fell in, one on either side of him.

  Stars crowded the viewscreens, unmercifully brilliant against infinite night. The spaceboat thrummed with her haste.

  Flandry and Persis returned from their labor. She had been giving him tools, meals, anything she could that seemed to fit his request, “Just keep feeding me and fanning me.” In a shapeless coverall, hair caught under a scarf, a smear of grease on her nose, she was somehow more desirable than ever before. Or was that simply because death coursed near?

  The Merseian destroyer had called the demand to stop long ago, an age ago, when she pulled within range of a hyper-vibration ’cast. Flandry refused. “Then prepare your minds for the God,” said her captain, and cut off. Moment by moment, hour by hour, he had crept in on the boat, until instruments shouted his presence.

  Persis caught Flandry’s hand. Her own touch was cold. “I don’t understand,” she said in a thin voice. “You told me he can track us by our wake. But space is so big. Why can’t we go sublight and let him hunt for us?”

  “He’s too close,” Flandry said. “He was already too close when we first knew he was on our trail. If we cut the secondaries, he’d have a pretty good idea of our location, and need only cast about a small volume of space till he picked up the neutrino emission of our powerplant.”

  “Couldn’t we turn that off too?”

  “We’d die inside a day. Everything depends on it. Odds-on bet whether we suffocated or froze. If we had suspended-animation equipment—But we don’t. This is no warcraft, not even an exploratory vessel. It’s just the biggest lifeboat-cum-gig Queen Maggy could tote.”

  They moved toward the control room. “What’s going to happen?” she asked.

  “In theory, you mean?” He was grateful for a chance to talk. The alternative would have been that silence which pressed in on the hull. “Well, look. We travel faster than light by making a great many quantum jumps per second, which don’t cross the intervening space. You might say we’re not in the real universe most of the time, though we are so often that we can’t notice any difference. Our friend has to phase in. That is, he has to adjust his jumps to the same frequency and the same phase angle as ours. This makes each ship a completely solid object to the other, as if they were moving sub-light, under ordinary gravitic drive at a true velocity.”

  “But you said something about the field.”

  “Oh, that. Well, what makes us quantum-jump is a pulsating force-field generated by the secondary engine. The field encloses us and reaches out through a certain radius. How big a radius, and how much mass it can affect, depends on the generator’s power. A big ship can lay alongside a smaller one and envelop her and literally drag her at a resultant pseudo-speed. Which is how you carry out most capture and boarding operations. But a destroyer isn’t that large in relation to us. She does have to come so close that our fields overlap.
Otherwise her beams and artillery can’t touch us.”

  “Why don’t we change phase?”

  “Standard procedure in an engagement. I’m sure our friends expect us to try it. But one party can change as fast as another, and runs a continuous computation to predict the pattern of the opposition’s maneuvers. Sooner or later, the two will be back in phase long enough for a weapon to hit. We’re not set up to do it nearly as well as he is. No, our solitary chance is the thing we’ve been working on.”

  She pressed against him. He felt how she trembled. “Nicky, I’m afraid.”

  “Think I’m not?” Both pairs of lips were dry when they touched. “Come on, let’s to our posts. We’ll know in a few minutes. If we go out—Persis, I couldn’t ask for a better traveling companion.” As they sat down, Flandry added, because he dared not stay serious: “Though we wouldn’t be together long. You’re ticketed for heaven, my destination’s doubtless the other way.”

  She gripped his hand again. “Mine too. You won’t escape me th-th-that easily.”

  Alarms blared. A shadow crossed the stars. It thickened as phasing improved. Now it was a torpedo outline, still transparent; now the gun turrets and missile launchers showed clear; now all but the brightest stars were occulted. Flandry laid an eye to the crosshairs of his improvised fire-control scope. His finger rested on a button. Wires ran aft from it.

  The Merseian destroyer became wholly real to him. Starlight glimmered off metal. He knew how thin that metal was. Force screens warded off solid matter, and nothing protected against nuclear energies: nothing but speed to get out of their way, which demanded low mass. Nevertheless he felt as if a dinosaur stalked him.

  The destroyer edged nearer, swelling in the screens. She moved leisurely, knowing her prey was weaponless, alert only for evasive tactics. Flandry’s right hand went to the drive controls. So … so … he was zeroed a trifle forward of the section where he knew her engines must be.

  A gauge flickered. Hyperfields were making their first tenuous contact. In a second it would be sufficiently firm for a missile or a firebolt to cross from one hull to another. Persis, reading the board as he had taught her, yelled, “Go!” Flandry snapped on a braking vector. Lacking the instruments and computers of a man-of-war, he had estimated for himself what the thrust should be. He pressed the button.