Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  He had no doubt of it even before the stunned com tech relayed the word. “General—the Spraghentz—the transport is gone!”

  Nelirikk blinked—once, twice. “Honored foe,” he thought treasonously, for Liadens were never such, “we salute you.”

  The General turned from the screen and folded his hands upon the table. “No-Troop will report to Security with Captain Kagan,” he stated. “Now.”

  ***

  Stars like fists of ice above the rocks and trees.

  Nelirikk sat with his back against a boulder, rifle and pack to hand, and stared at the stars until his eyes teared, ringing each bright dot with rainbows.

  Ah, Jela, to be once more upon a world!

  This, this was what they’d trained him for, from the time they’d plucked him from among his fellows in boot camp. They’d trained him for exploration, made him something other than a mere troop, that the Troop and the Command might be served more fully. Training . . .

  He closed his eyes, abandoning himself, here, under the free stars, to memories he had not dared recall in ten full Cycles.

  Training, yes: piloting, scouting, weapons—not only the soldier’s carbine and grace blade, but also other, more subtle things. They’d trained him to operate—to make judgment and form appropriate response—without recourse to superiors, regulations, subordinates, or comrades. Trained him to make decisions. Trained him to impart information. Trained him, even, to command.

  They’d made him a misfit, that they had. A troop with a voice of command. A commander with imagination. They’d made him a misfit and sent him alone to the stars, to find out—to report back. And when he returned from his most important mission with urgent information? Why, then they’d made him a no-troop, and buried his report so thoroughly that not even a description of the ship had survived.

  Nelirikk sighed.

  His mess orders had last—and quite recently—changed hands in an all-night betting game of the officers. Rumor was that Captain Kagan had lost one of the bouts of small-skills, and thus won the housing of the no-troop. Nelirikk had not been assigned to Captain Kagan’s command, nor had he been given duties within the Troop. He had merely been relieved of the chit entitling him to eat from Captain Bestu’s supplies and given another with Kagan’s account number on it. To have that same no-troop call a General’s attention upon himself had done Captain Kagan’s credit no good at all.

  Nelirikk opened his eyes and stared wearily up at the stars. In a moment, he straightened, ran through a mind-clearing exercise he’d learned with the rest of his age-mates in the creche.

  The General, now. . .

  Security had taken him to a room that held no sign of the devices most usually employed to punish the recalcitrant. Neck-hairs prickling, Nelirikk glanced around him, locating at least three grills and two lights that most likely held microphones and cameras. Three chairs, two computer terminals, a table upon which sat a carafe of water and three glasses—unthinkable courtesies for a rogue no-troop. Nelirikk was suddenly very tired.

  Without orders he should not sit.

  He sat.

  No voice from a hidden loudspeaker ordered him up.

  Security would have his records and files, Nelirikk considered, and would know his training and abilities—

  Would know that he was not to be trusted, though some chance cruelty of the High Command dictated that he should be made to continue living, rather than receive the simple back-of-the-head execution Security itself had recommended. Security would have the file that said Nelirikk Explorer was hereinafter and forever Nelirikk No-Troop, shamed and shunned—the only living Yxtrang to have been captured by a Liaden.

  Caught in a trap—tricked, as Liaden scouts had been tricking Yxtrang for untold years—and then let go, to return to his commander and report, half-dazzled by the possibilities he glimpsed within the information the scout had—knowingly?—given. He’d described the ship . . .

  So they’d taken his report, ignored it, isolated him from the small cadre of Yxtrang explorers, made him a no-troop and forgot him.

  And now he was here, a rogue no-troop, apparently so weary of his dutiless life that he interfered with command level action in the General’s own war room! An explorer might possibly have done so, without punishment.

  If there were any explorers left. He’d searched for traces of the unit, using stolen computer time and unauthorized glimpses of ship movements through distant portholes—to no purpose. His terror was that they had disbanded the explorers, and made him no-troop in a far different way.

  “Hup!”

  He came to his feet, at attention. The General stood before him, comrade close, eyes full of calculation, the tattoos of rank and achievement not quite disguising the unnatural ruddiness of his face.

  “You retain your alertness, No-Troop.”

  “A soldier survives through alertness, sir.”

  The eyes narrowed.

  “I have reviewed your records,” the General said, “and I understand how you might have been able to identify a ship unknown to our scanning program. I understand how you might react without permission and assume compliance. I understand, also, that you have disturbed the organization of my war room.”

  A statement of facts required no reply. Nelirikk continued to look eye-to-eye with the planetary commander.

  “What do you say of your insolence, Nelirikk No-Troop?” the General demanded. Nelirikk avoided the sigh.

  “Sir. I sought to serve the Troop, and gave warning of clear danger. Pilots are not to be wasted—”

  “Silence!” roared the General. “Do not consider yourself a pilot, No-Troop. That honor was long-ago forbidden you.”

  He turned abruptly, jabbing a finger toward the table and the computers. “Sit.”

  The General took the second chair, tapped in a request and leaned back as the battle-site filled the screen.

  “Now, No-Troop, why do you think such a ship would be on this planet? Why did it remain grounded rather than rising to the fight? Mere Liaden cowardice?”

  The urge to look wonderingly at the General was strong; Nelirikk instead stared at the screen, restructuring the logic chain he had formed in the war room.

  “I have given this matter thought, sir. However, I have little information about the current military situation—”

  “You need none. Speak to this case!”

  Nelirikk did sigh, very quietly.

  “Yes, sir. In this case several possibilities exist.” Unconsciously, he moved into the lecture technique he’d learned for briefing fellow explorers.

  “One possibility is that the ship was under repair and unable to lift. Supporting information is sparse—no repair machinery was observed about the craft. Another possibility is that a junior officer during the commander’s absence manned the ship. We then have a reason for the delay in firing, and also for the failure to lift and engage.”

  The General gave a mildly approving click.

  “Another possibility,” Nelirikk continued, “is that the ship was unmanned and computerized self-defense functions were in force. Or that the crew was aboard and deliberately sought to escape notice so that a later strike at a capital ship might be launched. My assumption is that Barakhan took damage from that last bolt—”

  “An invalid assumption, No-Troop. So small a ship, and firing through atmosphere, to touch Barakhan?” The General waved a hand in negation.

  “I saw the ship fire when the particle-beams began the attack. A charged beam could well use the same path to—”

  “I am not interested in traitorous assumptions!” the General snarled. “I asked you for whys.”

  Nelirikk stared at the screen—at the crater where the pretty ship had been—until the view changed to a map of the surrounding area.

  “Sir. It is possible that the ship was ordered to remain grounded in order to defend an important center or person.” He pointed.

  “I propose that the town, the nearby command base, or the remaining me
rcenary troops are of special importance. That small plane, trying so bravely to hinder our jets—it may be that by luck we were attacking the escape ship of an important person.”

  Nelirikk paused, staring at the screen.

  “Recall that by drawing fire the ship has taken out a number of our drop fighters and has forced a demonstration of our overhead strength. A scout might trade his ship for such information. For this possibility, I assume standard invasion policy has been followed and the planetary satellite net has been destroyed.”

  The General was eyeing him, displeasure apparent. “You insist on this scout, do you?”

  “If all Liaden ships of that size were as powerful, sir, I believe Liadens would even now be pursuing us across the galaxy.”

  “Fool!” The General’s fist rose, but, remarkably, no blow landed. He twisted in his chair, frowning heavily at the screen. “Hear yourself—naming Liadens—Liadens!—brave, assigning soldierly virtue to a race long known to be weak and honorless—animals, No-Troop. You entertain the possibility that the 14th Conquest Corps might be routed by animals.”

  Nelirikk said nothing.

  The General shut down the display. “We have discovered maps and a short-range radio transceiver in a captured enemy vehicle. I understand from your records that you are fluent in the language of Liaden animals and can read their scratchings as well.”

  The General rose, walked to the brown-gray wall and back.

  “You will be outfitted for a special mission. You are to infiltrate the area bounded by a triangle of this airfield, this town, and this command center. You will be given the transceiver and the maps I spoke of, as well as a recall signaler. I will issue a weapon from my office. Security will issue a kit and a blade.”

  He came to Nelirikk’s chair.

  “We make use of your training and inclinations, No-Troop,” he commented; “and allow you to avoid fighting.”

  Nelirikk sat quietly, refusing to show any reaction to an insult that would have demanded blood to balance—ten Cycles ago.

  The General’s lips pursed, as if he would spit; then:

  “Let me be clear: You are to gather information—which you will note on the map. You are to return to the pick-up point no later than the tenth planetary dawn after you are released. This is a combat order.”

  Nelirikk straightened, unable to control the quickening of his heartbeat. A combat order! Was he reinstated, then—once more a part of the Troop?

  “Be sure you understand your orders entirely, No-Troop,” the General advised him. “Deviate from them and you will be shot. Not even a Heroic Explorer’s Starburst certificate in your file can protect you from proper punishment if you fail a combat command!”

  Ten Cycles of keeping his face quiet served him well. But the blow was severe. Odd, that so sudden a burst of hope should leave such agony in its wake.

  On the hillside, under the hard, beautiful stars, Nelirikk stirred and came out of his thoughts. The shattered hope of reinstatement had faded in the resolution of a mystery ten Cycles old. Almost, he was content. For he knew at last why they had not executed him.

  The General had thought he’d known—had thought Nelirikk used the protection of a Hero’s status to wreak havoc in the war room and flaunt command. The General had not taken into account the slowness with which such news trickles down through the levels, from the High Command to the soldier. Even the announcement of so signal an honor might take a Cycle or two, depending on battles and tours of duty. Nelirikk smiled at the sky: Heroic Explorer’s Starburst!

  It would have been awarded for the odd moon, of course. Strangely dense, with an atmosphere capable of supporting Yxtrang or Liadens, green-blue bushes and a storm-driven climate that brought daily rain to every spot on the surface.

  He was a Hero, though his face bore no trace of the honor; and, like all Heroes, his name must now be listed on the Great Board at Temp Headquarters.

  The Command preferred Heroes to die in battle—preferably in great victories.

  As Lytaxin was likely to become.

  Nelirikk picked up the pack and the long-arm, though he had no illusions regarding either. He rose easily to his lean height, smiled again at the stars and looked around at the velvet night.

  A pretty planet. To die in open air would be a boon.

  LIAD:

  Department of Interior:

  Command Headquarters

  Commander of Agents stared at the beacon screen, which informed him that Tyl Von sig’Alda’s ship tarried yet about the planet of Waymart.

  Days, about a minor Terran world offering nothing that an Agent in fulfillment of his mission might require?

  He thought not.

  Alas, other thoughts proliferated, chiefest among them that Val Con yos’Phelium had overpowered his brother Agent during Jump—and yet why simply hang there, when Waymart’s sole charm was that it offered so much possibility in the matter of Jump points?

  Commander of Agents frowned. Were he Val Con yos’Phelium—and not inclined toward a debriefing—he would make all haste to fling his vessel into Jump, thence to plan and make such arrangements as he might for re-entry into normal space.

  Perhaps yos’Phelium had escaped to the planet’s surface? But there was no record of the ship having done other than held this middling, dawdling orbit for several days. A painstaking reading of back files discovered no harm the vessel might have taken.

  The thing made no sense.

  Commander of Agents disliked nonsense—intensely.

  Eyes on the beacon screen, he considered whether it was more prudent to dispatch a second Agent to Waymart, or a team of lesser operatives, such as he’d already dispatched to Lufkit, where Agent yos’Phelium’s break from discipline had first manifested.

  He had settled upon sending the team and indeed moved his hand somewhat toward the toggle that would summon his second to him when the beacon screen flashed. The amber light that denoted sig’Alda’s ship and its conditions flared bright, began blinking, and brought up windows full of warnings: system overload, weapons released, coils overcharged, Jump coil engaged, ERROR, ERROR ERROR—

  Commander of Agents flung out a hand as if to make adjustments, to resolve the problem, to disengage the coils—too late.

  Commander of Agents blinked, then leaned closer to read the message at the bottom of the black screen.

  NO SIGNAL. TRANSMITTER DESTROYED.

  SHALTREN:

  Juntavas Headquarters

  Sambra Reallen, Chairman Pro Tem of the Juntavas, folded her hands upon the desk and looked up at her two large visitors.

  “I regret that our actions on your behalf have as yet produced neither Scout Commander yos’Phelium nor Sergeant Robertson, Aged Ones. I would remind you—with respect—that the universe is wide.”

  “Indeed it is,” rumbled the largest, who called himself Edger. “Yet I had anticipated speedy reaction from our kin. News of our search should most surely have reached them by now. Yet we have no word. No whisper of possibility. It distresses me, Sambra Reallen. I begin to believe our kin are perhaps lost more deeply.”

  She drew a breath, careful not to let a start of alarm betray her. Had she not been present when these two beings destroyed both her predecessor and his weapon, and that with a mere three notes of alien song? What might they not be moved to, did they come to believe these claimkin of theirs dead?

  “I think there no reason to consider them so profoundly beyond us,” she said, keeping her voice level with an effort of will that started sweat beading in her armpits. “Merely, they may have gone to ground on one of the lower tech worlds, where word of our search would not travel so quickly. Eventually, they must leave their safe place. And when they do, they will make themselves known to us.”

  “And yet,” said the second turtle, with a diffidence that sat oddly upon one so large, “why should they so?”

  Both Edger and the Juntava stared at him, at which he ducked his head, moving his three-fingered hand in a gestur
e of—apology, thought Sambra Reallen. Or possibly of obeisance to Edger, who was larger-shelled and therefore in a position of command.

  Edger moved his own hand. “You have asked. Can you answer?”

  The smaller—Sheather, his name was—raised his head. “T’carais, I can.”

  “Do so.”

  “Yes, T’carais. Consider that our sister and our brother are masters of survival, though pursuit of art renders them no strangers to violence.” He stopped and Sambra Reallen leaned forward, impatient for once of the mannerisms of long-lived Clutch-turtles, who might take as much as twenty human minutes for a pause of courtesy.

  “Go on,” she urged and there was an edge along her voice, so that Sheather looked at her out of his great eyes, then inclined his head.

  “You are correct. I ask forgiveness, that I am careless of your time.”

  She waved a hand. “Granted. But say on—why shall your kin hide from us?”

  “Why,” said Sheather, blinking his eyes solemnly, “only because when last our kin had treat with yours, the Juntavas did their most to slay them. Neither our brother nor our sister is such a fool that they would willingly place themselves into the hands of a known enemy.”

  “Hah!” She sat back, staring at him and feeling dread like ice in the pit of her belly. For he was correct. Val Con yos’Phelium—a Commander of Scouts, no less!—and Mercenary Sergeant Miri Robertson had no cause to love the Juntavas, and many reasons to avoid them. The message the courier ships carried was, perforce, brief, and offered no reasons for the abrupt change of Juntavas policy with regard to the Turtles’ kin. Who would of mortal necessity be compelled to consider the message a sham—or bait—and thus exert themselves doubly to avoid anything even remotely attached to the Juntavas.

  Edger was looking at her. “Do you agree with my brother’s summation, Sambra Reallen?”

  She took a breath and met his eyes with what calm she could, who faced a being that could destroy her with a note. “Aged One, I do.”

  “So.” He appeared to consider for a moment, then inclined his great head. “We shall go now, Sambra Reallen, to consider between us what might now be done to retrieve our brother and sister. Do you the same, of your kindness, and let us come to you again in three days’ time to compare thoughts and perhaps build a more worthy plan of action.”