by Sharon Lee
This, too, Shan limited to twelve minutes; there really was not enough time to decide how much time there was.
***
Shan stared at a screen filled with a growing forest of landing struts, braces, jacked platforms, and the occasional shadow that was one of the volunteers, making fine adjustments, doing the best they could to get even pressure.
Ken Rik had charge of the volunteer team. There had to be a pilot in it, and an old first classer, Ken Rik had said with a sobering lack of his usual vitriol, would be less missed by ship and crew—if something went awry—than a master pilot. Even a master pilot who was a thorough young idiot.
Shan watched and waited. On his second screen he saw Priscilla, likewise waiting, and was surprised by a surge of longing so intense his eyes teared. He was going to have to do something soon about adjusting priorities; this keeping the ship’s first and second officer apart for security considerations didn’t have the feel of a long-term working solution.
“That’s the last,” Ken Rik announced from within the pod, still in that disturbingly calm tone. “We’re coming out now, Captain.”
“Fine,” Shan said. “Each of you count off as you come into the hall. We don’t want to leave anyone in there with that thing.”
He touched a key, bringing up an image of the pod’s basewall, and increased magnification until the painted markers loomed—one mark every half-meter, to allow measurement of a movement the instruments could not detect in Jump. Movement that could not happen in Jump.
According to one theory.
Shan sighed. He’d calculated that they would achieve a separation rate of just under one half meter per second, under normal conditions. Who knew how fast the rate would be in Jump, where there was neither speed, nor distance, nor direction—assuming Gordy’s “pogo stick” worked at all?
“Five.” Rusty’s voice in the count-off reflected nothing but exhaustion and Shan felt a burst of affectionate sympathy for the pudgy radio tech. Then it was Ken Rik, signaling into the camera, speaking over the com.
“Everyone clear, Captain. Give us twelve seconds to clear the hall . . .”
“You have forty-eight, starting with my mark. Three—two—one . . . mark. Priscilla?”
“On it, Captain. At minus twelve seconds we start powerdown. The pod sequencer will cut the meteor shield for twenty-four seconds, after which collision shields come up.”
“Effectively sealing the ship off at pod six access hall while pod six tumbles down to hell. We hope.” He shook his head, noted Ken Rik’s all clear—twenty-two seconds—and glanced back to screen two.
“Please allow the ship’s log to show that Gordon Arbuthnot is confirmed this day as pilot third class and entered as a candidate for provisional second class.”
The crew, on battle stations, got a twenty-four second warning, for what it was worth.
The Passage gave a slight—even a familiar—shrug as the external pod clamps were withdrawn. Nothing changed on the screens.
Twelve seconds. Nine. Six. Three. Two. One. Shrug . . . the internal pod clamps withdrew—
His prime screen showed dozens of landing struts flexing, jack stands kicking sideways, platforms shaking—and there was the tiniest of lurches, as the third screen showed the markings on the basewall: one half meter . . . one meter . . . more . . .
The monitor showed a half-second blur as the pod twisted under the uneven push.
And then there was gray. Jump gray. No pod. No basewall. No hastily painted measurements. Gray.
Priscilla was looking at him from screen two.
“Instruments have lost the pod, Captain. No reading from docking radar, Jump-matrix screen shows no change. Meteor shield goes up in six seconds . . . we’ve got a report from inertial guidance comp: point-two-five meter per second adjustment.”
So. For good or for ill. Whatever they had done was done, and the outcome was upon the knees of the gods. Shan reached for the controls and shut down the grayed screens.
“Thank you, Priscilla. I suggest we meet in our cabin for lunch. We have six hours to Jump-break and I will spend at least one with you.”
LYTAXIN:
Erob’s Combat
Practice Grounds
In the distance was the tree, gift of Korval. Beyond that, the house, and well beyond that, the foothills and small mountain range named Dragon’s Back. Somewhere there, on the lower of the mountain humps, was another gift of Korval.
This was a tower. Called Dragon’s Tooth for reasons none could give, it currently housed three spotters, a circumstance that had charged Win Den tel’Vosti with glee.
“A fine use we make of Korval’s contract-suite, eh! Well enough, niece Miri, that you come to us lifemated, else you and your term-husband would have taken residence in Dragon’s Tooth, and nothing either might do to prevent it!”
“Pretty far to walk for breakfast,” Miri commented, which observation tel’Vosti was pleased to greet with laughter.
On the other side of the Dragon’s Back was rough country indeed, and beyond that occasional farms and forestry plantations. The Yxtrang had not penetrated there as yet and the spotters in the Dragon’s Tooth were looking down at and beyond the tree, and Erob’s House. Using a good telescope they kept watch on movements close to the coast, ignoring the fields below the house itself, where only those expected yet trod. The mists of morning made the observer’s job difficult, the Yxtrang destruction of most of the satellites in orbit made it vitally necessary.
***
“Heh up!” Miri’s voice echoed over the grounds and the members of Unit 1, Lytaxin Combined Forces, fell back from defending and attacking positions and turned to face their captain.
“Rotation!” Miri commanded, and those who had been defenders last round moved left to pair off with a new partner.
“Ain’t proper training if they just work with one partner,” Miri had said at the beginning. “We’ll keep shifting ’em around, make ’em learn as much as they can; force ’em to be flexible. Maybe . . .”
Maybe, Val Con thought now, drifting along the line with seeming randomness in his role as the captain’s second, just maybe some of them would survive.
Survival, of course, was problematical for all, though a measure of luck had attended the deployment of the Yxtrang invasion force. The majority of invaders had landed nearer the coast, with a mere battalion or so landing within striking distance of Erob’s lands, though the Loop assured Val Con that a battalion of battle-hardened Yxtrang was likely sufficient to the task of overcoming the remnants of the mercenary units and Unit 1, Lytaxin Combined Forces.
Miri had nicknamed her command the “Lytaxin Irregulars,” which was a comment after all on the state of most of the defending forces facing Lytaxin’s tidy little difficulty. Aside from one of Jason’s crack units, even the named and recognized forces were amalgams and hastily restaffed shadows of standing merc units. Val Con sighed, hid the Loop’s predictions away in a corner of his mind, and came to attention with the rest of the troop on Miri’s command.
“Partners A, C, E,” Miri shouted. “Defend!”
His assignment this drill was the overseeing and correction of the attackers, speaking with the captain’s authority and his own expertise in hand-to-hand technique. It was an assignment like most of the others he carried within the troop where he held no rank other than that of scout—and of Miri’s partner.
The field was silent, awaiting the captain’s next order. Val Con closed his eyes, recalling the Yxtrang landing.
He and Miri had been running to warn the Erob when the flight of attack craft circling overhead drove them to cover. The attackers dove toward the airfield, which sustained several passes before ter’Meulen’s plane had risen in challenge. By then, the biggest roar in the sky had been the approach of the troop and transport ship.
Stupidly, the Yxtrang had attempted to take Fosterling out with a strafing run. The awesome fall of wreckage from the sky had been the result of that error—and the
local keep’s salvation.
Then came thunder from the sky and thunder from the ground as Fosterling replied to an attack from a space-based enemy. Valiant vessel—and all, eventually for naught. His ship was gone. Clonak ter’Meulen’s heir was gone. The remnant of Erob’s air fleet was gone. And he, a pilot of Korval, was grounded, charged with training children in the arts of death.
“Heh, go!” Miri commanded and the field went from absolute stillness to frenzied motion. Several pairs did absolutely the wrong thing. Miri headed for Trianna and Ilvin, as Val Con cut off An Der’s charge with a sharp “Hold!”
“An overhead approach is acceptable for machete or broadsword,” he told the boy’s bruised blue eyes. “It is an inefficient technique for survival blade, in that it leaves the attacker vulnerable to a fighter with longer reach. Given the likelihood that the opponent you may eventually face with this blade will be considerably larger than you, the proper thrust is low, to surprise and injure, while making of yourself the smallest possible target. Then, an upthrust to chest or throat—thus.” He demonstrated the sequence against an imaginary giant, reversed the blade and stepped aside. “The drill, if you please. Use your brain; terror wins no battles.”
The boy took the weapon, bowed as student to honored instructor, and again faced his partner. Val Con watched them execute a far more reasoned drill and then moved down-line, pausing as necessary to correct, demonstrate, encourage.
“Heh, up!” The command rang out and all movement stopped.
“Drill done!” Miri called. “Return knives to Kol Vus. All at liberty until mess-call.”
Val Con felt his shoulders sag in relief. It was amazingly tiring, this training of children and the Housebound. He began to walk toward Miri, and saw Emrith Tiazan and Win Den tel’Vosti bearing down on her from the opposite edge of the field.
“Scout!” The big voice bellowed from behind, booming with excitement. Val Con ground his teeth and kept walking; he had no wish to deal with Jason Carmody at this instant.
“Hey, Scout!” Jason insisted. “Over here, double-time! Got something to show you! Number one priority!”
That was final, then. Val Con sighed. A commander’s priority outweighed any desire a man might have to protect his lady from the stresses of dealing with her kin.
He turned, and very nearly stared.
Jase grinned and dragged a sleeve across his forehead, leaving a streak of grime. His well-kept ponytail was in disarray, fine golden hairs pulled loose from the ribbon and standing out from his big head like an aura. His leathers were muddy and scuffed; there was a purpling bruise on one tan cheek, just above the beard-line; and his wide azure eyes were full of demonic glee.
“Look a sight, I’ll wager,” he said cheerfully. “Wasn’t time to find my ball dress, though. This is hot, my son—got somebody you need to talk to!”
Val Con’s heart stuttered. Shan? he thought, then nearly laughed.
Yes, he told himself, very likely. As if Shan is so lacking in wits he’d endanger his ship and the a’nadelm’s life by running an Yxtrang blockade.
“You there, Scout?” Jason’s eyes were sharp on him.
Val Con raised an eyebrow. “I am here, Commander. The question is: Where is this someone I must talk to?”
“Icehouse.” The grin cracked free again, wild with pride. “Man, wait’ll you—Hey, Captain Redhead!”
“Jase,” Miri’s voice was quiet, and a little husky from shouting practice commands. She smiled at Val Con and slid a comfortable arm around his waist.
“They’re lookin’ good out there, darlin’. When you figure on turning ’em loose to whip ass?”
Miri tipped her head and Val Con felt a sharpening in his own psyche, as if he was engaged in weighing values he recognized on some level past mere thought.
“Can take some heat, if you got it to share,” Miri was telling Jason, calmly. “Ain’t up to a pressure-cooker, but I figure to hold our own in a spat.”
“Might have something to share, at that. Depends on what the Scout can get out of—”
“And what,” demanded Emrith Tiazan arriving on Win Den tel’Vosti’s arm, “is of such importance that Captain Robertson must need turn her back on me and walk away?”
There was an instant’s silence.
“You’re top brass, Jase,” Miri muttered, and the big man started slightly before he bowed to the delm.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, schooling his big voice to a polite boom. “I need the Scout and Captain Robertson to step along with me, Priority One.”
tel’Vosti grinned, but Emrith Tiazan only glared, letting the silence stretch until it became a danger even Jason felt. Val Con shifted slightly, drawing the big man’s eyes.
“It is possible,” he murmured, “that Delm Erob will wish to survey this top priority, as well.”
Jason looked doubtful, but produced another bow on the delm’s behalf. “I’d be happy to have your assistance, ma’am—and General tel’Vosti’s, too.”
Erob inclined her head, her arm still twined with tel’Vosti’s.
“Lead on, Commander,” she ordered. “We are delighted to lend our—assistance.”
***
Designed to withstand the rigors of quick-freeze, the vacuum of freeze-drying and, coincidentally, the detonation of a small bomb, Erob’s back-up freeze-plant made an admirable prison. The corporal on guard at the door offered the information that Doc Tien was still inside, guard-crew with her, all according to the commander’s order.
Jason nodded and pointed to the monitor. “Take a look,” he said. “It’s the best I can tell you.”
It was difficult to see anything but the size of the prisoner, with the medic and the guards all around. Still, Val Con felt his pulse quicken even as Miri turned to stare up at Jason.
“What’d you do?” she demanded. “Crack an Yxtrang across the head?”
He grinned. “Damned near broke my carbine. That brother’s head is hard.”
“Yxtrang?” tel’Vosti squinted at the monitor. “You captured an Yxtrang? Alive? My dear Commander! You bring us hope.”
Erob turned her head stiffly.
“Hope?” she snapped. She glared at Jason, for all the worlds like a strike-falcon baiting a bear. “What good is it, Commander? Shall we start a zoo?”
Jason laughed, short and sharp.
“Guess you could at that,” he said, stroking his beard. “Put me and him in the same cage. He’s just about my size, give or take a headache.” He shook his head. “But his worth is what he knows and where he was. Found him up the hunting park. Alone.”
tel’Vosti and Erob got very quiet. “So close?” Val Con murmured and Jason looked down at him, suddenly serious.
“Up on the east ridge,” he said; “buncha hundred meters down from the top. Couple klicks out from where Kritoulkas is holding line—show you on the map.” He grinned again and pointed at the monitor. “But what d’ya think, Scout? Ain’t he a beauty?”
“He does seem to be indicative of his type.” Val Con turned back to the screen, trying to see through a burly guardsman to the prisoner himself. “You say you hit him across the head?”
“From behind,” Jason admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “He’d just got through sending a fongbear on its way and I fell on him like the mountain coming down. Seemed like a good idea, but, damn, then I had to carry him out!”
Miri laughed, eyes on the monitor. “How bad’s he hurt?”
“Doc’s checking. Once I found out I was in one piece I real quick sprayed him with a double-dose of Sleep-it from my medkit. Put his gear in the other room, there. ’Spect the scout’ll want to see it.”
“Will you?” Miri muttered.
Val Con sighed. “I anticipate the need. Jason seems to have surmised that a scout will speak Yxtrang.”
“Oh.” Miri blinked. “Have to rig up a talkie, I guess.”
“Perhaps.” Inside the freezer-bay, the medic had straightened, shut down her monitor and moved towar
d the door, shooing the guards out of her way like so many chickens. Val Con felt himself go cold as her patient was finally and fully revealed.
Something of his shock must have reached Miri through their lifemate link. She leaned close. “Boss? You OK?”
“OK—yes.” He spun as the door opened, claiming the doctor’s attention with a hand-wave.
“That man—is he whole?”
She shrugged, Terran-wise. “He’ll do. Sleeping pretty sound.” She glanced down at the med-comp. “If he’s got reactions anywhere approximating a Terran of like mass, he ought to be out of it in forty minutes—an hour at the outside.”
“Hour to look at his stuff,” Jason said. “And to figure out how best to ask him.” He paused and looked straight at Val Con. “You can talk to this guy OK, can’t you, son?”
“Talk to it!” Emrith Tiazan repeated, somewhere between horror and fury. “Korval—are you able to speak to that thing?”
But Val Con was at the monitor now, studying the image of the man in the room beyond, thinner than his length predicted, stretched across a bed made of six hastily arranged packing crates, and covered with a standard merc pack-blanket. His short-cropped hair was light brown in color, the features of his face indistinct behind an intricate mask of tattoo.
“Korval.” Erob again. He was mightily weary of Erob all at once, as he was weary of Jason and the war they had not yet engaged. This man here. This man. . .
“Korval!” Emrith Tiazan snapped, no doubt relying on the Command Mode to turn him. “I require response. Are you able to persuade that thing to speak to the point?”
It was a wrenching effort of will to turn away from the monitor and the image of the sleeping giant. He came about slowly, feeling his face stiffen into unaccustomed lines, as it would, of course, following the tutelage of the old tapes. He felt the proper phrase rise to consciousness, and then to his lips.
Erob’s face showed fear; tel’Vosti’s disquiet. Jason actively goggled. Miri alone moved—to stand between himself and her delm, and to lay her hand upon his sleeve.