Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  “I see it.” He flicked toggles, shunting computer time to the analysis board, which gobbled every nanosecond greedily—and offered up a schematic of the problem: The pod’s energy and remaining ionized mass was caught between the shield layers, trapping the ship within a hollow sphere of deadly energy. If that searing plasma touched the Passage—

  “Ren Zel, cycle the outer shield down to 200 kilogauss if you please. I’ll take the inner up as high as I dare—and then you’ll cut entire. On my mark.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Mark.”

  “Two, Captain. One, Captain. Half. Quarter. Tenth—down!”

  Shan nodded, though Ren Zel was too busy to see, and phased the inner shield up. The maneuver was chancy, placing the lighter coils of the meteor shields at risk—but that was minor for the moment—

  He felt it then, as would the rest of the crew: the grate of a piercing headache as the magnetic and other fields phased in, coursed through the controlled shield and leaked into the ship.

  Shan grimaced and cut back, watching the main screen as he did, seeing the filtering levels falling, falling . . .

  “Engineering, magnetics check. All nonessential crew, magnetics check!” Priscilla’s voice cracked over general in-ship as Shan brought the shields to a more reasonable level and the remains of the weapons pod blew into space like the gaseous nebular remnant of a supernova.

  “Air report!”

  “Under control, Captain. The pod bay took a direct strike from debris—a twelve centimeter hole and twenty centimeters of fracture.”

  Shan shuddered. Debris coming through an armored pod door with that much force—he could have lost a dozen people!

  “We’ve got a temporary patch up,” Priscilla continued. “We can replace that whole wall with a modular fix once we’re—”

  “Position report, Captain. Tactical report, Captain.” Ren Zel’s voice betrayed nothing, pitched exactly loud enough to override Priscilla’s report.

  “Tactical?” Shan asked.

  “Tactical,” Ren Zel affirmed. “There are warships all over this system . . .”

  “Tower here! Shan, this feed—” snapped Rusty, quickly followed by Liaden-accented Trade: “. . . system is under attack by Yxtrang. Repeat, this system is under attack by Yxtrang. All shipping be warned. Flee and bring aid. This message by order of Erob.”

  “That’s from a booster transmitter somewhere about six hours out,” Rusty said. “I—”

  “Bastards! Got you now! Ah-hah! We got you now!”

  “No chatter!” Shan called out against Seth’s bloodthirsty glee, and looked to Ren Zel, who was coolly accessing the military files available to his key.

  “Hold a moment, pilot,” he said quietly. “I have additional information here.”

  IDs blossomed across the long-screen as he shunted the auxiliary files available to the captain and first mate.

  What Shan noticed first was the battleship, flanked by two cruisers.

  The second thing he noticed were the swarm of smaller vessels, in-system strike-ships, clustered around the dreadnought like bees around a teel blossom.

  The portion of his mind not engaged on the level of sight nudged him into awareness that the feed from the system beacon was still coming through, and that he was hearing—music. Heartbreakingly familiar music.

  Val Con had made it to Erob.

  It was Priscilla who noticed the other thing, and who said it quietly, on private line from her station to his.

  “They’ve landed on Lytaxin, Shan.”

  Shan nodded and leaned back in the pilot’s chair.

  “So they have, Priscilla,” he said, staring at the tactical screen, where the blockade was outlined, ship by deadly ship, cutting the Dutiful Passage off from Val Con—and from Korval’s future.

  He sighed.

  “So they have.”

  ***

  The annunciator sounded as Shan began the calculations necessary for the final definition of the secondary equation. He called “Come!” without taking notice of the fact and dove deeper into the beguiling intricacies of vector-graphs, real-time movement, gravitational fluctuations, relative mass ratios, velocity transfer rate, and the potentiality of random speed shift.

  A spiraling approach such as the Passage was currently committed to was impossibly complicated even without an Yxtrang armada between them and the target planet, he thought hazily, manipulating factors of seven. The math comp suggested applying a factor of 267 to shift potential and he OKed that with a finger-tap.

  Not that the Yxtrang had taken any particular note of the battleship in their midst, after an initial flutter of radio exclamation. It was to be expected, however, that they were reserving their most serious displeasure for the Passage’s closest approach, and if one extrapolated a grav-flux rate directly proportional to the movement of the primary natural satellite. . .

  Equation framed, the computer announced some little time later. Shan blinked at the screen.

  “So you say.” He sighed and leaned back, calling up a Healer’s relaxation drill to chase away the ache in shoulders and back.

  “Well,” he said to the computer, tapping the go key. “If you think you’ve got it framed, let’s see it, don’t be shy.”

  “Captain?”

  “Eh?” He glanced up, blinked the larger room into focus, and blinked again as he discovered the figure of his foster son, perched uneasily on the edge of one of the two visitor’s chairs across the desk.

  “Hello, Gordy. I didn’t hear you come in, but I expect I must have let you in, mustn’t I? Math does such very odd things to one’s perceptions, don’t you find?”

  “Sometimes.” Gordy’s face was paler than usual and showing heretofore unsuspected lines. He pointed at Shan’s computer. “I’ve been doing some math myself, if you’ve got a minute to check me.”

  Such seriousness. One should not have lines of grimness sharpening one’s features at nineteen. Shan sighed and extended a long arm, saving the frame with a rapid series of keystrokes. He glanced up again.

  “The name of your file is?”

  “Murder.”

  Shan stared, ran a quick scan of that utterly serious emotive pattern and lifted both brows. “Auspicious.”

  The corners of Gordy’s mouth tightened, in no way a smile, and he folded his hands tightly together on his knee. “Yessir.”

  Murder was a series of three interlocking equations, as deceptively simple as haiku. Shan’s hands went cold on the keypad as he scanned them. He looked at Gordy, sitting so still he fairly quivered with strain.

  “These are quite attractive. Would you mind awfully if I frame my own set?”

  Some of the stress eased from the boy’s eyes. “I was hoping you would.”

  “Fine. A few moments’ grace, please. Get yourself something to drink, child—and bring me a glass of the red, if you will.”

  “Yes, Father.” Melant’i shift—and of a sort one rarely had from Gordy, who was after all a halfling, and full of a great many useless notions regarding dignity. Shan returned his attention to the screen.

  Fifteen minutes later, he sat back and picked up his glass, tasting the wine before he looked across at the waiting boy.

  “I regret to say that your projections seem accurate in the extreme. My own calculations indicate explosive conditions reached eight nanoseconds before your model, but I suspect this is merely a reflection of the difference in our ages. Youth is ever optimistic.”

  Again, the tightening of the mouth, while the brown eyes shone with abrupt tears.

  “I ran a sim,” he said, voice grating huskily and then cracking. “Worst case, we lose everybody, Shan.”

  “Precisely why it’s called worst case.” He tipped back in his chair and had another sip of wine. “Don’t look so ill, child. You’ve served warning. The patch on that thrice-damned pod is an unacceptable stress point. If we have to maneuver suddenly—if we have to maneuver and fire at the same time—poof! As you say,
we lose everybody.” He shrugged.

  “Nothing for it but to go out and do a proper fix.”

  Gordy stared. “With all those Yxtrang out there?”

  “Well,” said Shan, with a casualness Priscilla would have known was all sham, “I don’t expect they’re going to be leaving soon, do you?”

  ***

  “You are not going out there to repair that pod mount!”

  Shan paused with the wine glass halfway to his lips, face etched in disbelief. “Your pardon, Priscilla? I cannot believe that I heard you correctly.”

  Black eyes flashed and her mouth tightened ominously. “You heard me.”

  “Well, if you will have it, I did.” He moved to the bar and set the untasted glass next to the decanter of red before turning to her again, a frown on his face. “Need I remind you that I am captain of this vessel?”

  “All the more reason for you to stay away and let someone else do it!” she cried, body taut as a harpstring, projecting passion with such force Shan’s teeth ached.

  He took a deep breath. “I suppose you have someone else in mind?” He inquired, keeping any hint of irony out of his voice.

  Priscilla glared. “Yes, I do. Me.”

  “Oh, much better!” he approved, and the irony this time was impossible to leash.

  He was warned by the flare of heat against his cheek, had time to think a thought and reach before the wine erupted from the goblet and, given direction by Priscilla’s fury, smashed into a storm of blood-red droplets a whisker’s breadth from his face.

  “Oh dear,” Shan said softly, looking down at the carpet. “We seem to have made a mess, Priscilla.”

  “A mess . . .” She was looking a trifle dazed, as well she might. The amount of finely tuned energy required to move a coherent volume of wine the specified distance with such rapidity and without breaking the goblet was certainly considerable. She closed her eyes and whispered something Shan thought sounded suspiciously like, “Mother grant me patience,” before opening them again.

  “Shan,” she said carefully; “what is that?”

  “That?” He caught the glimmer of what his construct must look like to her Inner Eyes and smiled.

  “Oh, that! Well, I don’t know how it should happen, Priscilla, but I became concerned that you might be going to dash a glass of wine into my face. Given the conviction, I thought it expedient to arrange for a shield of sorts. Pretty clever I thought it, too, especially on such short notice. But now I perceive that I should have arranged for something a bit more—encompassing—for here’s the carpet, all spotted up and—”

  “Damn the carpet! Shan—” Passion of a different sort broke and he found his eyes full even as hers spilled over and she was that quickly across the room, cupping his face in her hands.

  “Shan, for sweet love’s sake, don’t go out there! Something—something horrible—will happen. I—”

  Gently, he put his own hands up, running his fingers into her black curls and looking closely into her eyes. “A foretelling, Priscilla? Something that you know is true?”

  His palms were wet with her tears. He saw the uncertainty in the back of her eyes before she shook her head. “I—I’m not sure.” Passion flared once more. “Let me do it. The tests—”

  “The tests show that you rate either excellent in manipulation and very good on speed or very good in manipulation and excellent in speed. The same tests show that the captain rates consistently excellent in both manipulation and speed. We have two Master pilots on this ship—the captain and the first mate. It’s sensible to have one with the ship at all times. Since I out-test you on the repair module—just barely, I admit it!—and since speed and manipulative excellence are both very likely to be factors in making the needed repairs, I am the best choice.” He sighed and dropped all shields, letting her see the truth in him.

  “This is no act of heroism, I swear it to you. If Ren Zel, Seth, or Thrina were more able, the task would be theirs.”

  Priscilla’s face was troubled. “But not mine,” she murmured.

  Truth was truth, and only truth was owed, between lifemates. “Only,” he admitted, “under severest compulsion.”

  She stepped away from him, shaking her head. “You’d rather make me watch you die.”

  “But I have no intention of dying, Priscilla!” he cried, with counterfeit gaiety.

  And felt her pain in his own heart, twisting like a sudden knife.

  ***

  Outside repair was tedious, nerve-wracking work, in this case made more nerve-wracking by the interested presence of several Yxtrang warships. That the residents of the warships were more than a little vocal in their interest had early on moved Shan to cut his open beams to three: direct to the Passage, direct to Seth, and conference.

  Seth was assigned as pointguard between Shan and the interested enemy, a task he undertook with a worrisome degree of enthusiasm. However, though two flights of insystem fighters had passed foolishly close to the edge of the Passage’s range during the last few hours of welding, sweating and swearing, Seth, the Passage and the Yxtrang had all managed to keep fingers from firing studs. Shan indiscriminately thanked every god and goddess he could think of for this rare display of moderation on all sides, and sweated even more in the heavy-duty suit, in an agony to finish before someone mislaid their common sense.

  “I believe that’s sealed,” he murmured at too long last. “Ren Zel, check me, if you please. I don’t really feel up to coming back outside tomorrow to patch the keyhole.”

  “Equations set and sim running, Captain.” Ren Zel’s smooth-toned and proper Liaden voice was as bracing as a cool breeze. “We have compliance to the one hundredth and fifth percentile, Captain.”

  Relief so exquisite it was almost pain. “Wonderful. Seth, my sharpshooter, we’re going back inside. Allow me, in the fullness of time, to buy you a glass of that reprehensible rotgut you drink.”

  “You’re on—ah, hell, here we go again. Yxtrang flight-squad just inside eyes-screen eight. Must be flying school today.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not target practice, shall we?”

  “They’ve been real polite so far,” Seth commented. “I’ll swing out and give you some room, Captain. The sooner I get a glass of rotgut in my hand, the happier I’m going to be.”

  “Spoken like a sane man, Mr. Johnson. Back off to vector sigma-eight-three, and I’ll slide around to Bay Six.”

  “Gotcha. Changing vector—now.”

  “Passage note following vectors and track. Intend to intersect with Bay Six in—Seth! Screen four!”

  Two of the Yxtrang craft had peeled out of formation, local velocity increasing to an insane level. Seth threw his own vessel into an evasive tumble that should have skated him toward the Passage’s well-protected belly and safety. Of a sort.

  But Seth did not choose the life-saving maneuver. Instead, his tumble spun him away from the Passage, vectoring with the Yxtrang fighters.

  One came after him, gun turrets tracking as they held the target despite the craft’s maneuvering. The second fighter kept on—a straight, one would have said suicidal, run in toward the heart of the Passage. Toward Shan.

  Multiple voices filled the void’s radio frequencies. Shan’s “Seth, return to ship!” was nearly overwhelmed by Priscilla’s calm, “Safety interlocks off, full battle condition. On my mark, gunners.”

  Seth’s voice broke into the end of Priscilla’s instructions, on the dedicated beam between the lifeboats. “One family’s enough. I’m on your man. They’re after the lock.”

  It was all true in the tumbling way things happen in space; Seth’s course had altered enough that his gun was tracking the lead enemy, the ship tracking him began to maneuver its way closer, and the lead Yxtrang was closing rapidly on both Shan and the lock he’d need to enter.

  “Your screen six,” came Priscilla’s calm voice, this time tinged with an ice that made even Shan’s blood run cold. “This is the attack. Gunners, your mark. Three and Five spot
Seth. Teams Four and Six spot the captain. Everyone else—standard defense.”

  Screen six showed a flight of five fighters whose meandering courses had suddenly become one.

  The fighter tracking Shan veered away from the collision course, and Shan’s reflexes brought him back toward the lock, and then away, away. . .

  “Shan, we . . .”

  “Can’t risk an open lock. I’ll loop around and see . . .”

  “They’re pairing up on you, Shan,” came Seth’s warning.

  Shan felt a momentary touch of love so sweet and full it nearly overwhelmed him. Then he felt a wrenching he understood all too well; Priscilla had gone behind her strongest shields, as she must. As he must.

  “Shan, close in on pod four!” Seth urged.

  Shan cursed the little lifeboat: fighter it was not, despite the add-on guns. More massive than the fighters by dint of its planetary capability, it was never meant to fight a space battle.

  His stabbed at the release button, flinging the valuable remote repair unit into space to gain a measure of response.

  “Shan!”

  Seth’s scream came at the instant the first Yxtrang fired; then there was static and a missile to be dodged and another. Shan felt the g-forces pushing him sideways as the little craft answered helm and then the first Yxtrang ship was pieces in the void as Seth’s elation echoed across the radio and the second Yxtrang was turning ever so quickly for another run at Shan.

  Shan’s screens glared bright as Dutiful Passage went to war.

  ***

  The very first concern was the larger fighter flight; the two that were behind that, closing at high speed with some larger ships intermingled, would wait.

  Priscilla ignored the screen that showed Shan’s ship: he’d done as Seth suggested and closed in on the Passage as best he could. Her concern now was weapon-mix and security; it wouldn’t do to show their full capability quite yet.

  “Team Two,” she said quietly into her mike. “Fire at will.”

  The ship’s automatics cut in. She felt the minute tremble as the guns began their rapid fire and the ship compensated. It would be seconds before the Yxtrang crossed their path, and a good radar system might give them warning. Priscilla spoke to the mike again.