Acorna's Quest

by Anne McCaffrey

  “We will not take it easy,” Des contradicted him. “We’ve got just six hours Standard and who knows what goodies to collect and stash in that time.”

  At the rendezvous landing they were met by a sweating dirt farmer who offered them their choice of datacubes or a hand-drawn map showing where he thought most of the outlying settlements were. Des was about to spurn the paper map when Ed discovered that the datacubes were in a format incompatible with the shuttle’s computer. “Okay, okay, we’ll take the map,” he said, grabbing it before some of his colleagues could make the same discovery.

  Captain Ce’skwa glanced at the map and quickly assigned each of the four shuttles on outlier duty to a different quadrant. Des grinned in satisfaction as he saw the generous sprinkle of X’s marking probable settler huts all over his quadrant.

  “Eager for work, Smirnoff?” Ce’skwa said drily. “You surprise me.”

  “Hope to continue doing so, ma’am!”

  As she turned to the next pair of pilots, he continued under his breath to list the ways he’d like to surprise the uppity, interfering bitch, then snarled at Ed. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get going! We’ve only five and three-quarter hours Standard left to collect…all these poor, unfortunate souls,” he finished with a sanctimonious smirk.

  The first two places they flew over looked not only deserted but too poor to be worth looting: ramshackle huts whose roof timbers had been lifted off by some freak wind, the interiors soaked by torrential rains. “Nobody’s lived here for some time,” Des grunted, “if you could call that living…and if there was any good stuff, it’s long gone or buried in mud. Whoever built here was an idiot anyway; obviously the area is subject to flooding—he shouldn’t have settled on low ground.”

  The third place looked more promising. A long, low stone building tucked into the shelter of a cleft in a rocky hillside, it had been high enough to escape the floods, and the cliff must have sheltered it from the worst of the storms that had devastated the forest at the top of the hill. Des’s eyes sparkled, and he guided the shuttle to a landing place on a barren outcrop of rock above the building. “Now this looks more like it!”

  The scramble down to the building was rougher than it had looked from the air; the thin layer of topsoil over the rocks had been washed away by pounding rains, leaving a barren, slippery surface with precious little to hold on to and not even any good footholds. Ed wished that Des had landed in one of the waterlogged fields below the house instead, but he knew that saying anything would only ignite Smirnoff’s temper and would not spare him the slippery descent. He took his time, though, testing what miserable footholds he could find and tugging firmly on roots before trusting his weight to them. Des slid recklessly down, bouncing and bruising his anatomy on various outcropping ledges of rock, got to his feet at the base of the cleft, and lumbered toward the house, blaster in hand, before Ed had even finished praying to all the gods he could bring to mind that he wouldn’t break his neck on the last fifteen feet of the descent.

  He was dangling by one hand, eyes closed, feeling for the ledge that had bruised Des on his descent and praying that the burly man hadn’t broken the rock off entirely, when a bellow of delight from within the house startled him into letting go and dropping the last few feet.

  “Minkus! Get your worthless butt in here and help me shift this stuff!”

  “Shit,” Ed said, not exactly in reply, “I think I broke something.”

  “You better not have, ol’ buddy,” was the response. “If I have to choose between carrying you back to the shuttle or carrying this load of furs, well, the furs have some market value….”

  With this encouragement, Ed limped as far as the outer door of the house—more of an elongated cabin, really—and decided that his right ankle was not really broken after all. Sprained, maybe. A bad sprain. He ought to be lying down with his foot up and an ice pack on the sprain, not hobbling around pretending to rescue settlers. Whose idea had it been to join the Red Bracelets anyway? Probably Smirnoff’s, but he couldn’t remember for sure. They had both engaged in some heavy drinking after being thrown out of the Kezdet Guardians for embezzlement, peculation, and abuse of suspects to a degree that revolted even the other Guardians.

  It had been after one of those drinking parties and the subsequent blackout that Ed had wakened to find himself dressed in a gray uniform and being addressed as “Scumsucker,” by the broad he had quickly learned to call “Captain Ce’skwa, ma’am!” What followed had been the most strenuous and miserable weeks of his life; Captain Ce’skwa had a talent for convincing them that they would really rather attempt whatever bone-crunching, muscle-tearing “exercise” she assigned than explain their failure to her.

  And that had been the officers’ training; his and Smirnoff’s experience in the Kezdet Guardians had at least bought them a single red bracelet apiece on entry. He didn’t even want to think about what the rank and file of the mercenaries went through as basic training.

  Now he turned a jaundiced eye toward the stack of half-cured furs Smirnoff was fondling and inquired where exactly Smirnoff planned to stash those things that they wouldn’t be noticed by Captain Ce’skwa. “They stink, too,” he pointed out. “Whoever had this place wasn’t through tanning them when he lit out. Even if you could hide them, she’d be bound to notice the smell. I’m sorry, Des. We need to look for smaller stuff.”

  Des scowled. “Do you know how much furs of this quality would fetch in the Zaspala Imperium? And I’ve got a perfect fence…uh, buyer; my cousin Vlad has a furrier’s and tailor’s emporium, caters to the Zaspala aristos. Shit!”

  And he signaled his acceptance of Ed’s strictures by whirling the bundle of furs around at arm’s length, then tossing it at the open cabin door. Ed dodged. The bundle landed with a thud, the bindings split, and furs spilled out into the thick black mud left by the rains that seemed to have assaulted this whole area.

  Des dropped his blaster and went through the cabin with the recklessness of rage, spilling out food stores in case they contained jewels or antique money, smashing crude pottery cups and dishes that all too obviously had no resale value even on Rushima, let alone anywhere civilized. While he smashed and destroyed he cursed monotonously, taking out his disappointment over the furs on the inanimate objects in his path.

  “Why couldn’t the jerk have been a prospector instead of a fur trapper?” he demanded of the ceiling.

  “He is,” cackled a dry, crackling voice behind them. “One-One Otimie, explorer, trapper, prospector, and misanthrope extraordinary, at your service, gentlemen! Don’t do anything reckless, now; I ain’t real familiar with this here de-vice, wouldn’t want to set it off accidental like.”

  Both men turned slowly to see a dried-up little stick of a man in the doorway, holding Des’s blaster with two dismayingly shaky hands.

  “Broadcast said as the enemy was comin’, and we was to clear out,” One-One said with a cackle, “but I don’t reckon on leavin’ my place to no in-vaders, nosirree! You fellas was turrible careless and noisy. Give me plenty of time to hide out up yander.” He jerked his head toward the cliff they’d descended with such pains.

  Des glanced at Ed and moved his head slightly to the left. Ed knew what he was thinking: if they got far enough apart, the old geezer wouldn’t be able to keep the blaster trained on them both, and while he shot at one the other would be able to tackle him. But what, Ed thought, if he was the one who got blasted? Damn it! He’d known the Red Bracelets was no outfit for him.

  “No TACTICS?” Rafik raised both arms in total incredulity and flopped back into his chair. “You’ve been captured, tortured, pursued for generations. You’ve had your home world disintegrated, and you have still developed NO TACTICS to fight these Khleevi?”

  Gill, Calum, and Ikwaskwan looked equally confounded by Melireenya’s remonstrative expression.

  “Linyaari do not kill.”

  “That’s fine and dandy if someone isn’t trying to kill you,” Johnny Gree
ne said.

  “You mean all you’ve been doing since those…those devils started extinguishing your race was run and tell everyone the wolves are coming?” Rafik asked, still staring with disbelief at the calm Linyaari.

  “No, we have…designed defensive weaponry,” Thariinye said, not at all liking Rafik’s reaction. “We have designed ships—”

  “Which can outrun them,” Rafik finished for him, as Thariinye drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height with indignation. “Fine, fine. Do you know what sort of firepower they have? What sort of weaponry they can bring to bear on us?” Rafik had risen, come out from behind the table, and was advancing on the tall Linyaari in as belligerent a pose as anyone had ever seen him use on another sentient being. “Because we sure as hell are NOT running away. Nor are you in that fancy fast ship of yours. The chips are down, the game is up, and it’s here or never.” Rafik finger-combed his hair back into order because he had been emphasizing his words so vehemently, his longish hair half covered his face.

  “We, too, are armed and ready,” Khaari said firmly. “They”—she pointed to the phalanx of Khleevi ships—“have missiles of great strength, capable of destroying all but your largest ships…” Khaari found herself unable to get out the syllables of the mercenary leader’s name. “…Add-mee-ral,” she got out. “They attack and attack until the ship is so…made holes in…that it can no longer return fire.”

  “That’s not tactics,” Rafik muttered, “that’s suicide. At least”—he glanced thankfully at Ikwaskwan—“we’ve the proper attitude and experience to hand right now.” He went to the screen. “Have your ships power enough to flank them, Ikwaskwan?”

  “Of course we do, and considerably more firepower than they are likely to have if all their kills have been as easy as these horned types say. I mean, no contest. Go for the drive, the bridge, a few shots midships, and you’ve disabled it.”

  “Now that the settlers are safe,” Melireenya said, “would it not be wiser to depart this system before the Khleevi arrive? Thus no one will be harmed.”

  “This time,” Rafik said. “Your own experience has shown that running away won’t work forever. And we barbarian bipeds have a strange reluctance to hand over real estate we’ve worked hard to claim.”

  Acorna felt enclosed in an isolation cell from all that was said around and about her. Somehow, in those few moments she’d allowed herself to envision her “own kind,” she thought they’d be…well, wiser. More aloof, more self-contained: not that Melireenya wasn’t, but Thariinye stood there with this supercilious expression on his face, which didn’t become him at all, and he obviously loathed Rafik for making all Linyaari seem craven. But, if you weren’t raised to kill, or hate, or scrabble for a living as her Kezdetian children had, why would you need to know tactics?

  (One uses tactics in maintaining peace and accord, ’Khornya,) said the soft voice of Melireenya. (But, at first all we could do was run, or be certain none of us were captured alive. The vid we showed you is from our earliest contact with the Khleevi. And it was your father who invented the most devastating weapon we have. We dare not use it against the Khleevi because it destroys the destroyer as well. So we do not mention it until there is no other recourse. Do not fault us that we have been tardy in learning the skills of aggression and the weapons of defense. Had we not come to warn you, you would not have known the threat approaching you now.)

  Though Melireenya stood on the opposite side of the conference room, Acorna was abruptly “in” the room again and not isolated from her kind or her defenders.

  “So, let’s get this tub”—Rafik paused to bow a smiling apology to Andreziana—“behind the moon, where it is not immediately apparent to the enemy converging not so slowly but very surely upon us. You don’t want to have a few of Admiral’s Ikwaskwan’s gunnery officers stay aboard the Haven, do you?”

  “I’m gunnery officer,” Johnny Greene said, appointing himself into that position on the spot.

  The flush of indignation faded from ’Ziana’s cheeks. “We’ve all had battery practice, Admiral. We’ll pick off anything that eludes your attack.”

  “Well, now, will ya, li’l lady?” Ikwaskwan’s eyes glittered.

  “Leave it, Ikki,” Nadhari murmured, and the light in the Kilumbembese mercenary’s eyes dimmed to their normal shrewd gleam.

  And, suddenly everyone was leaving to whatever posts they had been assigned, and Acorna was alone.

  (’Khornya,)—Thariinye leaned into the room again, smiling an invitation at her—(you’re with us.)

  Calum pushed past Thariinye and got her by the arm. “You’ll be on the Acadecki. Rafik thinks we can move nonessentials about and make room for more ammunition. Even if we didn’t fit in the extra banks Pal wanted, if we have enough ammunition, we’ll achieve the same effect. More or less. If we get the chance.”

  Acorna accompanied Calum, but she bestowed an apologetic smile on Thariinye and a soft (good luck) as she passed by him. He was still watching her when she and Calum took the grav shaft down to the hangar level.

  What Rafik thought of as nonessential was not so regarded by either Calum or Acorna, but in the end they acceded to his demands, and racks of additional missiles were stacked wherever there was room for them, up to and including Acorna’s cabin, the space where her escape pod had been strapped, against the walls of the main lounge, Calum’s bunk, and the spare cabins. The bunks happened to be exactly the same length as the missiles, and eight were strapped on top of the mattresses.

  This was done with great effort and much sweating and swearing, finished just in time to hear the Klaxon that warned of an important message about to be given.

  “Captain Andreziana here. Ikwaskwan reports that Rushima can be considered cleared of settlers. There is one shuttle still missing, but it is expected to report shortly.

  “We will now proceed to our assigned position. All escort ships please prepare to disembark. And good luck, Acadecki, Balakiire.”

  “Good luck to you, Haven,” Rafik said, reaching across the control panel to open the comlink. He settled himself in the pilot’s chair, and, turning his head, said, “Prepare to leave the hangar.”

  “Hey, I pilot the Acadecki,” Calum said, pushing at Rafik to leave the chair.

  “I’m the tactician, remember,” Rafik said as his slim brown fingers flew across the control panel. “You’re the mathematician. And whichever you are, strap in.”

  Calum was still mumbling under his breath when he complied. Acorna muffled a giggle, and Gill turned his head away. To herself she thought how much like Thariinye and Khaari Calum and Rafik sounded.

  (Not a bit like that undersized egotistical by-blow of a twilit and a barsipan,) said Thariinye’s voice in her head.

  (Do be quiet,) Melireenya said at her firmest.

  Despite the speed at which Rafik prepared the Acadecki for takeoff, the Linyaari ship had already slipped out of its hangar position and was speeding to take its position in the battle line.

  Fifteen

  Acadecki, Unified Federation Date 334.05.26

  The Kilumbembese mercenaries got back in the nick of time from ferrying as many of the Rushimese to safety as possible. As the combined space force of the Kilumbembese, the gaudy Linyaari courier ship, the three armed pinnaces of the Haven, the Uhuru under Nadhari’s command, and the Acadecki—with Rafik in the pilot’s seat—ranged themselves in their assigned battle positions, a certain steely calm descended in the main cabin of the Acadecki. The pinnaces were a last-minute addition, but they upped the odds against the Khleevi squadron.

  Ikwaskwan had decided on a frontal approach. If things went as planned, as soon as the ships came into firing range, the coalition defending Rushima should divide their forces into two, confining the Khleevi within their pincers. This meant that each of the larger ships could bring its port or starboard missiles into action, swing around, and come back to deliver a second blow to the attacking ships. If any of the Khleevi ships should break off f
or a direct attack on the helpless planet, the smaller ships should attempt to slow their progress and/or their landing.

  “Naval maneuvers need not be complicated, especially when we have never fought with you before,” Ikwaskwan said. Rafik would have preferred a more sophisticated or subtle attack, but he had none to offer. These weren’t asteroids he was attempting to make surrender their valuables, but sapient—although that was not a certainty—aggressors who had managed to terrorize the more sophisticated Linyaari. At least more sophisticated in some areas of technology.

  The Khleevi liked to fight, so a fight they would get. Only this time the buggers wouldn’t win so easily. The heir to House Harakamian was no lifesaving altruist: he was the descendant of red-blooded warriors who had for millennia taken by force what they desired, and held on to it. Since bargains were impossible with the Khleevi and force the only thing they understood, he would fight them as they had never seen fighting before.

  Nevertheless, when the first, seemingly endless missiles spurted out of the Khleevi vanguard, Rafik prayed to those warrior ancestors with a fervor he had never before used. It was Gill who triggered the Acadecki’s missile ranks. He heard Acorna applauding, then Calum raging at Markel…who shouldn’t be on board this ship…and then Gill tapped him on the shoulder.

  “We’re reloaded. Your turn.”

  This time, Rafik snarled as he sent more missiles after the first lot and recoiled at the bursts of flame and spewed fragments as the Acadecki’s missiles contacted and exploded the oncoming Khleevi warheads.

  “Sheer off, we’re going right into the mess,” Gill cried, and Rafik hit the thrusters in a two-second blast that took the ship safely away, and their proximity sensors indicated they had missed being blown up by the skin of their collective teeth. Suddenly it was Gill in the pilot seat, though how he had relocated Rafik in the second chair, the heir did not know. But Gill’s lips exposed his bared teeth in a snarl, and the intense expression on the big man’s face suggested that his ancient Viking ancestors were a lot more accessible than Rafik’s warriors.