Restoree

by Anne McCaffrey

  I had to make myself look at the sphere. Its story dried up the saliva in my mouth. I was certain the pounding of my heart would be audible.

  Tane had been bypassed. Empty space separated the straggling Lotharian space fleet from the home planet. The blips of light that were our defenders resembled a tiny crystal string of beads thrown casually on a jeweler’s velvet around a pendant of twenty-three bright diamonds in random pattern. The beads circumscribed no circle; one end, the Ertoi and Glan contingent being too far out to complete even the roughest circular formation. Ferrill’s groan was not noted by anyone.

  At first I wondered why the Mil would let themselves be even so loosely encircled. Then I remembered that the Mil in space would wreak terrible losses, so they could be arrogant about our puny trap. I watched the beads, still loose, but slowly, slowly perfecting their circle. They drifted at the same time with such snail slowness toward Lothar. Ertoi and Glan became stationary, being uppermost to Lothar; below and beyond it, I could see the barely larger blips that were the four Star-class Lothar battlewagons in their major compass-point positions. The pendant moved inexorably and the rear quadrants moved still closer, the uneven beads gradually, gradually settling into a rough circle.

  I had been so fascinated with the fleet movement that I had not noticed the movements of the Mil pendant. Once a mass of light, it now began to lose its compactness and to string out into a rough line.

  Jokan groaned and twisted his tense body in an unconscious effort to bunch the Mil ships back into their former position. Stannall covered his face for a moment, with a shaking hand. When he turned to Jokan, I was aghast at the exhaustion and hopelessness of his expression.

  “That maneuver, doesn’t it decrease the effectiveness of the resonant barrage?” he asked, hoping to hear the contrary.

  “It depends, sir, it all depends.”

  “On what?” Stannall demanded fiercely.

  “On how much our men can stand of the backlash from the electromagnetos that generate the resonance. If we can saturate the Mil ships with enough force, their belated dispersal means nothing.” Jokan clenched his jaws grimly. “I wish we had had time to develop effective shielding for the power-bleed. At the moment,” he continued in answer to Stannall, “we can be sure of this section being completely paralyzed,” and his finger stabbed at the center of the Mil pendant. “Partial disability on either end and, with luck, our normal tactics can take care of the rest.”

  “If they string out farther?” Stannall dragged the words from his mouth.

  “The decrease in total disability is proportional. Individual engagements increase.”

  Stannall’s expression was desperate and his lips, thinned by fatigue to white lines, closed obdurately over his teeth.

  We waited. Glances at the time dial were more frequent. It lacked but a few moments of the hour set for the barrage. Jokan was counting off nervously to himself and someone else on the other side of the room counted out loud. I was not the only one to mouth the seconds in concert.

  Zero hour!

  The tank remained unchanged. I don’t know what I expected to happen. How much of a time lag there was between the ships and the tank I didn’t know but the next moments or minutes seemed eternities.

  A new voice broke the stillness. Glancing up I saw that a patroller was standing before the master panel that checked the condition of the ships. His voice, dispassionate and measured, brought us no consolation.

  “No casualties. Two minutes and no casualties. All ships functioning. Three minutes and no casualties.”

  No casualties, my brain, echoed. What an odd war. Bloodless, remotely fought, remotely observed. Would death, too, seem remote to the dying? Fear, however, was not remote. It laid lavish hands on everyone in that room, on everyone, I was sure, on those ships and on the planet of Lothar.

  “No casualties,” the drone continued.

  The intervals between his litany lengthened and suddenly, unable to watch the unchanged picture longer, Stannall whirled on Jokan.

  “Nothing has happened. How long does it take?” he cried in tense, strident tones that echoed through the fear-filled room with piercing audibility. Someone started to sob and stopped, choking the sound back.

  “The maximum vibrations for the Mil should build in no less than six minutes,” Jokan said tonelessly. “The beam is played across the ship for maximum effect. We count on the fact that the Mil cannot initiate evasive tactics at high acceleration speeds as we can. The longer they remain within the effective range of the beam, the quicker the resultant destructive resonance is reached.”

  Someone was counting the seconds again. Still the formation of the ships, all the ships, remained the same, a circle of beads tightening slowly around the menacing gaggle of Mil ships. The man had counted to ten minutes past the zero hour before a voice, in the anguish of waiting, shrieked for him to stop. The circle of beads tightened, drifting ever upward toward the system of Lothar.

  “It isn’t working, that’s what’s wrong,” a beefy Councilman snapped, his voice trembling. “That puny electricity doesn’t work. Fathor stopped that research. He must have had a reason. They don’t work, that’s what, and we’ll all . . .”

  “All ships functioning,” the official voice, calm and deliberate, broke in. “No casualties.”

  “Look, look,” someone cried, gesticulating toward the tank.

  The string of beads was breaking up, splitting into smaller circles, driving for the ends of the Mil line.

  “They’re using the suicide ships now. The resonators didn’t work at all. We’re lost. The Mil will be here,” a man beyond Stannall blubbered.

  Stannall strode to his side in three swift paces and, although the fellow was younger and heavier, the First Councilman fetched him four sharp cracks across the face and turned defiantly to face the room.

  “If the Mil should come, we will be ready with the courage and fortitude which have brought us so far along the road to freedom from their awful raiding. Let no one else forget his valiant heritage.”

  “One suicide ship casualty,” the announcer droned. “All others functioning.”

  On the tank, a small expanding glow appeared and then one bead blinked out. One light obediently darkened on the master panel. But the tank also told another story. The midsection of the Mil line proceeded unharried by the ships which concentrated their efforts on the ends. The tiniest blips flashed in with unbelievable speed compared with the lumbering efforts of others. The upper end reflected a brief glow and the announcer tallied another casualty.

  “They’re attacking only the ends,” someone cried in dismay. “The rest are coming straight at us.”

  “NO!” shouted Jokan, his voice ringing with triumph. He sprang to the side of the spatial tank. “The midsection is totally disabled. The resonators did their work. Look, would that big a detachment allow the others to be attacked without firing? See, here, here and here, our positions would be vulnerable to their range and yet there are no casualties. I tell you, that weapon works. It does. It does! And see, there’s one of the lead Mil ships going up.”

  One of the larger Mil lights at the head of the line flared and died. The announcer gave us no death notice for a defender.

  “See what Harlan is doing,” Jokan continued excitedly. “We have plenty of time to disable the far end. He’s tried two passes with the riders to the foremost Mil and is blasting them out of the sky. That means they must be partially disabled. No Mil will set down on Lothar!” His words rang through the big room and set off a cheering, shouting, weeping roar of hysterical relief. Jokan, grinning so broadly his face seemed to split, tears in his eyes, looked around, thrilled at the sight of hope where despair had so long enervated morale.

  I, too, was caught up in the emotional backlash, weeping not so much with the relief of salvation as with the knowledge that Harlan would return, in honor and unharmed. The fear of the others did not touch me as deeply, I suppose, because I had not lived with fear of the
Mil all my life. Vicariously I was caught up in that joyous hysteria until I noticed Stannall. He was clutching wildly at his chest. His face was gray, his lips blue, his breath shallow, eyes pain-filled and he grabbed wildly at me in his weakness.

  Glancing around for someone else to help me, I was even grateful to Monsorlit who must have seen Stannall’s seizure from across the room. The physician was fumbling in his belt as he pushed through the milling, shouting, jumping men. He reached us, jammed a hypodermic needle into Stannall’s arm and smoothly reinforced my grip around the First Councilman.

  Jokan, aware of Stannall’s distress, pushed through and lifted Stannall easily into his arms. Bawling for passage, he carried the ailing Councilman to his sleeping room. Monsorlit ordered me to get his instruments from Room 12 and I ran with no respect for dignities.

  When I returned with the case, Stannall was pillowed into a sitting position. Although he was sweating profusely, his breath came with less effort. Monsorlit grabbed the bag I opened and seized a stethoscopic device. Jokan was joined by Ferrill now. Monsorlit’s examination relieved him, for he gave a barely audible sigh and reached with less haste for his bag. He picked a vial carefully, filled a new needle and administered the medication.

  “Good sir,” Monsorlit said in such low tones only I could hear, “there are too few of your fiber for us to be deprived of you. This time you will have to listen to me.”

  He rose from the bedside and, as he turned, I caught the flickering of the only expression I ever saw on Monsorlit’s face. It was the more astonishing to me, this combination of fear, relief, worry and compassion, since there was no doubt of Stannall’s trenchant disapproval of Monsorlit. The physician glanced at me briefly, his features composed in their usual coldness. He passed me and motioned all of us out to the corridor.

  Ferrill and Jokan, instantly the door closed, demanded the diagnosis with impatient concern.

  “A heart attack,” Monsorlit said dispassionately, replacing his stethoscope with care, rearranging a vial or two precisely before closing the bag. “Natural enough with such intense strain and inadequate rest. I’ve administered a sedative that should keep him asleep for many hours. He must be kept absolutely quiet for the next weeks and complete bedrest is indicated for the next few months. Or, we shall have to elect a new First Councilman. I believe Cordan is his personal physician. He should attend our Council Leader immediately. To reassure all of us.” Monsorlit permitted himself the vaguest of wry grins at his afterthought.

  “But Stannall’s presence is . . .” Jokan began, gesturing toward the tank.

  “ . . . is required in his bed and asleep,” Monsorlit finished with bland authority. “I do not care what duties he leaves unfinished. There are certainly enough qualified men to make decisions until Harlan returns. Unless, of course, you wish to commit Stannall to the Eternal Flame tomorrow?”

  With that, Monsorlit turned on his heel and walked away.

  By now the jubilation had subsided sufficiently for the drone of the announcer to be heard. The score of casualties had mounted, but only nine lights were out on the master panel. Two flickered weakly, eight pulsed, but the strength of the light indicated only minor damage. Jokan, after a glance at the picture in the tank, strode across the room to the knot of anxious Councilmen. Stannall’s collapse had been noted as well as the exchange between Jokan and Monsorlit.

  “I think,” commented Ferrill thoughtfully, “that the situation is now under the efficient control of Jokan. Will you join me for some refreshment, Lady Sara?”

  “Shouldn’t someone stay with Stannall?” I protested.

  “Monsorlit seems to have taken that into account,” Ferrill said and directed my attention to the brisk figure coming from the farthest sleeping rooms. The woman, a large, efficient-looking person, stopped at Stannall’s door. She opened it with a quick practiced gesture and entered. A pair of guards simultaneously took positions on either side of the door.

  There was little time for Ferrill and me to refresh ourselves. Food and drink grew cold before we could eat. Ferrill, though no longer Warlord, still had all the knowledge of his former position. He was, furthermore, privy to the confidential matters of the high position and the offices of both Regent and First Councilmen. In this emergency he set aside his affectation of disinterest and made quick, clear decisions, gave orders with an easy authority that controlled the quick-tempered and calmed the hysterical. Messengers crowded around the table, waiting turn. Councilmen opportuned and only Jokan could claim precedence. The little people, too—messengers and technicians—stopped to ask about Stannall or say something, shyly, to Ferrill.

  Ferrill remained cool and detached, casual and unconcerned by the rush. At first, he answered the Councilmen’s and Jokan’s questions with a little self-amused smile. But gradually, I could see the grayness of fatigue conquering the slight color in his face. I urged him anxiously to rest.

  “Rest? Not now, Sara. I want to know every detail of the stimulating events. I shall record them in a personal history I shall now have time to write. The firsthand impressions of an ex-Warlord about an emergency and triumph of this magnitude will certainly carry historical weight.”

  “If you’re not careful, the only historical weight you’ll carry is a fancy monument,” I snapped.

  He regarded me with the expression he had used so effectively on Monsorlit, but I was too concerned for him and stared him down. He changed his tactics and reassured me that he knew the limits of his strength.

  “I have made no move from this table. I let everyone seek me.”

  “I thought you didn’t care anymore. I thought you were just going to be the bystander,” I goaded him.

  His eyes flashed angrily. Then he smiled in recognition of my baiting. He reached for my hand and pressed it firmly.

  “I am still the bystander, shoveling out bystandorial advice by the shipload. But I am the only one who can answer many of these questions in Stannall’s absence. Jokan certainly has no practical experience as either Warlord, Regent or First Councilman, and he is all three right now.”

  I made one of the messengers go for Monsorlit who appeared just as Jokan also reached our table. Jokan did not care for Monsorlit’s presence. Ferrill’s smile mocked me for my interference.

  “Ferrill is exhausted,” I said before Ferrill or Jokan could send Monsorlit away.

  “Give me a shot of something salutary,” Ferrill commanded the physician, proffering his thin, blue-veined arm, daring Monsorlit as well as Jokan and me.

  “All of you need stimulants to keep on at this pace,” the man observed quietly and issued us five tablets apiece. “An effective compound but harmless,” he continued as Jokan eyed the pills dubiously. “One every three hours will be sufficient. I do not recommend taking more than five. That gives you fifteen more hours of peak efficiency. Then no one will have trouble getting you to rest.”

  He moved off briskly. Ferrill took his pill down quickly and Jokan, shrugging, followed his lead. I waited and then saw Ferrill watching my indecision with such amusement I tossed it down waterless.

  “I never really know what to make of him,” the ex-Warlord commented to no one in particular.

  Jokan uttered a growling sound deep in his throat and then launched into the reason for his coming to the table.

  Monsorlit did not underestimate his potion. It did keep us going for the next fifteen hours. I watched Jokan and Ferrill as their eyes brightened, reddened and teared with fatigue, knowing I was no better off. Jokan took to shouting for me if he could not come to us and I became a liaison between Jokan and Ferrill.

  As I listened to conversations concerning the resumption of the planet’s normal activities, the hurried rearrangements of landing facilities and refueling schedules, I watched the tank. Everyone did. And I, too, did not push the announcer’s assessments of the casualties from my conscious hearing. On the tank, I saw the midsection of the Mil fleet continue blindly on its course for nowhere while Lothar picked off
additional enemies. I watched as the helpless section was set upon by a double row of our vessels, turned into a new course as Ertoi and Glan pilots penetrated to the control rooms and altered the courses for the naval satellite bases and the one planetary space installation in the southern sea. Landed, decontaminated, the ships would ultimately be refitted and recommissioned into the Alliance force. I saw other Mil ships join this passive group. I saw a Lothar squadron drop down and turn toward the rim of the spatial tank, taking up Perimeter positions until it seemed that the tank was lightly sprinkled with diamond beading on its periphery. I watched as the main body of the fleet turned homeward, catching and passing the convoy of cripples, pushing on toward Lothar. Then I, too, turned my hopeful attention to the screens, waiting for the time when the communication limit was reached and we might have a detailed description of the victory from her triumphant commander.

  Of the great navy that had set out to meet the invader, only twelve were not returning, a statistic which brought another wild burst of exultation. Of the twenty-three invaders, once arrogant and feared, nineteen were carefully shepherded toward exile. Never, never, I heard it shouted, had so great a victory been achieved in the annals of recorded history. And, to crown this feat with more glory, fourteen of the fifteen Star-class ships had been taken.

  Now we waited, as we had waited for particular moments so often these last violent days, for the screens to reflect the images we wished most to see. So tensely was the first ripple anticipated, a concerted gasp echoed in the room when the picture was abruptly before us, clear and unmuddied.

  It was Maxil we saw; a Maxil as changed as only a boy can be who has abruptly survived a brutal initiation to manhood. His voice, harsh with fatigue and physical strain, broke the communication silence. Harlan was nowhere in sight.