Battlestations

by S. M. Stirling

  “Of all the . . . What is it, pirate?” the captain exploded. “What mess do we have to dig you out of now?”

  A score of snarls rose from the young Khalians.

  Globin waved them back, smiling, but with a hard glitter to his eyes. “It is we who have been digging, beneath a mess the Ichtons left. We have found a live Ekchartok. It is dormant, but it emits brain waves.”

  The channel was silent for a few seconds. Then the captain snapped, “Homing on your signal. Keep the channel open.”

  “Give them our beacon, Plasma,” Globin said. “After his rudeness, the captain deserves an unrelenting squeal.”

  Hisses of laughter answered him, though there was viciousness in their tone.

  “How shall we repay his rudeness now, Globin?”

  “Retract your claws, Plasma,” Globin advised. “His embarrassment is punishment enough, but it is made worse because it is pirates of Barataria who were right, and who showed greater compassion than a human. Back aboard our sled, me hearties, with our prize.”

  They flowed back to their seats, Plasma asking, “What is a ‘hearty,’ Globin?”

  “You are, Plasma—you all are. A ‘hearty’ is a bold and valiant fighter who delights in life, as we have this day.”

  Plasma sat, and turned back, frowning. “Will you not join us, Globin?”

  “Yes, quite soon.” Globin had taken out his pick, and was breaking loose a fist-sized sample of slag. He came back to the sled, sat down, and gazed at the glassy rock, frowning.

  “Why do you bring such a piece of rubble, Globin?”

  “Because,” his chief answered, “I told them we would search for resources, so we must have something to bring back.” But the intentness of his gaze went beyond a mere excuse.

  Plasma noticed. “What troubles you, Globin?”

  “Not ‘troubles,’ Plasma—‘intrigues.’ Why would an Ekchartok hide beneath a slag heap?”

  “Why—did they not dump it upon him, in lack of concern, and to slay him?”

  “I think not, Plasma—I really do believe they used the dead bodies as a resource, horrible as it seems. No, this one hid, and from the shape of its body, I would conjecture that it is as skilled at burrowing as yourselves, though much slower.” Globin pursed his lips, thinking. “Why would a silicate life-form hide beneath a slag heap? Food, of course, since there is silicon in it—but what else? Aorta, pass me the radiation detector.”

  “It is here, Globin.” The young warrior held out the pickup.

  The detector fairly screamed.

  “Transuranics,” Globin explained, back aboard the Hawking. “Radioactive waste, to them—but potential fuel, to us. Their reactors and engines must be very primitive that they would throw away such treasure. It is well my warriors wore spacesuits, for it was only that shielding that saved them from exposure.”

  His chief physicist nodded, watching his men process the sample through a dozen different tests. “There are nodules of it embedded in the silicate slag.”

  “Will it generate power?”

  “Oh, yes,” the scientist said quietly. “Oh, yes—a great deal of power, Globin. If it were not for the quantity of slag holding the nodules apart, those heaps would blow up the whole planet. It is as though the Ichtons had operated a vast number of breeder reactors.”

  “Perhaps they did,” Globin returned, “but their own technology is too primitive to make use of the product.” He gave the scientist a smile. “We have learned as much about our enemy as about business.”

  “Business?” The scientist looked up, startled. “How is this ‘business,’ Globin?”

  “Why,” said his chief, “we are here to find marketable commodities, are we not? And what could be more marketable than Ichton slag?” He turned back to watch the tests, chuckling.

  “Of course,” the scientist breathed. “When will you tell Commander Brand, Globin?”

  “When his fuel supplies begin to run low,” Globin answered, “and he is more amenable to paying our price.”

  “You would not charge your own allies an extortionate rate!” the scientist protested.

  “Of course I would,” Globin answered. “He says we are pirates, does he not?”

  “Surely you don’t believe this claim that they are only looking for surviving Ekchartok, Anton!” Brad Omera was indignant.

  “Surely not,” Commander Brand agreed. “Why would such a search require them to set up a virtual refinery on the surface? And why would they have to ship quantities of slag back aboard in those huge canisters?”

  “Oh, the Globin was very candid about that. He said that whenever they find a section that they suspect contains an Ekchartok, they bring it back up to the ship for careful handling.”

  “If you think you can trust what the Globin says.” Brand turned to David bar Mentron, the battlestation’s chief technician. “Mr. bar Mentron, what sort of equipment was it they had you build?”

  “Not much more than a cold chisel with a very fine edge, sir,” bar Mentron answered. “But it’s in a standing frame that guarantees the chisel won’t slip, and has a setting for calibrating the exact force of the blow, to the erg.”

  “That is the kind of equipment you’d need to chip away rock gradually,” Omera said, frowning, “if you didn’t want to take a chance on injuring a living being trapped inside it.” He turned to bar Mentron. “Tell the commander about that special room they had you build.”

  “Special room?” Brand frowned, alert for the slightest hint of treachery.

  “Just a radiation chamber, sir, you know, a laboratory for handling radioactive materials. Nothing unusual about it, for what it is—just the shielding, the lead glass, the waldoes, the locks . . .”

  “Radiation chamber?” Brand nearly leaped out of his chair. “What would they need that for? What are they doing—handling transuranics?”

  “They told me the slag and the Ekchartok are radioactive.” Bar Mentron shrugged.

  Brand stilled. “Well, that’s true enough. So would I be, if I’d spent a few months under a mountain of radioactive slag.”

  “Yes, but that’s exactly why they’ve taken refuge in those slag heaps.” Omera frowned. “Apparently the Ekchartok can use the radiation as a sort of emergency ration, absorb it and convert it to electricity—which is all they need to keep basic life systems going inside, while they’re dormant.”

  “Love to find out what kind of evolution that species had,” Brand muttered. “How’s that first one doing? Can it talk yet?’

  “Only a few syllables; it’s still very weak.” Omera shook his head in exasperation. “You really let those pirates steal a march on you, Commander.”

  “Yes, I know.” Brand scowled. “I read Chavere the riot act about not having followed up that trace, so he has developed a tendency to track down anything that gives his detector the slightest hiccup. He’s redeemed himself by finding six more Ekchartok—in heaps of quartz rubble the Ichtons apparently had no use for, and one of them was dormant under a brackish puddle the locusts seem to have overlooked. But the fact is that in Chavere’s place, I probably would have done the same thing—gone on looking for something more obvious. The trace on his life detector was so small it could have been an earthworm.”

  “Or a dormant Ekchartok,” Omera returned.

  “Yes,” said bar Mentron, “but the Ekchartok emissary hadn’t told us his people could go dormant.”

  “Understandable—the moment he saw this planet, he went into shock. But the fact remains that it was the pirates who found that live one under the slag heap, not the Fleet.”

  “Two more, now,” Brand said, the taste of the words bitter on his tongue. “They found two others, and they’re in the same condition the first was—dormant, probably in shock, but alive.”

  “They have?” Omera whirled about. “How come nobody told me about this?”

  “Word just arrived, and the pair of them are on their way to the infirmary right now. The Globin claims they broke
them out of a single slag lump in their workshop. Says they were nestled up against each other as though they were a Yin-Yang symbol.”

  “These slugs have sexes?” Omera asked.

  “Ekchartok,” Bar Mentron murmured. His voice was very soft, but Omera flushed. “Of course, Ekchartok. I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe the emissary will come out of shock, now that he has some company,” Brand mused. “And I suppose we can’t argue with what Globin’s doing, if he found a couple more. But I really wonder if he needs to grind up all that much slag just to find Ekchartok.”

  “He can’t be too careful, I suppose,” Omera sighed, “though the pirates are certainly growing their own heap of recycled slag. And they’ve been bringing up an awful lot of canisters, for only two Ekchartok.”

  “They say the other slag lumps only had chunks of radioactive waste in them that fooled their detectors,” Brand sighed.

  “They say, they say!” Omera snapped. “I’d give a year’s income to go in there and see for sure what they’re doing.”

  “Then go.” Bar Mentron shrugged. “The Globin’s made it an open invitation.”

  “Of course he has,” Omera snapped. “Who’d go into the Pirates’ Nest if he didn’t have to?”

  Plasma clicked his timer and nodded. “Drill completed in sixteen seconds, Globin. If anyone who is not of Barataria should wish to come here, we will have the laboratory out of sight before he arrives.”

  “Not that there would be that much to see.” Globin smiled. “We are doing no more than we have claimed—slicing apart suspicious lumps of slag, to see if there is a treasure therein.”

  “Certainly,” Plasma agreed. “Of course, the treasure is far more often a lump of almost-pure transuranic than it is an Ekchartok—but who else could tell?” He turned to Globin. “Will not those who remain behind need equipment like this on the planet?”

  “No—the dormant Ekchartok have survived till our coming, and they might not survive our rescue without the facilities of the hospital. They can wait in the slag until the Hawking returns.”

  Plasma nodded. “How soon will the battlestation depart for the fray?”

  “In two days, Brand said. He feels that Chavere and the other rescue commanders will by then have completed scouring the planet for survivors.” Globin smiled. “But for some reason, they seem to be content to leave the slag heaps to us pirates.”

  “They who have volunteered to stay and process the slag will be in great danger,” Plasma reminded him.

  “Not so great as that—they have our fastest courier, and orders to board and flee at the first sign of an enemy.”

  But Plasma noticed his brooding frown. “What troubles you about them then?”

  “Will they obey orders?” Globin said simply. “Perhaps I should not have agreed to let them keep blast cannon and force-field generators.”

  “No Khalian would be parted from his weapons, Globin, you know that. And the work must continue—there may be more Ekchartoks in those slag heaps, as well as the transuranics.”

  “Yes, it must continue,” Globin sighed, “and I will have to school myself to patience. The Ichtons have passed by, after all—they are not likely to return to a barren planet. No, certainly not.”

  But he did not like the word “likely.”

  The Hawking had been under way for two days when Brynn Te Mon’s secretary notified him, somewhat hesitantly, of a request for an appointment.

  “Send him to the science coordinator.” The physicist didn’t even look up from his screen, with the three-dimensional model of a very complex molecule on it. “That’s what top kicks are for—to keep the bored ones away from those of us who are doing the real work.”

  “He asked for you by name, sir.”

  “Tell him I referred him to Coordinator Cray, by name.”

  “Sir . . . it’s Chief Desrick.”

  “The Globin?” Te Mon looked up, startled. “What would the Pirate King want with me?”

  “He wouldn’t say, sir—only that it had something to do with some artifacts he had discovered while he was looking for Ekchartok.”

  “More likely he discovered the Ekchartok while he was looking for something he could sell.” But Te Mon pushed himself away from his desk. “I’ll see him, now. I’ve always wondered what he was like.” And he did mean “always”— Te Mon was only forty, and had grown up with tales of the Human Renegade.

  Globin was waiting in a small, antiseptic reception chamber. He rose as Te Mon came in. “Scientist! So good of you to spare the time. . . .”

  “And I don’t have much of it.” Te Mon cut him off, even as he looked Globin over with a microscopic gaze. “What can I do for you, Chief Merchant?”

  Globin slowly drew a small pouch out of a pocket and spilled half a dozen gems out into his palm. Te Mon caught his breath at their scintillating beauty, and at the array of colors each one refracted. “Very . . . pretty,” he said. “Of course, they weren’t cut when you found them?”

  “No—I had one of my technicians do that. I’ve been experimenting with them in my own laboratory, when I found a moment. They seem to have some strange properties.”

  “Other than swaying the head of any nubile young lady, I can’t think what.”

  “They make light cohere,” Globin said, “and with a slight energy input, they amplify that light by a factor of five.”

  Te Mon stared at the gems, then snatched one up. He held it up to the light, frowning. “You know what these are, if they do as you say?”

  “Of course,” Globin murmured. “The key element in a band blaster that could be far more powerful than anything we have now.”

  “We’ll run it through the tests right away.” Te Mon looked back at Globin with a frown, weighing the gem in his hand. “They’re for sale, of course?”

  “Of course,” Globin murmured.

  “Success, Globin?” Plasma asked as the chief stepped out of the drop shaft.

  “Success,” Globin confirmed. “Contact the colony on Sandworld, Plasma. Tell them to pick up stones.”

  The Hawking dropped out of FTL mode to see the world of the Silbers floating like a blue gem in the void—a gem laced in by lines of fire and surrounded by twinkling motes.

  “They’re under attack!” a sentry cried.

  “Battle stations!” Brand snapped, and the alarm howled through the Hawking. Pilots and gunners scrambled for their ships; artillerymen stood by the battlestation’s huge cannon.

  In the Pirates’ Nest, scores of young Khalians sat in the three-place cannon ships that were more weapon than vessel, fuming and chafing at the bit.

  “Globin! Will they not permit us to fight?” Plasma pressed. “I swear that if they don’t, our young bloods will blow up the locks themselves and be off to the battle!”

  “Bid them bide in patience.” Globin never took his eyes from the screens that showed the progress of the battle. “They do not trust us, Plasma, as we all know. They will call upon us only if they are desperate.”

  And surely they would not be; the screens showed a horde of silver sparks swerving about the planet, lancing at satellite defense stations with ruby beams, while much larger silver dragonflies stabbed at the planet itself with columns of fire. But answering columns climbed up to meet them, and here and there, a dragonfly turned incandescent as its force-fields soaked up the energy of those gigantic planet-bound weapons, then turned into stars as the screens overloaded.

  “They may be amphibians,” Globin murmured, “but these Silbers can fight.”

  They were losing, though—there were simply too many Ichton guns against them.

  “How many are there in that horde?” Plasma demanded.

  “Thousands,” Globin answered. “Listen!”

  “ . . . only a small force, our Gerson ally says,” Brand’s voice was saying from the screen. “A really big fleet would be more than a hundred thousand. They must have figured they didn’t need more for such a small planet.”

  �
�They were right,” Plasma hissed.

  “But they could not know about the Hawking.” Globin pointed. “See! The Fleet comes!”

  Yellow lines stabbed down at the Ichton ships. They reeled, swerving apart in chaos; ship after ship exploded, bright in the eternal night.

  In spite of themselves, the Khalians gave shouts of triumph.

  But the Ichtons rallied quickly; half of their fighters peeled off to fight this new invader. Fleet ships began to glow and explode. Then the Ichtons went after them in groups of three, singling out one ship each. Quickly, separate Fleet ships peeled off to flank and pierce the enemy, reinforcing their outnumbered colleagues.

  But it left a hole in their hemisphere—and through that hole stabbed a large Ichton ship with a score of smaller ones about it. Rear guns lashed out at them, but too late—only a few died in fire.

  The view shifted—the Ichton column was heading straight for the Hawking!

  “Batteries fire as soon as the enemy is in range,” Brand’s voice snapped. “Home Guard away!”

  Mosquitoes boiled out, filling the screen, stabbing at enemy ships in twos and threes.

  “We need more, Commander,” a tense voice said.

  “We can’t commit the reserves already!” Brand snapped.

  Globin leaned forward and toggled a key. “Chief Merchant here. I’ve fifty ships with pilots and gunners spoiling to get into the fight.”

  There was a long pause; then Brand snapped, “All right, pirates! But don’t wait for ransom!”

  Plasma’s lips skinned back from his teeth, and, truth to tell, so did Globin’s—but all he said was “Ships away.”

  A hundred voices shrilled a cheer. The huge hatch opened, and the Khalian ships began to lance out into the night.

  They turned the tide; Baratarian cruisers swarmed out about the Ichton ships that were as yet unmolested. They had to slow and turn to fight—and their cruiser was suddenly alone, without its midget guard.

  Golden fire enclosed it, from the Hawking’s batteries. The screens glowed, but held.

  A dozen Khalian moths homed on that light.

  Cannon beams stabbed out from the cruiser—and daring Khalians slid in under the beams and stabbed their own fire down next to the Ichton lances, piercing through the holes the locusts had opened in their screens to let their own fire out. Three of those valiant ships danced too close to the fire and burned brightly and briefly—but three more stabbed home, then sped away, just barely fast enough, as the battleship turned into a huge fireball behind them.