Warrior-Woman

by Mary Ann Steele

  Ignoring certain unsettling, minor sensations generated by the rotation, Signe entered one of the two narrow corridors leading away from the rear of the bridge, and thrust aside the sliding door leading to Cabin One. Eric sat glumly on the edge of a bunk topped with still-inflated harness, his hand clapped over his mouth, his shoulders shaking from a violent attack of dry heaves. Morgan, pale as water ice, his auburn hair plastered to his clammy forehead, eyed his commander dolefully, but cracked a joke.

  In the adjoining quarters, designated as Cabin Two, Teeny stalked out of the bathcabin, sickly white beneath her copious endowment of freckles. Her pale blue eyes watered. Madelyn, slim, dark-haired, shapely, hard-muscled, exhibited only concern for her distressed comrade. Assured by the girl whose face so closely mirrored that of Sean, her brother, that changes in motion caused her no problem, Signe retraced her steps, traversed the bridge, and entered Cabin Three.

  Her customary aura of glamour woefully diminished, Jess sprawled dispiritedly on the bunk from which she had cleared the harness. Rising in haste as her superior entered, the dark-eyed, handsome woman smiled gamely. "Damned if I've got my sea-legs yet, as sailors on Old Earth used to say," she confided shamefacedly.

  The other occupant of the cabin chuckled. No paragon of good looks, Malcolm projected a vibrant cheeriness--an unconscious, optimistic joy in having emerged unscathed from a dangerous raid. "I puked my guts out," he admitted with disarming candor. "Hell of a spacer I'll make." That wry assessment provoked a sympathetic laugh from the Commander whose own stomach still churned.

  Next door, Jassy morosely regarded Theo, his closest friend, who sat tight-lipped on the bunk, fighting a compelling urge to vomit. As the door opened, the master of electronics turned to greet his superior. "Shades of my land-loving ancestors," he muttered. "I don't think I'm going to like this phase of the fight!"

  A sheen of sweat glistened on the brow creasing into a black frown as Theo glared with unwonted heat at his comrade. "I didn't like the last phase," he grated harshly. "I don't expect I'll grow to like any aspect of any fight, ever. But I'll be damned if I'll let my gut dictate what I do or don't take on!"

  Shocked, Jassy stared at his habitually even-tempered cabinmate. "Damn, I didn't mean…"

  Intuitively sensing that her scholarly captain's mental distress far outweighed the physical, Signe laid a comradely hand on the historian's shoulder. "Theo, if I thought a man under my command took sadistic pleasure in shedding blood, I'd muster him out. I know how you feel. We fought for ten endless Earthyears with no respite. We're all a bit down at the thought of starting over in a new element--one we're not at home in, as yet. I am, I'll frankly admit, but if we expect to keep what we've won at such cost, we'd better not let our guts dictate to us."

  A momentary sharp struggle convulsed the sensitive soul scourged by fears that he lacked the stomach for the sort of killing which ship-to-ship battles or attacks on military bases would engender. Scalded by shame at having lost in the presence of the Commander the self-control so valued in his Spartan society, the officer quickly regained his accustomed command over his emotions.

  "We'll adjust," he declared stoutly, even as his gut heaved. Turning to face his comrade, he spoke with patent sincerity. "I'm sorry I snapped at you, Jassy."

  Perceiving that emotional strain rather than anger unwittingly aroused by his best friend precipitated the unusual outburst, the burly warrior squeezed Theo's other shoulder, all but stopping the circulation in the arm. "I wish I'd banked a credit every time I snapped at you over the Earthyears," he vouchsafed with gruff candor. "I could retire at thirty-seven--from earning a living, at any rate. Cheer up, Theo. If those Columbian bastards can fight nauseated, so can we."

  That response generated an unforced chuckle. The electrical tension charging the air vanished. The historian smiled at Signe, whose heart constricted at the thought of what lay ahead. I could lose them all while learning to handle this ship , she agonized. I could die vaporized with any one of them in some ghastly crash into a habitat, or find myself watching them perish in a fearsome collision of a lifeboat with the ship, or a lock ashore. I've seen too many warriors die! Exercising a well-honed ability to subjugate her emotions to her pursuit of national goals, the military leader inured to suffering tragic losses thrust those gloomy visualizations out of her consciousness. Again focused on the now, she smiled warmly on the pair before departing.

  On hearing the Commander enter the bridge, Conor swiveled about in the couch adjusted to its chair-like position. Gesturing towards a display on a screen, he informed her bluntly, "I think I know how to fire the Earth-built weaponry, but I'll be damned if I feel confident that I can aim the outfit accurately. I'd hate like hell to direct the awesome energy I'd be releasing anywhere a miss could blast something we didn't intend to hit--like a habitat on Main World. We'll need to select an uninhabited body, and practice, Signe. I wish I knew more about computerized systems."

  You're not the only one , the visionary acknowledged bleakly. I stand in pressing need of an expert--someone who knows computers on the level of their operating systems. Now that we've freed all of Gaea, perhaps Terence will be able to find me the sort of technician I so desperately wish I could recruit . "We'll do that shortly, Conor. Well, gentlemen, I'll go over the calculations I used to lift the ship into orbit around the station. This will be your first lesson in navigational math. Once you're proficient, the four of us will instruct the others."

  Three men concentrated on the computation. Conor, a genius with machinery, lacked the background in higher mathematics with which Signe had spent Earthyears providing herself during odd hours snatched from the task of leading a violent rebellion. He nonetheless strove valiantly to fix in his capacious memory what his instructor concisely explained.

  Sean found himself recalling principles studied before the invasion permanently altered his life.

  Of the three novices struggling to acquire the skill, Yuri experienced the least difficulty. Holder of a prestigious scholarship in engineering at the University of Gaea until the war cut short his academic career, the studious youth eagerly and effortlessly absorbed the lesson, his shyness forgotten. Intent on the task, three fledgling Gaean spacer-fighters--men as used to instructing comrades as to accepting tuition from their peers--strove to master what their commander continued to present until the time arrived for the descent.

  Striding ahead of her raiders through the pressure-proof door of the very lock from which Norman's vessel lifted as the last of his men died, Signe halted, acutely conscious of just where she stood. Staring down two hundred meters of yawning corridor devoid of any side entry along that distance which would permit those battling within its cavernous confines to retreat, she relived an isolated fragment of that final bloody advance. Enemy faces swam in her inner vision. Eyes full of hatred bored into hers. Lips curled back over bared teeth. A sinewy hand behind a burnished swept-hilt displayed masterful skill as a gleaming blade crossed hers.

  Steel rang on steel, the clash of forte against foible audible above the din as the woman fully as tall as her enemy flawlessly engaged one of Norman's captains. Left arm bent, raised, to provide impetus to a vigorous attack spearheaded by a muscular right arm and wrist of iron, lithe body moving with sinuous grace as it balanced on agile feet and calves of spring-steel, the premier athlete fenced with consummate skill, no whit daunted by hearing her antagonist shout a harsh command to the men flanking him, to let him settle their score with the Gaean whose silvery hair proclaimed her identity to her foes.

  During this moment of retrospect, Signe readily acknowledged that no terror generated by fronting the archenemy whose exploits fueled a burgeoning legend afflicted that formidable adversary. Ignoring the flashing blades shimmering in his peripheral vision, the Columbian master swordsman concentrated single-mindedly on driving home a lethal thrust.

  Stopped in her advance at the head of the first wave of Gaean swordfighters, the warrior battled the foe bent on killing her.
Her eyes blazing, her handsome face mirroring implacable determination, she thrust, parried, feinted, and finally closed the distance between herself and her challenger to engage in wicked, dangerous infighting. The sheer savagery of her attack--a calculated series of moves coolly planned by a mind in perfect control of its emotions even as the body it inhabited exerted itself to the utmost--caused the Third Corpsman to fall back just enough to find himself in the direct line of his opponent's point. Signe's sword penetrated flesh, piercing a vital organ.

  Wrenching the steel free in time to take a slashing downward cut on the forte of the blood-wet blade, the rebel champion pivoted to meet a new onslaught by the enemy who materialized within a space freed by the crash of a black-clad Columbian to the gore-drenched deck. Swiftly gauging this latest attacker's next move, she lunged, her feet unerringly finding purchase without tripping on the corpse of the man just dispatched. Fear stared nakedly from the eyes of the foeman who suddenly realized whom he faced: fear that froze on his features as he died.

  A ringing battle cry rose above the clamor, as the youthful war-leader rallied her surviving comrades. Waving them on, she charged at the head of the corridor-wide line of sword-wielding Gaeans hurling themselves against an equally formidable row of veteran Third Corpsmen fanatically determined to sell their doomed lives at the highest possible price. On this day the seemingly invincible warrior fighting with astounding skill, unbelievable stamina, and cold ferocity added a whole new dimension to the legend.

  Wresting her attention back to this new and bloodless victory, Signe savored an overwhelming relief that so audacious a venture failed to deprive her of the very officers she could least afford to lose. A fierce exultation gripped her as she weighed the magnitude of the accomplishment. Bold plans simmered in the strategist's mind even as she rejoiced in the feel of solid, non-shifting deck under her boots.

  Her face broke into a vivid smile as she greeted Gaea's chief civilian administrator, who met the returning raiders at the entrance to Norman's former headquarters. Tall as Morgan, the black-haired, blue-eyed protégé of the initiator of the rebellion radiated a ghostly reminder of his dead mentor's unforgettable charisma. No more a power-seeker than was Sigurd, gifted with a superb talent for organization, Terence owed the high regard in which his fellow Gaeans held him, to his having grappled valiantly over the past ten Earthyears with the dire problems afflicting a state besieged on all sides by a ruthless enemy.

  The thought fleetingly crossed Signe's mind that never once had this selfless patriot competed for supreme power with the daughter of the visionary statesman who had served as mentor to both of them. As deeply imbued with Sigurd's lofty philosophical ideals as was Terence, Signe knew without harboring undue pride that she wielded that power effortlessly and effectively. She likewise knew that Terence held her abilities in high respect, and that he remained aware, as did she, that his administrative skills complemented her tactical ones perfectly. That partnership, both selfless patriots fully realized, conferred an enormous benefit on Gaea.

  Holding out both hands, Terence took those of the Commander in a powerful grip. Beaming into the civilian official's ascetic face, she returned the pressure. "We managed the feat, Terence--without losing a one of us."

  "Thank the Powers." Without losing you, the man silently added as old, still-potent longing surged once again into the forefront of his mind. Forcing the familiar hurt back into the locked compartment it normally occupied, he smiled warmly at the woman projecting affectionate regard for a well-loved foster-brother.

  Detecting her associate's pain, the keen observer divined its cause. Sorrow impaled a heart never grown insensible to tender regard even while encased in the impervious armor with which its owner habitually shielded it. Concealing her reaction, she stated briskly, "Terence, I need to discuss a pressing problem, when you can spare the time."

  "No time like the present. Drop in at my office in Ministry Central as soon as you're able."

  Seated opposite the civilian leader twenty minutes later, Signe sipped the cup of tea he pressed on her. Sweeping a satisfied glance around the spacious but austerely utilitarian office, she sensed parallel satisfaction in the man seated behind the plain metal desk.

  We've regained our liberty , the Commander rejoiced. Our decimated populace, rebuilding a world ravaged by war and looting, at least finds itself governed once again from the Gaea. This huge vessel formerly capable of interplanetary flight constitutes the most fundamental symbol of our nation's identity: our hard-working, cooperative, peace-loving citizenry descended from galactic pioneers who made the Jump aboard this antique artifact built by ancient Earthmen. Central to our pride as well as to our national life, this ship: our galactic ark, now permanently set like a precious gem into a globe-girdling web of habitats. It's good to see Terence back where he belongs!

  Exquisitely conscious of the femininity enhanced, rather than diminished, by the warrior-woman's splendid athleticism, the First Minister studied his guest. The tall, lithe body swelled at the bosom and flared at the hips, its shapely curves only partially obscured by the tunic and pants tailored for ease of movement during exertion, rather than for elegance. As modest a covering as any other suit fashioned in a society that sternly forbade both verbal and nonverbal flaunting of sensuality--indeed, spurned frivolous extravagance of any sort--the slate blue uniform fit the norm, yet failed utterly to conceal the physical attractiveness its wearer never consciously cultivated, much less artificially embellished, and most assuredly never deliberately employed in her dealings with male colleagues.

  Struck by the hardy athlete's unusual pallor, the shrewd observer accurately guessed its cause. "Tea will settle your stomach," he assured her, smiling. "Dry toast will help, too. Now, what's on your mind?"

  "Terence, I desperately need someone who knows computers on the level of their operating systems. Since Layton fell, I've lacked anyone possessed of even minimal skill. I'd prefer an expert who's also a fighter, but I know of none with the degree of expertise I require. Perhaps you could dig someone out of the shattered remnants of the University--some mere child, or elderly professor."

  Well! Talk about fortunate coincidences! "It just so happens I can do better than that, Signe. I'd planned on sending you a man I just met. He's survived an odyssey, by all the wealth of Earth! I won't spoil the impact his tale will make on your mind. Can you spare him the next hour of your time?"

  "If he's got the skill I need, I can spare whatever time it'll take to recruit him."

  "I'll send him to your office across the hall, right suddenly, then. Ahh. Here's Eustace with the toast. Nibble and sip, while I step out to my board."

  Warmed by her colleague's thoughtfulness, Signe ate, finding to her surprise that the unhurried snack did serve to settle her still-queasy stomach. She nonetheless resolved to ask Terence to pressure the Ministry of Health into coming up with a more effective formula.

  Fifteen minutes later, the survivor of the odyssey stood poised to knock on the door of Signe's office. Hand suspended in midair, he strove to still a pounding pulse produced by conflicting emotions. Thrilled to find himself within the historic vessel, about to meet the leader behind the legend, he simultaneously suffered sharp pangs of uncertainty regarding what turn his life might take subsequent to this encounter. Will she let us join? he agonized mentally. After pulling off so impossible a feat to get here, I can't bear the thought of meeting with a refusal! She's got to take us on. She'll never quit at this juncture. Not Signe! The hand suddenly knocked vigorously.

  Exhibiting the courtesy habitual to her, the Commander greeted her visitor: a small, slightly built man whose age she judged to be about the same as her own--a man whose round golden face plainly reflected awe. No warrior this , she opined in a swift assessment. Holding out her hand, she encountered a grip the force of which astonished her.

  "I'm Wong," the diminutive visitor exclaimed, smiling up into the eyes of the athlete who towered over him. "I wasn't sure I'd ever get to m
eet you, Signe. I'm delighted that I finally rate the chance, late as I am arriving at the forefront of the fight. But better late than never!"

  Conceiving an instant liking for the newcomer, the Commander smilingly waved the guest into a chair. "Terence said you survived an odyssey, Wong. Let me pour you tea, before you tell me about it."

  The classical reference produced a self-deprecatory grin. "I guess odyssey's the word, but I surely never thought of myself as Odysseus!" As his hostess poured steaming portions from an unadorned ceramic pot, the visitor studying the legendary warrior grew acutely, uncomfortably conscious of the disparity between her stature and his own. That supple grace she displays in every movement brands her a swordsman, he acknowledged worriedly. I'd guess, even if I knew nothing of her exploits. Will she … Blue sky of a lost paradise, convince her, Wong. Let her know how much training to fight means to you, without begging!

  Smiling at the guest exhibiting reverence unalloyed with any hint of shyness, the Commander urged him to spin his tale.

  Taking a deep breath, the man complied. "My people are miners, Signe. Three families, closely connected by marriage, settled our isolated rock. When the invasion began, my grandfather, our family-head, polled the adults before handing down a decision as to whether we'd evacuate and abandon our holdings, or try to survive occupation. After testing his people's mettle, Grandfather decided to fortify our rock, and meet invasion with armed resistance. Inspired by his eloquence, we unanimously resolved to fight for our way of life, for our property, for our lives."

  Black eyes flashed dark fire. Wong's declaration kindled an answering gleam in those of the warrior hanging on his every word: a Gaean patriot who knew exactly what heart-wrenching mental anguish must have preceded that bold decision to slough cherished pacifistic ideals. Raptly, Signe listened as her guest continued his narration.

  "We made good use of the brief delay before Norman located us. The first settlers on our rock tunneled to join five deposits of precious metallic ores, in addition to building five habitats scattered over a wide expanse. They used the rubble from the excavations as shielding against cosmic rays, rather than water inside a double hull, so the domes blended in fairly well with the natural terrain. Our people set traps all through the habitats, tunnels, and excavations."