Warrior-Woman

by Mary Ann Steele

  Levi spent time with each of ten captains and crews, explaining with the ease of a born teacher the operation of the devices, and giving a non-mathematical, concise overview of the manner in which the invention worked. "You'll not see the ship itself," he explained crisply. "It'll show up as gray space possessing the shape of a ship, seen against a background of scintillating color: an effect produced by radiant energy incoming from elsewhere in the galaxy. Sensors locked onto referent stars will allow the coordinates of the ship to be computed and displayed.

  "This device can't lock onto the black ship, any more than your scanning screens can, but if the vessel changes course, it'll traverse a portion of its trajectory that's infinitesimally small compared to the distance between the celestial bodies emitting the background radiation utilized by the device. That pattern, now entered in the memory of the computers, will be overlain by the shape produced by absorption rather than reflection of incoming radiation.

  "The computers will shift the view automatically to keep that pattern in the center of the screens while displaying the changing coordinates. To blast the ship, you'll have to listen to data relayed, and fire manually, until the Commander-in-Chief and I finish the chore that will enable us to integrate the device with the computers in the fire-control systems of the Earth-built weaponry. We're working on that."

  Twelve men listened, their faces reflecting keen excitement. "What if we're maneuvering even as the enemy's dodging?" Brant asked, his eyes intent on the professor whose class had driven an ambitious, non-mathematically-adept, would-be spacer-captain almost to despair, and consistently, to late-night sessions of desperate cramming.

  "The same principle holds. Your motions, as well as those of the enemy, result in movement over infinitesimally small distances, compared to those between the emitting bodies. True, your motions will vary considerably both in speed and direction from those of the enemy, but two banks of exceedingly fast computers handle both your velocity and the enemy's, and integrate both against the overall pattern. You won't lose the image unless either you or the enemy increases the usual speed by a power of ten. Good question, Brant." Levi smiled warmly upon a former pupil whose unflagging diligence he well remembered.

  A flush of gratified pride suffused the narrow, arrogant face of the recipient of the compliment. Levi doesn't know how to sneer, Brant reflected, recalling slights both to peers and students tossed off by certain of Levi's fellows on the faculty: slights that the perpetrators, normally secure in their cognizance of their notable prowess as duelists, took care not to offer Brant, even then. Levi's wholly incapable of sarcasm on a par with the cutting remarks Doncaster so often employs, or Ordway, he acknowledged . Levi pinked that latter bastard with cannily calculated ease. Genius/duelist. Amazing!

  Studying his captain, Arlen read Brant's thoughts as accurately as if the man had spoken them. My touchy careerist stands in enough awe of his old professor that he'll accept Levi as an equal , he surmised. So will Evan, whose ability at mathematics doesn't exceed Brant's by any appreciable amount. Dahl and Lacey both like the man. Danner coolly weighed him, but he'll cause no problem for my new captain. Ford seethed. Should I elevate him to a position of command? Soothe his scalded pride … give his career a boost?

  No. I'll be damned if I'll promote a man I don't trust, and if I catch the bastard entering any treacherous alliance with Galt or Dexter, I'll break him--and them, if I can see my way clear. No. Let Ford rise to a position of strength, and he'll develop notions of supplanting me himself. His ability exceeds that of Waylon, Demetrius, and even Yukio, who's highly competent, and loyal. No. Keep a wary eye on Ford, Arlen.

  His heart aching for Jason, whose mental as well as physical agony wounded the Captain's sensibilities every time he visited the Lieutenant, his mind filled with sorrow arising from the early death of Preston, Amin heard with misgivings Arlen's command that he train a wholly inexperienced man of equal rank. He nonetheless found himself liking his charge. Well aware of Levi's genius, having taken two courses from the mathematician decades earlier, Amin employed all the wealth of tact at his command, without lowering his lofty standards one iota. The Acting Commander managed to offer Arlen's technical advisor the standard practical instruction given any new recruit in ship-systems repairs, and exhaustive, demanding physical training, without undermining his fellow captain's authority over the crewmen.

  Navigational mathematics, that bane of recruits' existence, the novice knew on a level to which Amin himself had never risen. Shrewdly exploiting that circumstance, the Captain arranged that Levi teach not only his crewmen, but himself as well, a course that challenged the brightest of them. As Amin expected, the new officer taught as unselfconsciously as he accepted instruction, earning the respect of the crew. Two qualities--his transparent good nature, coupled with a flair for dealing firmly but fairly with students--transmuted effortlessly into a corresponding ease at handling the men under him. The new Captain soon won his subordinates' liking.

  In daily private sessions, Amin drove Levi unmercifully, fully expecting to generate the anger he customarily aroused, and then used to keep mentally and physically exhausted men striving. To his astonishment, Levi exhibited no anger. Intense pressure served to make the novice ever more implacably determined to qualify, without arousing the least resentment at his mentor.

  He'll do , Amin conceded ungrudgingly. Eventually. He won't be experienced, but he'll be competent. And who knows what sort of fighting we'll see before this ill-omened war ends?

  Across interworld space, Signe asked that identical question of herself. That last raid took a fearsome toll on our assault force , she acknowledged grimly while seated alone in her office. Gray metallic walls wavered in her vision before melting into nothingness as a flashback devoured present awareness. Superhuman exertion during a pivotal battle froze time into stasis. The warrior relived, rather than remembered, that surreally stretched segment of a life fraught with peril. Eyes unclouded by fear observed each facet of the battle. Standing outside herself, a spectator of the melee even as her muscular body engaged in violent combat, the Commander fixed the event indelibly in memory.

  Once again, Signe burst, sword in hand, from the outer lock below the black ship docked on Lock Two, flanked by six raiders armed with handweapons. Stunned corridor-guards died even as they whirled to face the foes materializing with no warning. Lethal pulses dropped those farther away before they could react. A squad of Columbians--men scheduled to relieve the guards presently patrolling the corridor--arrived at the top of the stairs opposite Lock Two just as the surprise attack commenced. That massed body of veteran corpsmen fanned out to prevent the enemy's gaining the stairs, suffering heavy casualties as they battled the force of Gaeans striving to draw close enough to the recessed stairwell to bomb it, while avoiding precipitating a blast in the corridor itself: a maneuver likely to prevent the Columbians from bringing up reinforcements, but at the insupportable price of denying the raiders access to the lock to which they had moored their black ship.

  While that battle raged to her rear, Signe raced towards Lock One at the head of a second force of Gaean swordsmen. Four raiders wielding handweapons, running shoulder to shoulder, paralleled the advance of the comrades keeping well to the right of those halting occasionally to aim and fire the electronic weaponry, and sprinting forward to stay abreast of their comrades. Surviving guards fleeing towards the far stairs sprawled headlong, instantaneously slain by invisible pulses flashing along arrow-straight paths limned in lurid red. Lupe, her sword sheathed, a fuzed explosive device held lightly in her right hand, prepared to implement a crucial part of the battle-plan. The breathtakingly lovely spacer-fighter maintained a position directly behind the Commander leading the assault.

  Spacers manning the pumps in the inner lock roofed by Preston's ship heard the din. Nine men charged into the corridor, weapons drawn. A tenth frantically strove to shut down the operation, even as a burly Gaean bore down on him. Whipping sword from sheath, the spa
cer fought and died in the spreading lake of icy water issuing from the imperfectly closed nozzle of the hose he had cast away. Theo's harsh ultimatum to the two men reeling with shock in front of Preston's board prevented their lifting from Lock One.

  With deadly precision, the two-pronged assault force cleared the corridor opposite the lock of guards, but suffered numerous casualties. Ryan fell, transfixed by the blade wielded by Preston's lieutenant. Conor battled his way towards the slayer whose death he sought, but it was Jess, fighting with rabid ferocity, who avenged her old comrade. Eric, maneuvering alongside of the crumpled body of his severely wounded second officer, engaged in vicious infighting before killing the spacer who had run Wyatt through the thigh. Lupe succeeded in hurling her missile down the stairwell opposite the lock. The deafening explosion that ensued followed directly upon the far more thunderous blast ripping through Lock Three.

  Amid screams, shouts, curses, and the clamorous clash of seals sliding into place to close the breach and isolate the contested stretch of corridor forming the battlefield from the remainder of its length, Signe dueled the Captain singling her out from all other enemies as he and his surviving crewmen mounted a valiant but futile defense of their ship. No match for his world's archfoe, Preston fell, transfixed through the heart.

  Wrenching her steel free, the silver-haired warrior fought on, until her gore-drenched blade drove home into the vitals of the last Columbian crewman still on his feet. The surviving raiders hauled their dead and wounded aboard their prize, and lifted, having seen that their comrades fighting before Two's stairs managed to complete an orderly, strategic retreat to their ship.

  The vividly real re-enactment faded. Pain enveloped the woman who stared unseeing into space, her mind focused on visions of prior deaths: acts of heroic self-sacrifice, and prodigies of unselfish daring. Pride mingled with pain. We won't forget our fallen warriors, she vowed. Their names will live in our oral tradition, and in our written history. Our men and women cast aside ingrained traditions of pacifism to learn fighting skills even as they used them against a ruthless, experienced, rapacious invading force.

  Far older memories superseded the new. Hatred shone nakedly from eyes gone suddenly icy: hard as blue diamonds. Recollections that Signe normally kept locked deep inside her surged past mental barriers to ravage her mind. Her face changed, twisting into a mask of virulent anger. Well aware of the corrosive potential inherent in those searing visualizations, she scourged them back into the dank dungeons of the mind that could control, if not banish them. Exerting her wealth of willpower, the Spartan-souled woman got herself in hand. Think of the future , she ordered her alter ego. Of the course this war will take, now. Well. Here's Wong, right on time. "Come in," she called.

  The martial expert dropped heavily into the chair Signe offered. He looks tired, she noted . Strained. Well, so are we all. "Wong, let me congratulate you¾not only on your willingness to sacrifice that unique vessel, which by rights ought to have gone to a museum, but for your taking such pains to convert it into a remote-controlled vehicle. That strategy was all that made the snatch possible."

  "Conor deserves your congratulations far more than I do, Signe." That wound took a toll, but grief exacted a worse one , Wong concluded sadly. The ultimate patriot, this woman. She conserves her warriors, but unhesitatingly sacrifices comrades grown ineffably close, when that price needs paid. She never falters--never loses that clear perspective she has maintained from the start.

  Signe holds the ideal of freedom for Gaea in perpetuity as more precious than the life of any individual, however heroic. She hazards her own even more readily. She suffers, when she views our dead, yet refuses to allow herself to grow desensitized to the agony of others. She steadfastly disdains to armor her heart against her own pain. How does she bear the weight of incalculable sorrow? Stay detached, decisive, cool-headed--as unaffected by the hatred I sense she feels, as by a burden of command strong men might find intolerable? Could it be that her very femininity protects her--tempers both hatred and rage? Allows her to endure--insures that she'll prevail? I wonder!

  Why do I get the uncanny feeling that Wong sees more deeply into my soul than does even Eric? Signe asked herself as she intuitively gauged the import of subtle changes flitting across the round golden face of the diminutive warrior. "Conor did as much as you, but not more, Wong. Your genius with computers allowed us to attain our goal. Well. I've another project in mind, for both of you. I'm all but certain that Arlen's working on some defensive measure to detect our black ships. Given his brilliance, he'll likely succeed. We need a sacrificial vessel¾one we can afford to see blasted. The Gaeanite-coated drone we used to make the transit to the mine where we stole our first prize springs to mind. We'll find it necessary to control our decoy from a distance, and vary the tactic we employed at Chemen. Can you manage that?"

  "I'll manage it, Signe." Wong offered that assurance in a tone breathing perfect confidence.

  "Good. We'll need to approach Columbia with infinite caution, next time¾not count on our being undetectable. We may reconnoiter before actually testing whatever Arlen's planning."

  "We'll be ready." Rising, Wong strode out, his slight body radiating determination.

  Plagued with guilt that he knew to be irrational, over the circumstance of his battle station's preventing his taking any wound, Theo found himself with time on his hands: a most unusual circumstance. Jassy, on the other hand, spent every waking moment working, given that Wong and Conor sought his help while remodeling the drone. Deprived of the company of his best friend one evening when the majority of his comrades were occupied, the former historian encountered Eric as the Senior Captain returned from the quarters in which the Columbians were confined. The sight of the warder produced a most thoughtful notion in the mind of a man incapable of harboring blind, unreasoning hatred. Striding down the corridor from which Eric had just emerged, Theo called upon Simon.

  Startled by the entry of a strange enemy officer, the prisoner of war rose from the bunk where he had been sitting, moodily contemplating the consequences of his imprisonment, and regretting the heavy burden of unaccustomed leisure. Warily, he fronted the newcomer.

  "I'm Theo," the visitor announced. "Captain, in Signe's Fleet. The thought occurred to me that you're likely chafing at enforced idleness. I can't do anything about that, but I can lend you books on macrodisc, if you'd care to read, to pass the time. I realize that you've been denied access to our world's bank, but you've a terminal in here."

  Profoundly astonished, Simon stared the scholarly, sensitive face framed in curly dark hair. Ingenuous gray eyes in which he detected no trace of sneering contempt, let alone hatred, met his searching glance squarely. "I'd welcome so thoughtful a gesture," he replied courteously. "Sit down, please. I candidly admit that I'd enjoy talking to someone who's my equal in rank--not that I don't appreciate the opportunity to visit with my fellow detainees."

  Seating himself on the opposite bunk, Theo asked, "What sort of books would interest you?"

  "Historical works, if you've got any. Civil or military history¾ancient or modern. Works by Gaean authors I'd find most engrossing, not having had any chance to read such."

  The visitor's eyes widened. "You're an historian?"

  "That was my minor. I majored in ship-systems technology, but I rather think I'd find it hard to concentrate on technical treatises, just at present." Bitterness fleetingly animated a face lately grown vacant, as its owner withdrew ever more deeply into self-absorbed apathy.

  "My degree is in history," Theo confided, reading the ominous evidence of incipient despair on the deeply lined face of a man well past middle age. "I taught at the University, before the war. I own a voluminous library of works of both Gaean and ancient history--even selections from ancient literature. The macrodisc I'll lend you contains my entire extensive collection. I'll also provide you a datapad or two, if you wish to make notes."

  "I'd be most grateful!" Thinking that he had never beheld a les
s militant-appearing captain, Simon studied his enemy. "Are you…a veteran?" he asked, curiosity overcoming his fear of giving offense to a man making so gracious an offer.

  "A veteran of eleven Earthyears of war, Simon, but I don't think of military service as a career. When the war's over, I'll return to engaging in historical research--to writing, and teaching. Meanwhile, I do what I must, out of a desire to assure that Gaea remains free in perpetuity."

  "I see." All hint of listlessness fled the face now projecting admiration. "Perhaps…you'd care to discuss early history, at times…over tea?"

  "When I rate a free hour, I'll drop in, Simon, and bring my whisky ration. We'll talk over a drink."

  Shock leaped fleetingly into the eyes of the Columbian. Whisky ration …! "Have you time to talk…tonight?"

  "I do." This poor bastard's bearing himself with dignity and courage , Theo admitted. Imagine how you'd feel, in his circumstances! Spare him an hour. "Have you read Radley's account of the forging of the Convention?"

  "Indeed I have. Richelieu's, also. They differ in several important respects, and I never have figured out which eyewitness altered the facts to fit the preconceptions of the audience for whom he wrote."

  "I've decided both did. Let me tell you about an obscure reference I discovered, quoted at length within a treatise on economics."

  Theo stayed for ninety minutes, surprised to discover that he thoroughly enjoyed the respite from tedious duty. By mutual, unspoken consent, both men avoided mentioning the present conflict, restricting themselves to discussion of early history. When the Gaean rose to go, the captive declared with patent sincerity, "I'm in debt to you, Theo."

  "I'll come when I can, Simon." The historian took his departure, never dreaming that his impulsive act of kindness to a foe would one day bring him an incalculable return.