Warrior-Woman

by Mary Ann Steele

  Conor remarked ruminatively, "Not so wild, that notion regarding Feynman. We could equip the cargo ship with a pentapod--five legs that would rest on the frozen crust when we landed--but cutting ice with electronic cutters would take far too much time, and require a huge crew. We'd find the work impossibly slow, and drastically costly. You know…I wonder…"

  Signe watched bleached eyes turn remote, as Conor's voice died away. No one broke the silence that fell to enshroud the group. Five minutes passed before the warrior returned to his present time and place.

  "An idea just struck me," he informed his comrades. "One wilder than Signe's. I'd need to consult with experts in several fields, but suppose that we employ the crude beam weaponry mounted on the cargo ship to melt a hole through the solid surface ice, to the slush. Suppose that we force down an insulated, jacketed casing--one that could be heated--so that we could pump water into the holds of the cargo ship, rather than load blocks of ice. That procedure would constitute a dangerous drain on the ship's stored electrical power, even if we'd just freshly tapped the gas giant's current sheet. Movement of the ice might trash the casing, in between trips. We could only make a run approximately once every two fourweeks, when Feynman comes closest to Gaea. But we'd gain a wealth of fuel."

  "Conor, what a marvelous notion!" Signe's eyes blazed as she urged, "Research it, by all means!"

  Mental agility must rub off on minds attuned to yours, girl . Gravely, Conor nodded.

  "You know…if that notion turns out to be feasible, we'd require a base in orbit around Feynman. Not a ship…a small planetoid," Wong mused. "Perhaps we could equip with arcjets a rock featuring an abandoned mining facility, and head the body that way. At just the right trajectory, the base would near its destination in five to six fourweeks, coincident with Feynman's arrival at the point in its orbit closest to Gaea. We could dock a ship on the habitat at that juncture, and transfer the rock into a stable orbit."

  "That's another intriguing possibility, Wong," Signe commended him. "Conor, research the feasibility of your wild idea. In the meantime, gentlemen, six of you will fly patrols in the unaltered ships. That duty will enable you to shake down your crews into cohesive teams. Eric, I'll lay on you and your spacers the chore of making the rounds in the cargo vessel, of whichever of the thirty-nine inhabited planetoids has fuel available that we can divert to the cause. You'll each orbit Columbia, far out, for a fourweek, and then return for a break. I'll schedule staggered leaves. Conor, you'll spend the first week ashore. The rest of you will lift tomorrow morning."

  Jassy caught up to Sean and Yuri as the two friends walked out together. Cooperate , he admonished himself sternly. So what if you end in a bind? These men just put themselves at dire risk. Resolutely, he addressed the sensitive colleague who well knew that the older man's gruff manner masked shyness almost as profound as Yuri's. "Sean, when Signe offered to let us select our lieutenants, I naturally chose the person with whom I'd worked so closely, flying those missions aboard the black ships. I'd hate like hell to lose you, Yuri, but while the two of you work together to implement your plan, you'll find it easier if you serve aboard the same ship. I'll make whatever rearrangement suits both of you."

  The two youths, close friends for Earthyears, exchanged excited glances. "Jassy, what a generous offer!" Sean exclaimed. Gratitude burgeoned, generating thoughts of cooperativeness that prompted a major concession. "Would you care to trade lieutenants?"

  What an offer! "If Dallas would feel comfortable working with me, I'd be delighted to have him!" Concern for morale tempered the burly captain's surging elation. "Talk to Dallas, Sean. If you sense that he's upset or resentful at the notion, don't press it. I'll make do with a less forceful leader than your battle-wise second officer."

  "I'll broach the idea with all the tact I can muster," the recipient of a welcome gesture promised his comrade.

  True to his word, Sean arrived within the hour to knock on the door of Jassy's quarters, accompanied by a lean, tall, brown-skinned swordsman an Earthyear younger than himself. Thick, dark-gold hair hid the worst of a narrow scar that slanted down the youth's forehead: a reminder of an old sword-cut that had barely missed his right eye. Pronounced lines clawed out from a thin mouth. The veteran's face radiated assurance, and his bearing suggested a lethal competence.

  Sean addressed his fellow captain. "I explained Yuri's problem to Dallas, Jassy. I assured him that I'd never propose a solution so painful to me, in less than extraordinary circumstances. I mentioned what you said about his being a forceful leader. He readily agreed to serve where he's most needed."

  Dallas held out a hand. "I appreciate your willingness to take me on, Jassy," he announced forthrightly. "I'd make any sacrifice to further a chance at a negotiated peace, but I don't regard this switch as a sacrifice on my part. I'll be proud to serve under you."

  Jassy's grip all but crushed the sinewy brown hand he squeezed. "I'm grateful to you, Dallas," he declared with patent sincerity, his bulldog face projecting both relief and warmth. "We'll hope this overture succeeds. Meanwhile, we'll prepare for the worst…together." Two men as unschooled in the delicate art of concealing their thoughts from their associates as they were of lying even for courtesy's sake, walked off shoulder to shoulder, mentally adjusting to new circumstances of service in the cause both saw as superseding any personal concern.

  So began a new endeavor: one not as Herculean in scope as the first, but one that took seven fourweeks of heroic effort to complete. Both Terence and Signe employed all of their charismatic appeal to cajole fuel from settlers already living lives of forbidding deprivation. Jointly, they appealed to ice-prospectors donating the fruit of brutal, dangerous labor, to industrialists struggling to recover from the ravages of a decade-long, rapacious occupation, to a populace striving valiantly to rebuild shattered institutions. Unselfishly, the citizenry donated not only resources, but also flesh and blood: sons and daughters eager to train as replacements for those who had died in the assaults that recovered Gaea's fleet.

  Faced with the task of appointing a new second officer to replace Ryan, who had fallen at Chemen, Conor now chose Jess to rise to the rank of the old comrade he sorely missed. The legendary warrior's action engendered fierce pride in the woman acutely conscious that she owed both her prowess at swordsmanship and her ability to lead, to his tutelage. Together, Conor and Jess trained replacements for the sadly decimated crew that had borne the brunt of the battle to reach the site they bombed and breached, at Dunn. Given that Conor immersed himself in the technical aspects of his wild idea, Jess worked sixteen hours a day, striving mightily to shoulder as much of the work burdening the Captain as she could.

  Rhea, Jess's cabinmate, spent the bulk of the first week tending survivors of those two final, costly raids. She saw with deep satisfaction the rapid recovery Talley made. That scarred warrior, dreading the thought of being left behind indefinitely, battled her way back to a state of health sufficient to convince the Chief Medical Technician of her fitness to serve.

  "Morgan's short on veterans," the seasoned fighter insisted, eyeing the notoriously strong-minded caregiver warily. "I'm on my feet. You know damned well that if you'd recovered to this degree, you'd go aboard."

  Having studied the angular, plain face of her old comrade, Rhea surveyed the ugly new scar, which began below the less than ample swell of a firm small breast, and continued around the right side of a lean torso, above a puckered puncture-wound. Other, older scars disfigured the hard, dark body bared to the technician's searching eyes. Reluctantly, she nodded. "I'll discharge you¾after you pass me your word that over the next three fourweeks, you'll see whichever medic's here on Main World, every time Morgan docks."

  "You've got it, woman." Profound relief reflected from sunken gray eyes as the convalescent awkwardly donned a slate blue tunic and pants marred by rents closed, if not concealed, by patches neatly cloth-welded to the inner surface of the garment.

  So began a period of long, tedious, cautiou
s flights. Veterans spent endless weary hours searching screens for glimpses of enemy vessels. Recruits underwent rigorous training, conducted by officers feeling their way towards achieving a tightly knit, well-coordinated crew.

  Slowly, Conor's vision transmuted into solid reality. The day came when the first supply of fuel loaded at Feynman arrived back at Main World. The cargo vessel, commanded by Eric and escorted by Conor's military ship and an undetectable vessel flown by Signe, landed upon a flat area on the surface of Main World, close to the northernmost edge of the globe-girdling web of habitats. Five sturdy legs now encircled the docking module remodeled into a lock. Twelve pressure-suited crewmembers exited via the slanting walkway that descended from the module after the rock seared by the plasma exhaust cooled. Stepping a trifle gingerly onto the baked surface, the spacer-fighters began the long, arduous walk to the nearest habitat, leaving to a horde of suited technicians the task of attaching gear that would allow the liquid water in the holds to be pumped into tanks.

  Eric and his crew emerged through the second of a pair of locks allowing ingress to the habitat. Wyatt, Lieutenant, a quiet man of thirty-seven--a spacer-fighter barely recovered from a wicked sword-thrust taken at Chemen--unlatched the Captain's helmet.

  "Men, face this wall," Eric ordered. "Midori and Lupe, face opposite. Tell me, when you're dressed." Twelve spacers shed cumbersome pressure suits, and donned slate blue uniforms showing signs of hard wear.

  Striding out into the corridor at the head of his crew, Eric greeted the Commander, who stood awaiting him, accompanied by the spacers who had manned her ship. "That ingenious ploy worked better than I ever thought it would," he admitted with smiling candor. "What few problems surfaced, Conor and those engineers he brought along solved, and the rock's right on course."

  "We'll figure on hauling a load every time Feynman's close to Gaea, Eric. Once the rock orbits the ice-moon, we'll see if we can't manage two loads."

  Flanked by Jess, Conor strode into view two hundred meters away, followed by his crew. The originator of the idea hastened towards the silver-haired woman meeting the group halfway.

  "Conor, what a triumph!" Signe commended the mechanical genius, flashing him her memorable smile. "Marvelous!"

  Praise from a master is praise indeed, girl . "We've perfected the technique, so we won't find the chore nearly so chancy, next time round. I suggest we let the other captains observe the process, once that rock is in orbit."

  "We'll train all of them. Meanwhile, we need to venture close enough to Columbia to guard our perimeter. We'll use the six detectable ships--make our intent plain."

  "About time."

  Three days later, Lacey, gaunt, hollow-eyed, but back on duty commanding one of the three orbital forts, caught sight of a military ship on his multispectral screen. The Captain alerted Amin, who deployed Evan's, Waylon's and Demetrius's vessels to observe the ship's trajectory. Having detected the mysterious visitant on the video screens, the Acting Commander of the Special Force conferred with Brant and Dahl, the men in command of the two remaining forts. Amin then peremptorily challenged the intruder.

  "We're an Earth-armed military ship of Signe's Gaean Fleet," a Gaean-accented voice asserted boldly. "Try locking onto us, and we'll blast you! We're making sure that you're holed up in your forts, not preparing to repeat Norman's error. You'll be seeing us often, gentlemen."

  "Well, of all the nerve!" Lacey spluttered. "For sheer insolence, that beats anything I've ever heard!"

  Amin bit back the scalding retort boiling to the surface. "Best watch yourselves, my overconfident foes," he warned in a voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "We'll blast you with manifest delight, should you let down your guard in the slightest degree." Silence fell like a pall over his bridge.

  Undeterred by his unerring perception of the magnitude of Lacey's wrath, Levi, seated next to the veteran spacer-captain, candidly spoke his thought. "That's no black ship. It's flying a trajectory that'll allow it to transfer into an orbit far higher than that of the forts--one that will take it nowhere near the Ice World. They're doing exactly what that Gaean said they were."

  "Damn that woman's gall!" Controlling by sheer force of will a temper Levi intuitively knew to be mercurial, Lacey forced rugged coppery features into a mask of tight-lipped impassivity as he glared at the screen.

  Seated in his office in Ministry Main Habitat, where he had been attending to the administrative affairs that had engrossed him ever since he witnessed the efficacy of his defenses, Arlen listened to Amin's description of the encounter.

  "They're evidently making certain that we launch no strike on Gaea," the Acting Commander reported. "They boldly proclaimed their intent. We've seen only the one ship, but Signe undoubtedly plans to employ all eight. I'd gladly risk a ship-to-ship battle, knowing that they won't dare lock onto us, lest they take a return blast down their beam. We could outmaneuver them while they get into position to fire manually, so that any pulse aimed at the point in space we vacated moments before they loosed that energy fails to score. Those Gaean captains won't be as experienced as we are at that sort of maneuvering. Shall I take them on, sir?" Let us wipe one of the arrogant bastards, at least!

  "No, Amin. And you'll issue stern orders in my name, to the other officers¾forbid them to go out of their way to provoke a skirmish. Stay battle-ready, but don't initiate a fight. Try to determine how many ships Signe's sending this far out. She's got to be hampered by their perennial shortages of fuel. Let me know what you learn. Warn Danner to stay vigilantly on guard at the Ice World. Have Levi relieve Brant at Third Fort, and order Brant to reinforce Danner's guard."

  "Yes, sir."

  Sensing the impotent anger underlying that crisp, conventional response, Arlen wearily pondered his position. Dexter's engaged in a military plot against me. I've set him up. It'll be only a matter of time before I trap him into betraying himself. Galt increased his power over world security while the war fully occupied me. He's taken pains to appear motivated by a patriotic wish to assist me by assuming extra responsibility, while scrupulously avoiding any appearance of disloyalty. Regan's blasting Kent served to bolster the public's perception of Galt's effectiveness. I wish to hell Second Corps would wipe Chapell!

  Norman's the only one of my three rivals who isn't giving me a problem, other than keeping his veterans discontented at their lot. Defeat at Signe's hands broke the back of Norman's fierce ambition, evidently. He's carrying out his onerous duties with impeccable efficiency. Not that he wouldn't turn on me in an instant, if an opportunity offered, but he sees none. Nor will I give him one.

  And now this evidence that Signe plans … something. Or is she merely determined to prevent any new invasion of Gaea? Why in hell can't she simply turn her considerable talent towards rebuilding her world's economy? That captain plainly announced their intent. Is that a forthright warning, or some sort of feint? Could she be preparing for a large-scale strike on the Ice World? I can't see how. She'd lose the bulk of what she's gained. But bear in mind that she came up with a most unexpected strategy once already. Don't underestimate your daring and unconventional enemy, Arlen. Dangerous error, that.

  A knock on the door interrupted Arlen's dour meditations. "Come in!" he called, knitting his brows. Now what in hell! I told Hoffmann not to admit anyone!

  The aide appropriated from Neville, the First Minister whom the military dictator entrusted with overseeing the mundane functioning of the civil government, appeared in the doorway. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir," Hoffmann apologized warily. "But after hearing what the gentleman pleading for an interview had to say, I assumed that you'd wish to interrogate him yourself."

  Divining that a novel circumstance prompted that decision, Arlen commanded, "Send him in."

  The gangly visitor, whose slightly rounded shoulders and shuffling gait shouted his total lack of any training as a swordsman, appeared to be in his early thirties. Clad in a smartly tailored suit that the shrewd observer suspected he wore seldom, but had donned
for this occasion, the man exhibited perceptible nervousness as Hoffmann introduced him. "This is Paige, sir. He's an engineer in the employ of Lansing Metals."

  Arlen rose quickly enough to avoid calling attention to his penetrating analysis of the visitor's nonverbal behavior. Offering a hand, he noted the unworldly, contemplative cast to the brown-skinned face of the engineer. Subtly pitching his melodious voice so as to place the civilian more at ease, he greeted him cordially, and urged, "Please be seated." Gesturing to a chair, Arlen took one opposite. "What business brings you here, Paige?"

  Sitting stiffly erect on the edge of the comfortably contoured seat, the civilian studied the holder of supreme power over his world. Moments later, he relaxed a trifle, judging the courtly courtesy to be habitual, not assumed for the occasion.

  "Sir, I'm a chemical engineer. Twelve Earthyears ago, while an undergraduate in the University, I began a project of original research in metallurgy. Norman's invasion of Gaea hadn't yet occurred. I solved a vexing problem in a most unorthodox manner--by enlisting the aid of an engineering student at the University of Gaea. We conferred across interworld space, bearing with the inconvenience of the time-lag. This man, Yuri by name, proved an inestimable help. Nice chap--shy, but brilliant. Our collaboration proved most advantageous to me.

  "Well, five days ago, Yuri managed to contact me. He hasn't changed much, sir. He's most definitely the same man with whom I formerly corresponded. He's now one of Signe's officers. He and a second Gaean--Sean, one of her captains--recently gained Signe's permission to contact a non-military Columbian: myself. Both Sean and Yuri wish to act as envoys from Signe to you, sir, to ascertain whether you'd eventually consider meeting with their world's leader in mutually agreeable circumstances, at some secure place. They hope to negotiate a truce that will lead eventually to a peace treaty."

  Dust of my ancestors! Shock surged through the dictator whose face betrayed no slightest hint of his sudden, profound excitement. "Indeed!" he remarked, consciously projecting wary interest. "Why does Signe not contact me herself?"