The Dark Ascent

by Walter H Hunt

  "Blue Squadron's getting a little ragged, Van," she said. "Get them lined up here." She gestured toward a group of smaller craft trailing the three remaining hive-ships.

  "Aye-aye," Van Micic said. "Blue Squadron Right Controller, this is Excom," he said, and began issuing course changes.

  Barbara's eyes strained toward the back of the bridge, where the image of a zor warrior, sword extended, stood next to Alan Howe, Duc's assigned Sensitive. The zor was motionless, except for his eyes, which met hers when she glanced at him; the human was straining hard—his hands clenched on the railing and his eyes tightly shut.

  Alan and the zor warrior, along with the defensive-field mods, were what was standing between Duc and the enemy mental powers that had destroyed her original Green Squadron at Cicero. Now, her new Greens were being managed by Owen Garrett as Flight Controller, second to the Green Wing Commander, who was too valuable to send out there.

  In the meanwhile Duc had a battle to fight and every erg of firepower at Barbara's disposal was being used against the hive-ships and their outriders as they advanced on the second squadron's position.

  On Fair Damsel, the command crew were all on the bridge, clustered around the pilot's board watching the battle. Dan, Ray, Drew Sabah and Pyotr watched the vuhl forces creeping down into the gravity well while Jackie stood immobile, the gyaryu held out in front of her, eyes staring at something they couldn't see.

  "They didn't expect this," Pyotr said. "They're getting bogged down."

  "They didn't expect that she"—Dan nodded toward Jackie—"could protect the whole fleet."

  "Is that what's happening?" Ray asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," Li said, looking away from the board, "we don't know what's going on in there." He pointed at Jackie. "That's the real battle, whatever she's doing."

  "Tell that to Admiral Hsien."

  "If he thinks otherwise, he's kidding himself."

  "Okay," Dan said. "Tell that to every commander out there." A transponder code near one of the enemy hive-ships vanished. "The ones that survive will tell you they're fighting a pretty damn serious battle." Dan put his hands on his hips. "If the enemy destroys enough ships . . ."

  "They've already taken out seven—no, eight front-liners," Pyotr Ngo said. "Both of the zor sixes, along with two Shengs, Turenne, Brittany—"

  "Isn't that one of the new ones?"

  "Got it in one," Pyotr said. "They got out but lost most of their maneuver, from the look of it. Your old pal Maartens covered their retreat."

  "Where's Pappenheim?"

  "There." Pyotr pointed to a spot in among the three remaining Sheng-class sixth-generation ships, closely trailing the enemy's advance. "Not exactly out of the line of fire, but he's not leading the charge, either."

  "Smart man."

  Two pinpricks of light winked out among the crowd of vuhl small craft—two fighter craft exploding as enemy fire destroyed them. Then, suddenly, one of the vuhl hive-ships vanished from the display.

  Two more companions vanished: Now there were five remaining, including Hesya/Stone himself. Jackie could see that the zor who stood around her with weapons at the ready had been reduced in numbers as well.

  It reminded her eerily of her own Dsen'yen'ch'a at Adrianople Starbase, when she had taken her first steps down the road to the spot she was in now. There was only one difference: This wasn't Sharnu—it was Hesya. And this time he had friends as well . . . but fewer and fewer of them.

  "You're running out of allies."

  Hesya/Stone's wings moved to a posture of amusement. He took a step toward Jackie, who raised the gyaryu to defend herself.

  "Really, madam. I realize it's a reflex, but don't think you can threaten me with that." Still, he didn't advance any farther.

  "I'll stick with my reflexes, thank you. I'll keep it right where it is. What's happening in the battle?"

  "Does it matter?" Stone asked.

  "It matters to me."

  "Well, then. Not to put too fine a point on it, my invincible clients are losing. But things are just starting to get interesting."

  "Deploy to port," Hsien said, indicating a position on his own pilot's board.

  Sean Van Meter nodded. "We're about ten minutes down-range, Admiral. I've got enough throw-weight to launch some missiles at the nearest hive-ship, but I'd intended to get Mauritius' fighters off the deck."

  "Get the fighters out there. I—"

  "Excuse me, Admiral," said Dame Alexandra Quinn, Gibraltar's commander. "I think we've got a situation." She pointed to the icon for Mandela.

  "You've got your orders, Sean. Hsien out." The admiral squinted at the info for Mandela, which was changing rapidly. "Flag to Mandela. Chris, your shields are in the white. Back off."

  Sean paused and looked across at comm, which was trying to send the message. The comm officer shook her head.

  "Damn. 'Flag to Emperor Ian. Erich, redirect fire to Mandela's targets. Ian, acknowledge."

  "I read you, sir," came Erich Anderson's voice from comm. There was no visual. "I'm trying to raise Mandela, but can't reach her. I won't want to approach too close in case she blows."

  "Understood, but try to draw fire anyway."

  "Will do."

  "Anything from Mandela?" Hsien asked. If its defensive fields were radiating all the way into the white, it meant they were almost overloaded. If it could maneuver itself out of the plane-of-battle, it could disperse them; but to do so in the face of enemy weapons would be to expose the hull of the ship to direct fire.

  "Nothing, sir," the comm officer said.

  "It may have lost maneuver," Quinn added. "Ian will have to get clear."

  As she spoke these words, the mass-radar icon for Emperor Ian veered off, making a close approach to one of the enemy ships that had targeted Mandela. Almost at once, Mandela's icon disappeared. On the forward screen of the Gibraltar, a bright spot appeared, expanded, and was gone, leaving only an afterecho and the metallic reflections of debris spinning outward from the site.

  The fighters from Duc d'Enghien and Xian Chuan were in it now, with those of the fifth-generation small carrier Mauritius (which could only fly four wings instead of the six available to her larger sisters) en route. Unlike capital ships, fighters were intended for attacks on specific targets, usually particular weapons-emplacements or to overload one section of an opposing ship's field.

  It didn't pay for a fighter to stay anywhere for veiy long. Ships of the line could withstand incoming fire: Their defensive fields could absorb energy, distribute it evenly and disperse it through radiation. Fighters had no such protection; their objective was to be elsewhere when the torpedo or beam showed up. Fighter craft were—on the space combat scale, at least—very small and maneuverable, hard to hit and hard to track.

  On each flight deck of Duc, a flight controller watched the vid pickups on each of his or her fighter pilots' visual arrays. Green Squadron was controlled by Owen Garrett, who—truth be told—would rather have been out flying a fighter against the bugs than supervising, no matter how damn valuable his talent was. His squadron, which still had six craft deployed, had been making its hits count against one of the hive-ships while avoiding the smaller craft that swarmed around it.

  For Owen, watching six holos was probably as close as he was going to get to the action; the dull feeling in the pit of his stomach got worse every time the target hive-ship grew large in one of those six views. It reminded him of another hive-ship, another battle and another part of his life.

  No one seemed to be of special interest to the bugs, though. No one was being made to believe that his mates were his enemies; no one was being pulled inside.

  The bugs, evidently, had a lot more on their minds.

  The capital ships from Van Meter's squadron formed up near Sheng Long and its two sister ships, with the fighters from Mauritius joining the fray. On the pilot's board of Gibraltar, Admiral Hsien watched as they finished off one more hive-ship in a huge catastrop
hic explosion.

  Two more of Hesya's escorts vanished, leaving only two: one to either side of Hesya—the one to his left still holding the banner.

  "It appears as if your clients are running out of time," Jackie said. "Don't you have any magic tricks to save them? No ribbons of rainbow light for the vuhls to escape on?"

  "Spare me your droll comments," Hesya/Stone said. "This is the last time our . . . clients will underestimate you."

  "They don't think of us as 'meat-creatures' anymore, then?"

  "Oh, don't be deceived into thinking that. They still believe themselves to be superior. That isn't likely to change. What they believe, is that no race with inferior k'th's's powers can compete with them. The Ór told them—we told them"—Stone's smile returned, as sardonic as ever—"that as long as it lived, they'd not be defeated."

  "Thon's Well and Josephson makes it two in a row."

  "Defeated, dear lady. Losing hive-ships is no small matter, but they're far from defeated.

  "In fact," he continued, "when you lose a few battles, there's only one thing you can do: make changes at the top."

  "Meaning—?"

  "Meaning that when word gets back to . . . the powers that be, there'll be some changes made."

  A single alien ship remained, doling out unimaginable firepower. The destruction of the other ship had taken a number of defenders with it—McReynolds' sensor equipment could hardly keep track.

  Five alien ships would have been enough to vaporize the entire fleet, as had been done at Adrianople, and was almost done at Thon's Well . . . Except that without the ability to seize the minds of Imperial commanders, the ungainly hive-ships could not outmaneuver their smaller opponents. Fighter craft were able to execute wave-attacks, with Duc d'Enghien moving closer to provide some broadsides of its own.

  "I still have a few questions for you, Stone," Jackie said, not moving her blade from where it was pointed at Hesya/Stone's chest. "There are some things I don't understand."

  "I'm always willing to answer questions," he said, the sardonic grin remaining on his face. "I don't know if you'll want the answers, though."

  "I'll be the judge of that. You've been lurking in the background during this whole affair—probably ever since Cicero. Even before."

  "Before," he agreed.

  "But all this time it's been Sharnu who's been attacking me. Sharnu—Shrnu'u HeGa'u—came from the underworld to fight me in the Dsen'yen'ch'a. He attacked me aboard Fair Damsel. He attacked me on Dieron. For all I know, it was Shrnu'u HeGa'u who killed Damien Abbas on Center. If you're so damned powerful, why didn't he succeed? What were those things—just tests?"

  "If you like."

  "I don't. I don't like what you're doing to Owen Garrett, either. He doesn't know what his part is, any more than I do . . . but he hasn't met you, Stone. He doesn't know about Hesya.

  "Byar HeShri told me that Despite doesn't have a point, and that Shrnu'u HeGa'u attacked me because Qu'u is his ancient enemy. But why change now? Why are you here now? Because I've figured out the connection with the Shr'e'a legend, you've wrapped yourself in it to try and deceive me. But why not just try to beat me over the head again? Where is Shrnu'u HeGa'u?"

  "Where he's been all along," Stone answered. "Right behind you."

  "He is very near . . . he is near—" Sa'a's wings ran through a dozen positions in rapid sequence. Her hi'chya, which had been lowered to her side, was raised again, extended before her, her talons clutching it tightly. T'te'e glanced around the garden; the alHyu and other servants were keeping their distance, but their wings betrayed concern and not embarrassment: Many of them had seen the same sort of behavior in the previous High Lord, but this seemed to smack of true prescience and not madness.

  "What of the esGa'uYal?" T'te'e asked.

  "The esHara'y are nearly all destroyed," Sa'a answered, not looking at him. "Four talons are broken but a fifth remains. But the real danger is not at the end of the chya-arm—it is near the heart."

  "Can anything be done?"

  "esLi," Sa'a almost whispered. "esLi's protective wing:"

  T'te'e extended his own wings in a posture of reverence to esLi, but even as he and most of the attendants completed the gesture, Sa'a swung in a graceful circle with the hi'chya, her wings cascading like a waterfall—

  Jackie turned away from Hesya/Stone—knowing it could be a trap, knowing how dangerous it might be, but fearing the attack of Shrau'u HeGa'u as well—and suddenly, as she did so, a fierce gust of wind coming from the bone-sheathed towers above her made her stagger and fall:

  ——She was on one knee, the cargo hold of Fair Damsel suffused with bright, actinic light. Her chya was held before her and she faced the sixty-four-limbed darkness of anGa'e'ren. She could remember it all now: the taunting voice of Shrnu'u HeGa'u, the sinuous twisting of the dark pseudopods. Somewhere above the hold floor, her ancient enemy stood at the deck controls; a quick glance over her shoulder revealed his identity, free of any glare or obscurement—

  ——Thunder rolled off the Livingston Mountains and lightning cracked overhead. Her hsi-images seemed to be out of reach, impossibly far away. Half kneeling, half crouching on the rain-soaked ground, she watched as her mother's image began to melt and change like a snake shedding its skin: The arms came together and were now holding a sword that hissed and snarled, making Jackie's flesh crawl. But as her mother's image disappeared, the face that replaced it was not that of Shrnu'u HeGa'u . . . or, rather, it was as if she was seeing him for the first time: It was the face of someone very familiar—

  ——Suddenly there was a brilliant flash of lightning, seemingly right outside the cabin of the aircar. The light was bright enough to blind her for a moment; but not before she caught a glimpse of some sort of rainbow, like a series of colored bands, scoring through the cabin. When her vision had cleared, the gyaryu was in her hands, pointing downward at Damien Abbas, who looked up at her with frightened, sightless eyes.

  "This is the same," his voice said, his lips moving like an automaton's. "But it is different."

  The eyes then focused. "I have you now, Crawler-servant." There was something in his hand: not a blade, but a cutting- laser, and the face was suddenly not that of Damien Abbas, but rather—

  Thrown to the deck as if by some unseen hand, Jackie mostly avoided the cutting-laser's beam. Instead of catching her amidships, it clipped her in the shoulder and chest. The pain nearly blinded her and the smell of burned flesh made her want to retch.

  Everything was happening at once and seemingly in slow motion. She saw Dan whirl around in the pilot's chair; Drew Sabah, the Sultan, holding the laser in his hands and getting ready to fire it again; Pyotr Ngo diving for the deck under the comm console; Ray Li grabbing for the extinguisher to put out the fire from the panel behind Jackie where the shot had struck.

  Hesya, and Shr'e'a, had disappeared. Shrnu'u HeGa'u—Drew Sabah—had brought the pistol around to fire on Pyotr, who was reaching for a weapon strapped under his console. Help me, she thought—shouted—at the gyaryu. Help me.

  There is a way. You already know it.

  My hsi is weak. My hsi-images are far away. The pain from her arm and shoulder were narrowing her vision. I haven't the power.

  Summon them, the gyaryu replied. Use esLiDur'ar.

  Drew Sabah stood like a statue, unmoving. Time had stopped: Dan was half out of his seat; the flame from the fire was in midcrackle; Pyotr had reached his pistol, had it in his hand, and was bringing it to bear on the image of his old friend.

  She called out for them: Sergei, Marais and the others.

  On more than three dozen ships scattered around Josephson System, the projected images vanished.

  Howe cried out in pain and slumped to one knee as the mental onslaught reached him nearly unimpeded for the first time. Barbara MacEwan felt it as well, a chorus of voices speaking unintelligible phrases. She wanted to cry out but could not; wanted to turn around, but could not.

  Van Micic's gray-haired he
ad was bent over the tactical display, but he was able to turn aside enough to give Barbara a look of complete horror.

  No, she thought. No. We are too damn close to winning this . . . No!

  From reserves of anger she didn't know she had, she fought against the invading minds that called out to her to change the course of the Duc d'Enghien, which was closing with the only remaining alien ship. The carrier had been approaching to deliver a close-in broadside in support of its fighter wings, but she'd intended for it to make a course change after it reached firing range. Without ordering the change, the Duc would ram right into the flank of the alien vessel.

  But if she let herself speak, she knew that it would not be her voice that would give the orders.

  On the Green Squadron flight deck, Owen Garrett looked away from the pilot's board that tracked the Green fighters. Things had gone silent on the main bridge.

  He felt the same sense of quiet he had first experienced in the Shield on Center, sitting opposite Damien Abbas. The flight deck came into sharp focus: Every sound, every indicator glyph on every display, every curve of every face assaulted him. He stood up from his post and turned around, looking in all directions.

  But from the bridge—from Commander Micic and Captain MacEwan—he heard nothing in his headset.

  "Commander?" Erin Simon, the Green Wing Commander, had turned away from her station.

  "Something's happening," Owen answered. He made a gesture toward the wing-commander's station and dashed off the flight bridge toward the lift leading down the long arm from Green to the main hull of Duc.

  It took several long, agonizing minutes for Owen to descend to Duc's main hull and dash up through "officer country" to the bridge. He had his pistol in his hand, and no one seemed interested in getting in his way; a half-dozen Marines in the gangway followed him, their weapons drawn as well.