by Martin H.
A hell of a butcher’s bill to pay. Poor cy-Tomlin. He was one of the dissociates, the circuitry projecting his mind into the shipnet burned out during the final, savage enemy broadside. The poor kid had never had a chance.
Hazzard knew he’d done it to save the other ships. That didn’t make the loss any easier to bear. The loss of his own was like a small piece of himself dying.
A bell rang. ‘These proceedings are completed. Dismissed.“
Hazzard straightened to attention as the three admirals behind the imposing cliff of a judgment desk stood, turned, and walked toward the wings of the courtroom. One of them stopped, though, at the door, spoke for a moment with the others, then walked toward Hazzard.
“That,” Admiral Dalim cy-Koenin said softly, “was one of the stupidest battles I’ve ever seen played on an after-action report.”
Hazzard stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“You should have run as soon as you saw how badly you were outgunned. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If Lieutenant Lasely hadn’t had the bright idea of expending nearly all of Uriel’s water reserves in a last-ditch attempt to boost to c using his maneuvering thrusters, it would have been another hour or more before Victor reached you, and you all would have been dead or prisoners by then.”
“I only wanted to save those ships and men, sir. I knew Uriel would win clear to the squadron. I thought I might be able to slow the P’aaseni enough to let some of our ships get clear.”
“Risking your ship and crew that way was misguided at best, stupid at worst.”
Which was no more than Hazzard had been telling himself since the battle’s end.
“Yes, sir. I have no excuse, sir.”
“Uh. It was also one of the more brilliant pieces of military ship handling I’ve ever seen. You saved Bellemew’s tail, that’s sure. You single-handedly brought the Anarchate into the Union camp and without firing on them, though there’ll be some hair-splitting over whether what you did constituted an attack or not. You fought a ship of the line to a battered hulk and were responsible for the capture of three out of six enemy sail and the repulse of the rest. You’ll probably be getting a decoration for this one.”
“Lieutenant Lasely deserves the medal, Admiral. He’s the one that saved all our tails.”
“He’ll get it. Don’t worry.” Cy-Koenin placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Damn it, Dad. Sometimes I despair of you. But… well done!”
Hazzard released the breath he’d been holding in his lungs. His son extended a hand, and Hazzard took it.
Then they embraced.
It was one of the costs of a naval service that depended on near-c velocities for each jump to highspace or for riding the light barrier endlessly on blockade or patrol off the shoals of enemy systems. Greydon Hazzard had ten portwives on various worlds and, at last count, at any rate, had seven children, four girls, three boys, by different mothers. All but three were older biologically than Hazzard now, because most of their lives had been spent groundside… and one, also a Navy captain, was sometimes older, sometimes younger when they met, depending on how much tau-minus each had accumulated in the intervening subjective since their last meeting.
Hazzard had racked up a hell of a lot of tau-minus over the objective years. His portwife on Groller, nearly seventy objective years ago, had been one Lauri cy-Koenin.
She was long dead, but their son, Dalim, had gone to the Union Naval Academy at Napola, risen through the ranks, commanded half a dozen ships in his illustrious career, and finally been promoted to admiral. With far less tau-minus on the books than Hazzard, he was now fifty-eight standard-objective years old and twenty-two years older than his father.
“You know, don’t you, that cy-Dennever was right to bring you up on charges.”
A pause. “Yes, sir.” Reluctantly.
“The Anarchate was this close to declaring war after your little stunt with their PDBs. You’re just damned lucky their military council decided to switch sides.”
That was news to Hazzard. “I hadn’t heard that, sir.”
“Just came through on the last dispatch boat from Kaden. Turns out there was a faction of the Anarchate military that had decided to side with the Alliance because they were strongest and, sooner or later, when the Alliance beat us, the Anarchate would be wiped out by the Alliance’s human-onlies. They figured that if they joined the Alliance, helped them, the Irdikad might be able to find a place in the new regime, even if only as second-class citizens.”
“Huh. Maybe their decision wasn’t so crazy after all.” It made sense, after a fashion, according to Irdikad psychology.
“Yes, well, it seems that our winning that battle against those odds convinced them that we were the strongest, and therefore the ones to side with. Although…”
“Sir?”
“What they said was, ‘Anyone crazy enough to pull a stunt like that is worthy of respect.’ A rough translation, of course.” He shook his head. “First time a Fleet officer has won a battle and a new ally by being insane.”
“I prefer the word lucky.”
“Someday, Dad,” cy-Koenin said with a grin, “when you’re as old as I am, you’ll know that relying on luck just doesn’t always pay off the way you expect.”
“We make our own luck, son. Sometimes, it’s just a bit harder and more expensive than other times.” He didn’t add that often the price was a little piece of your soul.
Poor cy-Tomlin…
“You in the mood for a bite to eat, Admiral? Courts of inquiry make me hungry.”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Together, father and son, they strode from the chamber.
THE END
BLINDFOLD
by Robin Wayne Bailey
Robin Wayne Bailey is the author of a dozen novels, including the Brothers of the Dragon series, Shad-owdance, and the new Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser novel Swords Against the Shadowland. His short fiction has appeared in numerous science fiction and fantasy anthologies and magazines, including Far Frontiers and Spell Fantastic. An avid book collector and old-time radio enthusiast, he lives in North Kansas City, Missouri.
Chilson Dawes stumbled out of the doorway of Madam Satterfield’s brothel and into the dark Martian night. He stank of alcohol and sex. He didn’t care. He still had money in his pockets, and pale dawn was hours away. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, drew his cloak about his shoulders, and smacked his lips, thirsty for another drink.
A burly bear of a man in a worn leather spacer’s jacket leaned near the door. He stubbed out a cigarette with a booted toe. “You’re killin‘ yourself, you know.” A note of weariness softened the gruff voice. “Why don’t you call it a night.”
Dawes heard the limping scrape of boot soles on the pavement. He groped for an offered arm and clutched it. “Mister Donovan,” he said with a cheerful slur, “when I want a medical opinion, I’ll call a doctor, not a broken-down washed-out wreck of an Irish freighter pilot like yourself.” He patted the hand at the end of the arm.
“You’re a lousy friend, but like a good old dog always there when I call.”
“We are a pair, aren’t we?” Donovan said. “So-brothel, bar, or casino?”
That was the problem with a city like Tharsis. Too damn much to offer. All the sins and vices a man couldn’t get on civilized Earth anymore, pleasures undreamed of for someone with too much money and too much time. Chilson Dawes had both.
“Just walk,” he said with a sudden, self-pitying melancholy.
Donovan obeyed. Dawes, with a secure grip on the Irishman’s arm, listened to the sounds around him as they wandered. The streets were alive tonight: music gushing from the open doorways of taverns; a woman’s coarse laugh; a pair of boastful spacers drunk as Dawes himself; the rattle of what might have been a blowing newspaper; the soft rustle of his own cloak. A harlot called his name and an offer as Donovan led him on. Strong whiff of perfume. He waved a hand an
d grinned, wondered who she was.
“The moons,” he said quietly, feeling the Martian wind in his hair. “Are they up yet?”
Donovan slowed his pace only a little. Chilson Dawes imagined the big man staring upward. “Deimos is, swollen and full, like a ripe tangerine.”
“Bastard,” Dawes muttered.
“Something else is up, too,” Donovan whispered. His hand closed over Dawes’ as he subtly increased the pace. “We’re being followed.”
Dawes frowned, his heart quickening. This was a rough part of Tharsis, but he was known here. The locals protected him and left him alone. Still, he trusted Donovan; he did his best to keep up. He had enough money on him to make robbery tempting.
Maybe someone had followed him from Madam Satterfield’s.
Donovan led the way quickly through the streets, around comers, down winding alleys into new streets. Carnival sounds swirled; cotton candy smells and body stink, urine, trash can noises, conversation, laughter. Another turn, and a quieter street.
Donovan stopped suddenly. A rush of footsteps. Donovan pushed Dawes’ hand away and turned. A grunt, harsh intake of breath, sound of body falling.
A rough hand grabbed Dawes’ shoulder. Not Donovan’s-he knew that familiar touch too well. Angry, concerned for his friend, Dawes leaned sideways, twisting even as he thrust out a foot. Someone went flying over his leg. Someone else caught his wrist. He heard his name; so they knew him! With his free hand he snatched the attacker’s wrist, twisted hard, heard bone snap as he dropped to one knee. A sharp, deep-throated scream of pain, another flying body.
His name again, then an energy whine, heat-sizzle past his ear, and an explosion of stone and brick behind him. “Dawes!”
An ozone reek filled the air, and he rose cautiously. He knew a warning shot from a laser pistol. He groped for the still-warm wall, leaned against it, fingered the catch of his cloak nervously, and huddled inside its folds as he waited.
“Damn you, you’ve injured two of my best men.”
From either side new pairs of hands gripped his arms. A loud electric crackle, and anguished gasps. “Four,” Dawes corrected with a horrible grin, as two more bodies fell groaning. He relaxed a little; he recognized the voice that had addressed him.
“Next time you want to see me, Colonel, make an appointment-like everybody else.”
He paused. No one else tried to grab him, so he touched the catch of his cloak again, deactivating the microcircuitry hidden in its weave.
“You’ve been inventing again.”
There was a certain pitying sympathy in Samuel Straf’s voice that irritated Dawes.
“A stun-cloak,” he said. “What the hell did you do to Donovan, and what the hell do you want with me? I’ve got nothing to do with your damned Stellar Guard anymore.”
“I’m okay, Chil.” Donovan’s voice said he was a little less than okay, but alive at least. “Just too slow on this bum leg. I turned into a left hook.”
“He threw the first punch,” Straf said. “Understandable, I guess, since we’re not in uniform, but you don’t wear those in this part of the city. You haunt a bad neighborhood, Chilson.”
As if Chilson Dawes gave a starman’s damn what Samuel Straf thought. The Guard had dismissed him and shit-canned his last civilian research project on Straf’s recommendation. “Stuff it, Colonel.” He held out his arm for Donovan, instructing his friend, “Get me out of here before this skunk stinks up the place.”
“I’ve got a job for you,” Straf said stiffly. “You’re still drawing a Guard paycheck.
Technically, you never retired.”
Dawes gripped Donovan’s arm. “You fired me when you canceled the Sabre.”
“I put you on medical leave,” Straf shot back. “You’re blind, Chil.”
Chilson Dawes felt his heart freeze. “Stay away from me, Sam,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just stay away!”
“I’ll give you back the Sabre,” Straf said. A controlled but unmistakable urgency filled in his voice. “I’m authorized. It’s fueled and ready.”
“You’re full of it,” Dawes answered. But he listened. And shortly, he found himself sober on an atomic-powered tram from Tharsis City to the Guard starport at Valles Mari-naris.
In two hundred years of starfaring, humans had discovered no other intelligent races.
Recently, that had changed. Only a year after Dawes had lost his sight, the first exploratory ships had ventured past Vega into a sector named Burnham space after the astronomer who had mapped it. It was in Burnham space that the earthship Lancelot, under the command of Captain James Murray, first encountered the Kaxfen.
“Murray barely got his ship back to our outpost on Orth,” Colonel Straf explained to Dawes over cups of steaming coffee. “The Kaxfen weapons weren’t necessarily superior, but their numbers were. They swarmed over the Lancelot like insects.”
Donovan spoke from the window that overlooked the starport. “If you’ve got a name to call them by, you must have established some kind of communication.”
“Nothing face-to-face,” Straf answered. “Only voice communications. They’ve warned us out of Burnham space. They’re claiming it as their exclusive backyard, and they’re quite territorial about it. They promise to destroy any ship that ventures near it.”
Dawes sipped from his cup. “So humans have finally found neighbors in space, and managed to make enemies of them in our first meeting. I guess some things never change.” He leaned forward, felt for the edge of Straf’s desk, and set his cup down.
“What do you expect me to do about it?”
There was a brief silence. Straf cleared his throat. “You brought the Sabre home like a sighted man, Chil,” he said. “Even with your optic nerves burned out. Nobody knows that ship’s systems, controls, or capabilities better than you. Nobody’s touched her since you. No one dared.”
“You can’t be asking what I’m thinking,” Donovan interrupted, his voice turning angry.
Straf’s boots scuffed as he came around the desk closer to Dawes. ‘’I’m asking if you think you can pilot the Sabre.“
Donovan exploded. “Goddamn you, he’s!…”
“Shut up, Donovan!” Dawes yelled. His thoughts whirled. When Straf had mentioned giving him back the Sabre, Dawes had assumed the colonel had meant in an advisory or research capacity. Could he pilot her? Did Straf realize what he was offering? He answered, “Hell, yes!” Then he settled back in his chair, suspicious.
“But you haven’t told me everything, Sam. The Sabre’s, only a prototype, not a warship.”
“I wasn’t exactly truthful when I said no one had touched her,” Straf admitted. “I’ve had her outfitted with the new Kleinowski planet-killer lasers. She’s not totally defenseless.”
“Or without offense either,” Dawes said. “But what’s this all about?”
Sound of paper rattling, and a light breeze fanned over Dawes’ face. He envisioned Straf shaking a sheaf of pages as if Dawes could see them. It stopped suddenly, and Straf cleared his throat again. “We’ve got a cryo-ship…”
“An ice-wagon?” Donovan said from the window. “Who the?…”
“Don’t be crude,” Straf said, then he continued. “A cryo-ship. Yes, they’re antiquated, but certain religious groups prefer them to translight travel.”
Dawes nodded. “Because they think the laws of nature and God don’t apply to hypespace, they refuse to go there. They’d rather travel like a tray of ice cubes.”
Straf cleared his throat again. “They’re entitled to their beliefs. But we’ve got a problem. The Via Dolorosa launched from Earth fifteen years ago, well before we knew about the Kaxfen. It’s carrying a complement of five thousand New Hope congregationalists all in deep sleep to a new m-class planet in System 2X-185. Their course skirts right across the edge of Burnham space.”
Dawes frowned as he leaped ahead of Straf’s slow explanations. “Like most ice-wagons, the Via Dolorosa is operating only on computers. It’s also
totally defenseless. You want me to save some fundamentalist butt.”
There was more than a hint of indignation in Straf’s response. “My parents are on the Via Dolorosa” he answered. “I’ve pulled strings to give you back the Sabre, Chil. And if that’s not enough incentive, I’ve got another trick up my sleeve.”
A brittle click as Straf thumbed an intercom switch on his desk. A moment later the door opened. By the whiff of lavender perfume and a soft tread, Dawes guessed that a young woman had entered the room. Donovan gave a low, appreciative whistle.
“You’d like the look of her, Chil,” he said.
A tiny scrape of metal; a barely audible creak as of a lid opening. A stronger whiff of lavender as the woman bent close. A soft weight settled on Chilson Dawes’
shoulder. For a moment, he sat tense, expectant. Then, he felt a creepy scuttling sensation near his neck. He gave a startled cry and lunged from his chair to encounter cool glass-the window-under his palms. “What are you!…”
Whatever the thing was, it clung to him. Scores of small caterpillar feet clutched his collar, prickled over his bare neck.
He shot out a hand for Donovan. “Get it off! Get it-” Gripping the Irishman’s arm, he caught his breath suddenly and froze.
Like a black mist, the darkness that had filled his eyes for three years dissolved.
Through the reflected glare of his own face in the glass, he saw the freighters and gleaming starships in the port yards, beyond those the dark Martian mountains and escarpments, and above the glimmering stars in the night sky with Phobos high as Deimos sank in the west.
Chilson Dawes forgot where he was, forgot the others in the room, the creature on his shoulder. He covered his eyes with his fists, then looked again. Tears began to stream on his cheeks; he wept like a child, confused, shaking. Donovan had hold of him on one side, and Straf on the other. He was barely aware of them as he stared outward at that awesome vista.