by Diane Carey
“Where’ve you been!”
Kilvennan dropped back a couple of steps. “Are you flipped? Why’d you hit me?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” She pressed a hand to the side of her head, the cloud of wild auburn curls squeezed between her fingers. She wore only a long red GO DRAGONS T-shirt that picked up the flush in her cheeks, and a pair of fuzzy slippers somebody gave her as a going-away present. “The whole ship’s been a nightmare all day, Michael.”
“Something funny’s going on. Where’s Mom and Stefan and the kids?”
“Where’s Quinn?” Mae threw up both hands. “What’re you doing here? You broke the quarantine! Now you have to stay. What about the Moon? Can Troy run the ship in these conditions?”
“Didn’t you just hit me for . . . never mind. How’s Ian?”
“He’s had a fever all day and a cough all the way down to his toes. Why won’t they give us the medication?”
“Dr. McCoy explained the problem to me.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She stalked away, back toward the quad unit.
Kilvennan blinked. “You don’t want to hear it? Mae, listen—”
“Ahoy, Kilvennans!”
Just at the door of their quad, they both turned to see Billy Maidenshore trundling elegantly toward them, patting others on the back and glad-handing his way down the corridor.
“Billy!” Mae hurried to him. “How’d you get in through the quarantine?”
“There’s a breakdown in the beam shield,” the big man said, giving her a juicy hug. “I can only stay a minute or two or they’ll get wise. How y’been?”
“Awful,” Mae said.
“Weird,” Kilvennan added.
His wife sank back against the door’s edge and gazed into the place where their children struggled just to breathe. “I wish we’d never come. Lilian and Tom are talking about turning back while we still have the chance . . . before we get too far. . . . Nobody told us it was going to be like this. How can we stand it all the way?”
His chest constricting, Kilvennan watched his wife’s misery and feared to tell her how much worse things yet could turn, that they were approaching the halfway point, that Gamma Night would soon enhance their burdens and lengthen their voyage, that the belt would have to be tightened even more. How could he talk to her in this state? With her mind flicking like a candle?
“We’ve got our dreams and our plans, Mae, honey,” Billy Maidenshore told her, rubbing her shoulders with affection and concern. “You’re one of the strong ones, you’ll make it through, all the way to our new planet. You and the Coateses, the Brocks and Sawyers, you’re the tough kind that makes it. All you need is a little help along the way . . . and I think Uncle Billy’s got you covered.”
He glanced up and down the corridor, then stepped just inside the quad and pulled a med hypo out of his suit pocket.
“Take it, quick. Three cc’s for each child, five for adults. It’s for you and the Coates family. I’ve got enough for three other families too. I’m working on getting more.”
“What’s that?” Mae demanded. “Billy—the lung flu medicine? Oh—oh!” She plunged forward and clamped her arms around him, pressing her face to his chest.
“Sweetheart,” Maidenshore crooned, “think I don’t know what my pals need? Keep your voice down, hon.”
“Wait a minute,” Kilvennan interrupted. “That’s contraband. You’re the one who’s been stealing it?”
“Michael, who cares?” Mae wailed. “It’s a miracle!”
Maidenshore frowned and sighed a wounded sigh. “Stealing? Skulking around? Does that sound like the Billy Maidenshore you know? It’s being contrabanded by the people who stole it.”
“How do we know it’s not you?” Kilvennan asked again.
“Because if it was me, Mike, think, think—I’d be selling it, wouldn’t I? I’m giving it to you. I’ve been using my resources to track it down and buy it up, so I can pass it along. Why shouldn’t I do what I’m able to? I’m making sure the people I care about get it first.”
Uneasy with what he saw, both repulsed and magnetized, Kilvennan shifted on his nerve ends. “Billy, the hospital ship needs that formula in order to make more.”
“They’ve got enough for that.” Maidenshore looked him square in the eyes. “They just want it all. You know how Starfleet is—they want all the balls in their court. You’re not turning sacred on me, are you, Mike? With your own kids and your little sister in there, dying maybe? Now, I’ve got to get out of here before that beam shield goes back up, so I need an answer. What kind of a guy are you, Mike? Know a good thing when you see it? Even if Starfleet has it, somebody’ll get this first. Why not you?”
“Why not us?” Mae’s eyes, beseeching, swung upward. “Michael? . . . Why not us?”
Chapter Seven
“FLASHED BY a Kauld battlebarge?” Shucorion peered upward at Garitt’s instruments. “You must be mistaken. The Blind is fouling your intake.”
In the time necessary for the data to be checked, their final chance of slipping into the silence of the Blind withered away. They stood now in the position of the little survey ship, caught out of the darkness by a more powerful and unconquerable enemy.
“Definite now,” Dimion confirmed Garitt’s readings. “All systems are clearing. The flash . . . it names you personally! From . . .”
These pauses were aggravating. Shucorion’s hands were cold now. “Who is it, Dimion? Speak up.”
Abruptly Dimion’s wide shoulders drew tight. He seemed to shrink from his normal massive size to a withered shell. He struggled for breath. His lips hung open several seconds. Crimped and desperate, his eyes turned to Shucorion.
“Battlelord Vellyngaith!” he blurted. Immediately he scoured his panel strips again. “I must be wrong. . . .”
“Vellyngaith!” Shucorion gazed at the flickering image as the concave vision screen tried to draw in enough data to make a picture of the approaching battlebarge. “Vellyngaith . . . on that ship?”
“No,” Dimion protested. “I must be wrong.”
“Flash them and ask.”
Garitt gripped the two sides of his pilot station. “We’ll be giving our position away. We might still—”
“They already know we’re here,” Shucorion said.
Sensible words added tension while Dimion sent a message that might be their last.
“The barge flashes that Vellyngaith is on board,” he finally said. “The barge is the Tonclin. Does that sound right? Have you heard anything about Vellyngaith on a battlebarge named that?”
“They might be trying to frighten us,” Garrit suggested, his hands icy on the piloting station.
“It’s too late to check with Core Command. Battlelord Vellyngaith . . . and he claims to speak and not fight?”
“So he claims. This can’t be good. A battlebarge has three times our vigorants. His kinetics alone are over—”
Shucorion held up a hand. Dimion stopped speaking, clamping his lips upon the words that might’ve come next.
“He must’ve found out,” Shucorion murmured. “He must know about the . . . why else would he flash? If he knows, we’re finished.”
His men watched him fearfully. To them, he was babbling. Perhaps he had cracked. Of course, they couldn’t possibly know why he was behaving this way. Should he tell them?
“Stack everything,” he ordered, forcing himself to think about their survival for a few more minutes. “Prepare for a fishtail run in case he attacks. Load the drain margins and propulsion undercasters. Lock the tow bolts and buckle them. Activate the dynadrive. Garitt, stitch our way out of this system. We’ll get away if we can.”
“Avedon,” Garitt responded from pilot bench. From his posture they could all tell that Garitt was ready to fight. He was like Ulwen had been, always volunteering to be first, determined to get a job done faster as if that made things better. Work solved everything.
Shucorion believed that also, but in the past few minutes
he had watched Ulwen die at the hands of unexpected skill. The crew would be less likely to want to surge ahead this time.
Throughout history there had been a few tales of Blood pilots escaping from the more aggressive Kauld Marauders, but never from a battlebarge. Unlike the men around him, Shucorion entertained the idea briefly, a song of heroism and impossible events, but sense quickly returned.
“If there is a way out of this, I’ll have to be more clever than Vellyngaith,” he said aloud, “not stronger. I must be something he cannot estimate, like the unknown ship we faced.”
Quietly afraid, Dimion paled to vapor-blue. He remained hunched over his strip-panel, his eyes fixed on the pictures and numbers. “It’s said Vellyngaith can charm his enemies into poisoning themselves.”
When Dimion looked up, Shucorion offered him a little smile. “I won’t eat anything.”
A loud crack rang in the inner skin plates of the Plume. Dimion’s thick body jumped. “What was that? Did he strike us?”
“No. Structural fatigue.” When Dimion gawked at him in a stew of nervous anticipation, Shucorion added, “I was a mining engineer.”
This seemed to ease Dimion’s terror somewhat, and when the flash sang again he was capable of checking it. “Vellyngaith wants to speak to you.”
“Yes . . . now we’ll see if he knows. Put him through.”
Anticipation strangled any other words as the communications system clicked and hummed to collect signals as the Blind waned. As it came every day, the fading of the Blind offered new chances, although hiding would not be one of those. Stealth was only possible while the sensor intakes were masked.
A tremor rolled through his stomach at the sight of the people’s mortal enemy. The Kauld men, with their feathers and beads, always seemed to be flaunting their wealth, showing off the fact that they had time to decorate themselves. Vellyngaith’s features were dark azure, his hair the startling silver of sunrise, his squared eyes and once-broken nose from that famous incident were a kind of shock in themselves. The famous battlelord’s appearance was well known among Blood and no surprise, but somehow seeing him now and knowing he was so very close by caused Shucorion a strong and unsmotherable reaction of cold in his gut.
“You are Shucorion,” Vellyngaith said. “Avedon of Plume Savage Ten.”
Rather than confirm what they both apparently knew, Shucorion studied the vision of his people’s archenemy. “Why are you speaking to me instead of attacking? Is this a trick?”
“No. I have a truce for you.”
Shucorion’s stomach twisted. To begin with lies?
“Why would you have anything for me?” he asked.
“You’re known among Blood Many as one who tries new things. When I saw your ship approach the foreign surveyor, I knew it must be Shucorion who would risk coming this far.”
“I took no risks,” Shucorion denied. “We’ve known the surveyor was here for many months. It was time to drive them off.”
“I agree.”
“Obviously, since you destroyed them.”
“May I come aboard your Plume?”
Beside Shucorion, Dimion gasped audibly, enough to be certain Vellyngaith had heard it even over the incompatible communications flash. Above and around them, the other crewmen were chokingly still at the beguiling request. Never before in all history had any Kauld battlelord approached any Blood in this way. Not battlelords or anybody. Never had a Kauld come aboard a Blood Plume or any Blood vessel as anything more than a prisoner.
Very rare, prisoners.
Mute with astoundment, Shucorion could barely breathe, much less answer. For several moments he didn’t try. There was only one reasonable answer—Vellyngaith must know about the middle moon. He must’ve seen the glowing matter and known how to read the numbers as Shucorion had. He was coming with no truce, but with a final threat.
That had to be it.
Vellyngaith waited without repeating his outlandish beckoning. He understood what such a possibility meant to a Blood avedon.
Yet there was a grinding respect due so high an official, even in the enemy fleet. Pressure.
“Come aboard?” he tasted. “Come aboard . . .”When repeating the incantation didn’t help him see a clear way out, he asked, “Why did you destroy the scanner ship?”
“To keep them from knowing,” Vellyngaith said.
Shivering under his tunic, Shucorion leaned forward without taking a step. “From knowing what?”
“Whatever they were here to discover. We must keep them from knowing anything about our star cluster that might encourage them to come here.”
Perfectly irritating. Not a bit of snobbery. Simple statement of facts.
“A moment of privacy.” Clicking off the communications link himself, he folded his arms and continued to gaze at the screen, which now showed Vellyngaith in silence, waiting for an answer. To Dimion he asked, “What do you think?”
Dimion’s complexion had faded still more. He whispered as if Vellyngaith could still hear. “This can’t be good.”
“Don’t take the chance,” Garitt agreed. “There’s risk in it.”
“It’s against survival,” Dimion said, shored up by Garitt. “Tell him to go away.”
“Do you think he’ll go?” Shucorion asked. “If we fight, he’ll kill us. If we run, he’ll chase us and kill us. We can’t hide without the Blind. If I meet with him, let him say what he wants. He may still kill us, but we will have a fighting chance to kill him first.”
“You’re not thinking this can be good, do you?” Dimion interrupted. He grasped Shucorion’s elbow fiercely this time. “Are you thinking that way?”
“No, of course not.” Shucorion tugged out of the grip. “However . . . is there less risk in speaking with him than in telling him to go away and hoping he will actually go?”
“Hope is a bad idea,” Garitt agreed. “But speaking to him is a risk too. What should we do?”
Shucorion took a step away, to a place on the curve where he could be more or less perceived as standing alone.
“Until now,” he contemplated, “Blood Many held our own in the Elliptical Wars. Those times are over. The Formless have given us the terrible gift of dynadrive. The Elliptical Wars are finished. Now we have the war that will never end, until Kauld defeat us eventually. We Blood are the poorer force, the weaker force. We have no time now to rest and rebuild. Vellyngaith knows he possesses the superior power. If he knows that, why would he approach us with some kind of passive offering? Now that I know about . . .”
He stopped himself from telling them, and paused to think about his own words, to scour his logic for flaws. What did Vellyngaith know?
“I must find out what he knows,” he continued. “This time, I’ll have to take the risk over the hope.”
“Only you would think that way,” Dimion uttered with both admiration and apprehension. “I don’t know how you do it. No one else can think the way you do.”
“You know my past,” Shucorion reminded. “I may be the only one again.”
Dimion quivered. “But what if this borders on recklessness?”
“No, no, no. I simply have two bad possibilities and I have to pick one. Keep everyone working. Be careful not to hope. Let me speak to him again. Are you ready to make history?”
Chapter Eight
ON DECK SAVAGE, between the rows of fighters resting upon the curved skin of the ship, waiting for deployment, Shucorion stood with Dimion and six other armed guards, all brandishing their armor and hand weapons. Two of them held punch-grenades, primed and glowing.
In the ten transfer caskets, all ten of them, red-hot shimmering energy scrambled and roared.
“He has a squad of ten, Avedon,” the deck guard, Derron, reported. He turned to his own squad of guards and ordered, “Double-load!”
Shucorion made no countermand. Derron was right to take precautions, even to the point of handing Shucorion a weapon to hold. Each guard now held two weapons, and each of those was dou
ble-loaded. Ten Kauld could never get out of here alive. Not all ten.
When the hot caskets began to cool, the ten clouds faded back and revealed the sweat-glazed forms of Battlelord Vellyngaith, two Foilsmen, a full Marksman, and two Bladers. Interesting diplomatic corps.
Each Kauld wore a heavily padded purple jacket, buckled at the waist, and padded skintight trousers that looked uncomfortable. Unlike Blood, they all wore the same color. Uniforms. A wasteful and frivolous convention. Only the beading on the shoulders and down the fronts of the uniforms was different, made of shells and polished stones from the Kauld planet. Who had time for such ornamentation? Every boot had a feather dangling from the front, just below the knee, and they all had more feathers plaited into their hair. No Blood ever had so much time to frill.
Shucorion suddenly felt very plain. He stepped forward a little, so Vellyngaith would see that he wasn’t hiding behind his men.
The great battlelord, famous in two civilizations, came forward too, as if there were no weapons nor any other soldiers in the hall at all. His eyes fixed upon Shucorion and never shifted. He was shorter than the legends said.
“I thought you were the man who takes risks,” Vellyngaith commented, nodding at the bristle of guards.
“You’re wrong,” Shucorion told him. “Rumors exaggerate. Especially rumors that flow between the Blood Many and All Kauld. Say what you came to say.”
The Kauld battlelord gazed at him as if they had known each other much longer than these few seconds. “Alliance,” he proffered. “I knew Blood would not listen. I thought you might.”
The entire deck dropped to complete silence. Even the soft whisper of the Plume’s engines and ventilation seemed suddenly to lose its breath.
“Alliance,” Shucorion repeated. “Alliance . . .”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It has become necessary for us to join forces. Kauld and Blood will be stronger together.”
“We could’ve been stronger together a thousand years ago. Why today?”
As he heard his tone take a bitter edge, Shucorion interrupted himself. Under the burning eyes of the Kauld squad and of his own deck guards, he gathered his inner strengths and continued. Would Vellyngaith tell him if he knew about the moon?