The Goda War

by Deborah Chester

  16

  Ellisne flicked into the safety of the observation deck with such force she slammed into a bulkhead and crumpled to the floor. She sat there, dazed and unaware of her surroundings, until the commotion of startled voices and hands reaching for her snapped her back to reality. She was pulled to her feet by a newan officer in the scarlet uniform of Heldfleet.

  His eyes widened as they studied her. He glanced over his shoulder. “A Sedkethran, Esmir! Great Meir above, where did she come from?”

  “From the shuttle obviously,” replied the dry, leathery voice of a Chaimu honorable, stepping into Ellisne’s line of vision. The esmir wore the stripes of his advanced rank in glittering order on both sleeves. The pleated scarlet leather of his tunic fanned out behind his scaled head, making it appear larger than it really was.

  Ellisne blinked, growing suddenly conscious of acute pain across her forehead. She lifted a hand unsteadily to it and touched cool moist blood, pale and sticky across her fingers. Then she remembered.

  “Brock!” she cried, wrenching free of the newan and throwing herself at the glastel windows of the observation area. Far down below her lay the shattered wreckage of the shuttle, blackened and twisted. Men in baggy protective suits climbed over it, covering it with thick chemical foam to prevent fuel spills from igniting. Ellisne closed her eyes, pressing her face against the cold surface of the window in despair, and sought deep within herself for a link to him. Let it be there. Oh, by the mercy of all that was ordered, let it still be there!

  It was.

  “He’s still alive!” Whirling from the window, she started for the door, only to find her way blocked firmly by the newan officer.

  “Just a minute there,” he said sternly, frowning at her between the brows in the way of humans. “Some questions must be answered first.”

  She drew herself up with all the icy command of a Sedkethran healer. “My mate lies injured in that wreckage. Will you let him die while you ask questions?”

  “You said Brock.” The esmir shouldered his adjutant aside. “I know of only one man who bears that name. Is it the dire-lord?”

  “Yes!” She saw the look of hope that flashed into the red eyes and let her urgency command her again. “Please, Esmir. Let me attend him.”

  The esmir signalled, and his adjutant sprang to open the door. “We shall all go to him,” said the esmir, taking the lead. “This is most unexpected. Sedkethrans in an enemy shuttlecraft. The dire-lord found again. Luther!”

  “Sir!”

  “Prepare a communication to Cluster 807, informing them of these developments.”

  “Yes, sir!” Luther crashed his fist to his left shoulder. “Shall I also give orders to the bridge to resume pursuit of enemy cruiser?”

  “No!” said Ellisne, breaking in on both to the surprise of herself as well as them. Association with Brock was tearing down all her careful training of what was mannerly and proper. Ashamed of her own unseemly boldness, yet determined, she faced the esmir squarely. “It is unimportant. We must go directly to Felca.”

  “Now see here, Healer—”

  A look from the esmir quelled Luther. “This is a military vessel, not a passenger liner.”

  “It is the dire-lord’s wish,” she retorted with equal coldness, desperate to get to Brock. “We were on our way there when you intercepted us.” When the esmir merely stared at her, she lifted a hand impatiently. “He is still under orders from the suprin—”

  “Luth muk shal!” said the esmir in astonishment and grabbed her arm with a force that nearly made her cry out. “He is alive? The suprin is alive?”

  “No,” she said, and turned away from the raw disappointment in his face to hurry down the spiralling metal steps to the bottom of the hangar. “Get away! Stop that!” she commanded the workers, who were still spraying foam everywhere. Stumbling a bit from walking too fast, she dabbed at her aching forehead with her sleeve, wiping more blood from her face, and clambered up on the wreckage only to stop in anguished indecision.

  “Find him,” she said. “You must find him.”

  “There’s no pilot—” said one worker compassionately, but another broke in sternly:

  “We have procedures here! All danger of fire must be eradicated before rescue operations can proceed.”

  “Get out of the way,” said Ellisne angrily. Falling to her knees, she began tugging at the twisted pieces of metal, cutting her hands.

  A barked command from the esmir, only now reaching the shuttle, sent the workers to her side. Moving her out of the way, they pried an opening into the wreckage. Powerful lamps shone inside, and they shook their heads.

  “It looks as bad inside as out—”

  “Did I ask for your opinion?” shouted the esmir with a roar that echoed through the hangar. “The dire-lord of the Held is in there. Alive. Get him out.”

  The workers moved with alacrity, clattering over the metal and grunting with their efforts to pry into the next section. Ellisne waited, holding her breath. She shut her eyes to concentrate on holding that slight link firmly. It was no longer certain. She was too tired. Her head was aching more and more. She could not keep her thoughts under the Disciplines. Was she merely imagining he was alive only because she wished it so much? Was she erring again as in her youth as a novice healer, when she had cared too greatly for her patients and had given too liberally of her inner resources? It had taken many sessions with the magstrusi to teach her less generosity. She knew now, thanks to Brock, that those sessions had put shackles on her. The magstrusi had twisted her gifts, molded them into small uses that could be controlled for purposes of the magstrusi. The hate she had also learned from Brock burned inside her. She would never make herself small again. But, oh, to think that she stood here safe and whole while Brock lay trapped somewhere beneath the wreckage!

  She swayed. A hand grabbed her arm and steadied her.

  “You need rest,” said the esmir.

  Surprised by his consideration, she smiled her gratitude briefly, then turned her gaze back to the work. “I cannot rest while he is in there. Oh, why did you do this to us? What harm were we? We weren’t even armed!”

  Luther stared at her as though she were mad. “You were in an enemy craft. Routine capture procedure—”

  A shout from one of the workers cut him off. Ellisne would have rushed forward, but the esmir held her back.

  “Wait until they are finished,” he said.

  But to wait and to watch was agony. She stood there, clasping her hands tightly together, her mind flying from rigid application of the Disciplines to worry and wild imaginings. He must not die. Losing him was too horrible to consider. Her breath strangled in her throat. All her Disciplines were lost, shattered inside her. This was what it meant to love, to open oneself to a vulnerability both precious and terrifying. Beloved, please…

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Brock’s limp form was lifted out. A gigantic Chaimu who appeared, apparently from the bridge, to speak to the esmir, was instead brushed aside and ordered to carry the dire-lord to the infirmary.

  “Among these Colonids? The dire-lord?” The younger Chaimu stiffened.

  “Yes!” snapped the esmir, with an angry flick of his hand across his brow ridges. “Dire-lord! Or do you decline the honor, Arkist Ivn?”

  Ivn’s brownish-red eyes moved hastily back to Brock, whose head was lolled back over a worker’s arm. Smudged by black and tinged by an unhealthy grey, Brock’s cheek nevertheless showed the distinctive swirled scar clearly. Ivn snapped to attention. “The honor is very great, Esmir,” he said contritely and moved forward to take Brock’s body in his strong arms.

  “I must tend him,” said Ellisne, but again she was held back.

  The esmir scowled at her. “Keep your place, Healer.”

  And Ellisne had no choice but to follow the little procession out of the hangar and into the lift on their way to the ship’s infirmary. Even there, they would not let her do more than watch as he was placed in a suspensor bed.
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  “But I am a healer!” she raged. “Why do you prevent me? Do you think I intend to harm him?”

  The Chaimu physician took his cue from the esmir’s hooded glance and sneered at her. “A healer? A mere healer? Sedkethran or not, certified or not, look at you. Bedraggled, exhausted, exhibiting manners no member of your race or profession would ever dare show. You are not fit to be entrusted with the care of Dire-lord Brock.”

  That stung deeply because it was true, yet the deeper instincts of a mate to guard and protect stiffened her. “And are you fit?” she retorted. “A medic, a potion maker. Do you intend to use drugs and knives?" She swung round to glare at the esmir. “If you are so concerned about the welfare of the dire-lord, then let me do my work!”

  For a moment she faced the implacable glare of an angered honorable of considerable rank, someone whom in the past she would never have dared confront. Yet she did not care what breach she committed. She was so tired, so worried. Her very consciousness teetered on the edge of a dark deep chasm, yet she fought to keep her balance just as she fought to remain here at Brock’s side.

  “Or,” she said with a sudden gasp, “are you enemies of the dire-lord? Are you a supporter of Nairin Tregher, who betrayed his father, the Held, and even Brock to the Imish? Are you determined to keep me from caring for Brock because you intend to kill him?”

  “Sug!” roared the esmir, and she fell silent, her heart thumping at her own unforgivable insolence.

  Her eyes dropped. “I crave the esmir’s pardon.” Then she lifted her gaze to meet his once again and sent the last barriers of Sedkethran privacy crashing by saying, “But Brock is my mate. We have shared all that there is of ourselves with each other.”

  It was an admission no proper Sedkethran ever made in public. A part of her flinched in horror, but she did not care. She would not let them brush her aside.

  The esmir blinked and his old red eyes softened fractionally. “Nevertheless,” he said gruffly. “You are in no condition to do anything. He isn’t going to die. His injuries are not severe. And for you to attempt anything now would likely only weaken you both. Medic!”

  The physician stepped forward to take Ellisne’s arm and lead her away into a second, slightly smaller ward. He switched on a suspensor bed and stared at her with his teeth showing.

  “When was the last time you slept, Healer?”

  She returned his gaze, frowning, and reluctantly stopped fighting her own desperate needs for rest and care. “But you will wake me when he regains consciousness?”

  The medic hesitated.

  “Will you? Give me your word.”

  “He is in no danger. This concern is unnecessary.”

  She nearly screamed. Why couldn’t he understand! She was so afraid that Brock would go on without her. And he mustn’t. He had done so much, but he would need her help to face the magstrusi. Compromise was not a word he used, but a way must be found to appeal to the Elder Council. She could help. She must help.

  “Promise me,” she said, the world blurring about her. “The moment he awakens—”

  “Very well,” said the medic with a shrug. “Now get some rest.”

  17

  A Held cluster ship was monstrous in size, a tremendous feat of engineering, concept, and design, requiring enormous quantities of fuel utilized through an internal fission drive that rumbled the entire structure slowly along at sublight speed. Intended for planetary defense, a cluster ship had no need for more sophisticated power. Its one hundred components possessed the quickness and agility necessary for blitz attacks, and throughout the galaxy there was no more stirring or frightening sight than to see one of the glittering silver behemoths abruptly shatter into fragments that flipped, rolled, and darted into lethal formations against the foe. Each wedge-shaped component was an independently powered and manned spacecraft, capable of spanning any distance on its own, brutally armed, and faster than any other, more conventional implosion-driven craft in Heldfleet. In the old, glory-filled days of the Held, there had been an entire fleet of cluster ships, one for each of the inner worlds and for several of the mid-worlds. Then, as the Colonids grew bolder and acquired more advanced technologies which enabled them to sprawl across the borders, the cluster ships were moved gradually to man the wartorn area of the fringe. Over the centuries, attrition, indifference, and astronomical costs had slowed the replacement of wedges so that disabled cluster ships were increasingly scrapped in order to supply sufficient wedges to others. The numbers had dwindled, but although now there were only a few majestic survivors of that proud fleet, they still stood out among the bottle-shaped destroyers, gritty little frigates and scoutships, and the heavy cruisers which had replaced them. And they still bore their identification numerals as a testament to better days of full supremacy over Heldfleet. Now that the Colonids had the capability to shatter entire worlds, cluster ships were few indeed and carefully positioned in the quadrants which the Colonids had not completely secured.

  Cluster 807, a vast multi-faceted figurehead to the motley flotilla of all that remained of Heldfleet, moved inexorably through space toward Darjahl Imperial at maximum sublight. The heavy cruisers, designed to sail gracefully in implosion drive, wallowed clumsily in Cluster 807’s wake, the lesser craft in formation around them. It was the last concerted effort by Heldfleet to turn around the crushing defeat dealt the Held by the Colonids. Lacking a suprin, lacking sufficient manpower, ships, or hope, the old, battlescarred officers still commanding Heldfleet stood gathered on the upper bridge of Cluster 807, determined never to surrender as long as one Chaimu heart remained beating. They had assembled this final strike force through the grim days of crumbling defenses and vicious sweeps by Colonid forces. They had hidden their ships, found each other, and regrouped on nothing more than the refusal to go down before the barbaric old-humans. A briefly considered plan to rescue the nairin from a Colonid prison camp had faltered after spy reports came through of his treachery. After that, there had been no one to lead the expedition except old Esmir Eondal himself, and supreme command by a non-royal was unprecedented. Still, they had no one else…until now.

  Greaved and corseleted in heavy charge armor, a straight Chaimu dagger belted on one hip, holstered strifer and communicator on the other, Brock stood in the shadows of the infirmary ward in silence, watching Ellisne sleep. She was no more than a pale glimmer of form, drifting in and out of dimensions, her long dark hair spread out about her head like a cloud as she floated gently up and down over the suspensors. He studied the fragile slope of her bones and the transparency of her skin, transfixed as ever by her beauty. There was a slight frown upon her brow as though her sleep were troubled.

  Not by me, I hope, beloved.

  He stretched out a hand to smooth the frown away, the touch of his fingers light so as not to awaken her.

  My gentle one. I drove you as I would a warrior. You hadn’t the strength. Forgive me, beloved.

  “Dire-lord!” The whisper, hoarse and insistent, came from the doorway.

  Recalling the impatient officers gathered outside waiting for him, Brock reluctantly drew his hand back from the coolness of her flesh and left the ward.

  At once, as he faced their fierce, eager eyes, the old habits of rank fell like a mantle across his shoulders. He was back in his rightful place among warriors, a counsellor of war, a shield of protection to the throne, a dire-lord. He pulled himself erect under the weight of the charge armor and held his head higher as though already he smelled the blood and fire of battle. Restored by rest and proper food, he scarcely noticed the ache of his bruises or the persistent throb in his leg as he limped into their midst.

  Arkist Ivn saluted briskly, and the others followed suit. “We are ready to escort you to the esmir.”

  Picking up his helmet from the bunk and tucking it correctly beneath his left arm, Brock was far too aware of their jubilant hope and eagerness. Do not put your faith in me, he thought with a sigh and forced himself to respond with a crisp nod.
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  “I am ready,” he said.

  They snapped into formation, three on either side of Brock, with Ivn taking the lead, and marched along a seemingly endless corridor to a lift, which went up and up and up forever. Ivn barked a command as the lift doors opened, and the escort saluted as one as Brock slowly stepped off into the upper bridge of the cluster ship.

  For a moment his presence failed him as he took in the watchful eyes, the grim faces, the glittering insignias of high rank. These twelve were the upper echelon of Held military force. These were the old warriors, scarred survivors of a thousand conflicts, representing the best strategic minds alive. Brock’s eyes flicked to each face, recognizing them all: Eondal, bearing the weight of immense age, his fierce heart unsoftened by the toll of time; Rumarc, who began his career as a pilot and advanced to the command of the entire destroyer fleet; Igrit Sigx, a Varlax as tall as a giant with a blue mustache that would have trailed the floor had he uncoiled it; Cunsk, wily head of Intel Five with a legion of spies networked throughout the galaxy; and eight others, all renowned, all wearing medals awarded by the suprin.

  It was the first time Brock had ever stepped onto an upper bridge on his own, without following at the suprin’s back. He suffered a strange attack of embarrassment or shame, as though he had forgotten his place and entered where he was not allowed. I am only a Sedkethran renegade, he thought. How can I take a place here?

  The esmir stepped forward as Brock stood rooted there, and his old knees creaked as he slowly knelt down and bowed his scaled head.

  “Dire-lord Brock,” he said, forcing a gruff voice into tones of deepest respect. “We of Heldfleet honor your safe return.”

  “Bon…chuh!” snapped a voice, and the twelve crashed out a salute.

  Brock returned it, his vision blurred with emotion. For a moment his throat was too choked to speak. He bowed his head gravely.

  “Dire-lord,” said Rumarc, his voice shrill and clear unlike most Chaimu. “We have but one question to ask concerning the death of the suprin in the last battle of Darjahl Imperial.”