by Timothy Zahn
“Must be two hundred space horses in there,” Marlowe commented, sounding awed.
With an effort, Roman shook the philosophic contemplations from his mind. There was work to be done. “It’s supposed to be the bulk of the Tampy herd,” he told Marlowe. “Or fleet; or whatever it is they call it. Anyway. Get on the radio and contact that space station headquarters of theirs—we need to warn them about the dust sweat trails their space horses have been leaving.” He tapped the intercom. “Dr. Tenzing?”
“Right here, Captain,” the other said, sounding distracted. “Hang on a minute; the spectroscopic data from the fire is starting to come in.”
Which would show—or perhaps only hint at—whether or not Sleipnir’s own dust sweat trail had been adequately destroyed by the fire. Though even if it had…
Roman grimaced. Even if it had, the worst part of the job was still ahead. Tracking down and obliterating the trails from all the systems the Tampies had brought that many space horses in from would be a horrendous task, quite possibly beyond the aliens’ own capabilities. But if the Starforce could be persuaded to help—in exchange, perhaps, for continued access to space horses—
“Captain?” Across the bridge Marlowe half-turned, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’m not getting any response from the corral station.”
“Keep trying,” Roman ordered, something cold settling into his stomach as he turned to his scanner display. The station’s cylindrical shape was centered in the view, looking just about the way he remembered it from the last time.
Except…
“Kennedy,” he said quietly, “start a full scan of the area. Anomalous motion, and tie in both the space horse and shark recognition programs.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice grim.
Roman looked up, to find Ferrol frowning at him. “Trouble?” the other asked.
“I’m not sure.” Roman nodded at his display. “The last time I was here there were three Tampy courier ships tethered near the station. Now, there aren’t any.”
Ferrol frowned at his own display. “It may not mean anything,” he said slowly. “They could be off helping in the general round-up or something.”
“Having left this batch all alone?”
Ferrol didn’t answer. Roman turned back to his own displays, feeling the abrupt tightening of tension around the bridge. Kennedy was doing a three-dimensional spiral search, he saw, scanning outward to ever increasing distances from the ship. It was a standard military pattern, designed to quickly locate the most immediate dangers to the scanning ship. But if there was something happening far away… “Ferrol, call the Scapa Flow,” he ordered the other. “Have them start a long-range search pattern with their anomalous-motion program.”
Ferrol threw him an odd look, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Roman keyed his intercom. “Sso-ngii? How’s Sleipnir holding up?”
There was a pause. “He is…troubled, Rro-maa,” the Tampy said at last.
“So are we,” Roman told him, glancing at the visual. Still nothing showing but stars. “I want you to head us toward the corral enclosure; two gees acc/dec course.”
Another pause. “Your wishes are ours.”
He keyed off the intercom and returned his attention to his displays. Kennedy’s scan was out to ten thousand kilometers now. Still showing nothing. A moment later he was pressed gently into the sides of his chair as Sleipnir turned toward the corral; felt the growing pressure backwards as the space horse began accelerating toward the two-gee goal he’d ordered—
And without warning was slammed with bone-jarring force deep into his chair. “Sso-ngii!” he shouted. “What in—?”
“Anomalous motion!” Kennedy snapped. “Coming up behind us—fast.”
“Marlowe, get a reading on it,” Roman ordered, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m on it, sir,” Marlowe gritted. “Looks like a group of vultures…confirmed. Reading about fifty objects, some of which may be telekened boulders. Closing at approximately fifteen gees.”
And according to the tactical display they were already swinging outward, far enough to stay clear of Sleipnir’s telekene range as they passed. “Try the comm laser,” Roman told him. “See if you can do some damage. Kennedy, backtrack their vector—see where they came from.”
“I’ve got that, Captain,” Ferrol cut in, his voice strained as he leaned against Sleipnir’s panic acceleration toward his displays. “There’re sharks out there, all right—the Scapa Flow reports at least six of them. Range of just over five hundred thousand kilometers.”
Kennedy hissed something blasphemous. “Confirmed, Captain. Six sharks…and looks like three space horses, too.”
The missing Tampy couriers? “Get me a clearer image.”
“I’ll try.” The picture on Roman’s display magnified, sharpened …
For a moment Roman just stared at the scene, a part of him not really believing it, the rest not wanting to. Six sharks, moving almost in formation, were flying toward the Amity and the corral; flying, according to the readout, with nearly five gees acceleration. A hundred kilometers ahead of them, just barely maintaining that distance, were the three space horses. From the small ships trailing behind them Roman could see a strangely flickering substance falling back toward the sharks. It took a second for him to identify it as space horse webbing, and another to realize what exactly the Tampies were up to. “They’re trying to snare them,” he murmured. “Snare them, or tangle them up.”
“Webbing against sharks,” Kennedy breathed. “They must be crazy.”
With an effort, Roman shook off the mental paralysis. “Marlowe—report.”
“Comm laser ineffective,” the other said tightly. “The vultures are alongside the Amity—passing now.
And if they got in front of Sleipnir…“Sso-ngii: prepare for emergency Jump,” Roman called toward the intercom. “Anywhere will do. Kennedy, we’ll need a course from wherever we wind up back to the Cordonale.” If the Starforce could throw together a task force quickly enough, the Amity might be able to Jump it here in time to help this from turning into a space horse slaughter—
“Rro-maa?”
Impatiently, he focused on the intercom. “Rrin-saa, didn’t Sso-ngii hear me? Get him moving—we’ve got to get out of here—”
He broke off. The expression on Rrin-saa’s face— “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Sso-ngii is not able. Sleipnninni has become…he is in perasiata.”
Roman felt his stomach tighten. “That’s impossible,” he said, hearing how stupid the words sounded even as he said them. “Sleipnir’s accelerating, damn it—how can it be in a coma?”
“He is frightened of the vultures and the sharks,” Rrin-saa said. “He is…” He seemed to grope for words.
“The word is panicking,” Roman bit out, eyes flicking over his displays as his mind searched for a plan. The vultures were past the Amity now, heading for the point twenty-seven kilometers ahead where they’d be able to set up their optical net. Sso-ngii and the other Tampies had maybe a minute to snap Sleipnir out of this.…
“Marlowe, are there any more vultures closing on us?” Kennedy asked suddenly. “Or is this batch all of them?”
“Uh…” Marlowe frowned at his displays, fingers dancing over his console. “I don’t track any more coming this way, no.”
“Then I don’t think we’ve got a problem.” She swiveled around. “Captain, the Scapa Flow’s got netting equipment aboard. We can cut them loose, send them ahead to clear out the optical net, and link up with them again before we Jump.”
Roman shifted his attention to Ferrol. “Possible?”
Ferrol hesitated, then nodded. “It should be, yes,” he said slowly. “But not unless Sso-ngii can get Sleipnir to kill some of this acceleration.”
Roman nodded, feeling the tension ease somewhat. The problem wasn’t gone, but at least their deadline for action was extended somewhat. “Did you hear that, Rrin-saa?” he called. “You
and Sso-ngii have got to get Sleipnir back under control.”
“We will try, Rro-maa.”
“Good. Ferrol, alert your people on the Scapa Flow; we’ll want them to move as soon as they can.”
“Yes, sir,” Ferrol said, an odd expression flicking across his face before he turned back to his console.
Roman turned his attention back to the vultures. They were nearly in position now…and even as he watched the acceleration pressing him into his seat abruptly eased, and then vanished.
“Rro-maa? Sleipnninni is no longer in perasiata.”
“Thank you, Sso-ngii.” Roman looked at Ferrol. “Pop the tether line and tell the Scapa Flow to go,” he ordered the other. “Kennedy, check and see if we’re going to have any trouble Jumping from this deep in the gravity well.”
“Already checked, sir,” she said. “We’re a little close, but shouldn’t have any major problems. Our best bet will be the Torii system; recommend we Jump there and alert Prepyat and Earth via tachyon.”
And while the Starforce scrambled a task force they would have time to get into position for the next Jump. “Sounds good,” he nodded. He glanced at Ferrol—
And paused for a second look. The other was still sitting facing him, ignoring his console. “Ferrol? What’s the trouble?”
Ferrol swallowed visibly, a strangely haunted look in his eyes. “No trouble, sir.”
“Then get the Scapa Flow going.” He turned back to Kennedy—
“No, sir.”
Roman looked back. “No?” he asked, very quietly.
Ferrol’s eyes flicked to Kennedy as his hand dipped into a pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Captain Roman,” he said, his voice abruptly formal, “pursuant to the Senate carte blanche directive contained in this envelope—” He took a deep breath. “I hereby relieve you of command.”
Chapter 28
IT HAD BEEN A moment Ferrol had thought about ever since coming aboard the Amity; a moment he’d thought about, and worried about, and occasionally dreamed about. A moment that had been part of the background of his mind for over a year now.
A moment that, with all that preparation, surely ought to have been easier.
The bridge was deathly silent, even the occasional clicks and beeps of recording and sensing instruments sounding muted to him. The crewers were silent, too, for the most part frozen in place like so many statues. Ferrol kept the bulk of his attention on Roman, forcing himself to meet the other’s eyes as he fought back the strange sense of guilt and shame and waited tautly for the inevitable explosion of disbelief and rage.
The explosion never came. “May I see that?” the captain asked calmly, extending a hand toward Ferrol.
Swallowing hard, Ferrol unstrapped and floated across to the other, planting one foot into a velgrip patch. Roman took the envelope, glanced once at the Senator’s handwriting on its face, and opened it. Withdrawing the paper inside, throwing a speculative look at Ferrol as he did so, he began to read.
Ferrol licked his upper lip, his eyes darting around the bridge. This was the critical moment, the moment when the entire thing hung by a thread. If Roman refused to accept the Senate directive—if he refused to relinquish his command—
His darting glance touched Kennedy…and froze there.
He licked his lip again, the knot in his stomach tightening painfully as all of the Senator’s veiled warnings about Kennedy flooded back at once. The most dangerous person on the Amity, he’d called her…and as Ferrol looked into those eyes—those rock-hard eyes, gazing unblinkingly straight back at him—he had no doubt whatsoever that the Senator had been right.
He took a careful breath, suddenly and acutely aware of the flat bulge of the needle gun pressing into his ribs beneath his tunic. You’ll be able to handle her, the Senator had assured him; but gazing into those eyes, Ferrol wasn’t nearly so sure of that. If she was indeed a trained professional, his only chance would be to make sure he shot first.
From Roman came a faint rustle of paper; with an odd combination of relief and reluctance, Ferrol broke his gaze from Kennedy and looked back at the captain. “I presume,” the other said, almost conversationally, “that you have some explanation for this.” He waved the paper gently.
“I believe the directive is self-explanatory,” Ferrol told him.
“The directive itself is quite clear, yes,” Roman agreed coolly. “I was referring to the reason you’ve chosen this particular moment to invoke it.”
Ferrol took a deep breath. “I’m not here for a debate, Captain,” he said, fighting against a quaver in his voice. This was hard enough without Roman dragging out the discussion. “The only question you need to consider at the moment is whether you’re going to obey that directive. Yes or no.”
Once again he braced himself for an explosion…and once again the explosion didn’t come. Roman gazed expressionlessly at him for a long moment; then, with only a touch of hesitation, he keyed his intercom. “All crewers: this is Captain Roman,” he said, his eyes steady on Ferrol. “As of this moment, per a Senate directive…I’m relinquishing command of the Amity to Commander Ferrol.”
He keyed off and, releasing his restraints, pulled himself out of the command chair. “Your orders, Captain?” he asked Ferrol.
Ferrol looked down at the empty command chair, fighting back the acrid surge of shame rumbling through his stomach and wishing bitterly that Roman would at least show some resentment over what had just been done to him. To humiliate a captain in front of his crew this way was a horrible thing to do to any man; to do it to someone who accepted the blow uncomplainingly was absolute hell.
But on the other hand, that sense of guilt might be exactly what Roman was going for. Steeling himself, Ferrol pulled off the velgrip patch and eased himself into the command chair. It felt damned awkward; but if there was one thing he’d learned from the Senator, it was that appearances and symbols were important aspects of command. “Marlowe; status report on the sharks,” he said, keying for scanner repeater.
“They’re still coming,” the other growled.
“Their ETA to the corral?”
“At current acceleration, and assuming a comparable deceleration phase, about two hours.”
Two hours. For a moment Ferrol studied the tactical display. The three Tampy space horses were still giving ground; but the display now showed two more vectoring in toward the defenders from behind and upslope, and even as he watched a third Jumped into view. The rest of the Tampy empire, clearly alerted to the threat, throwing everything they had left into the Kialinninni system in a desperate effort to defend their corral:
Exposing the rest of their space horses to the attacking sharks…and in the process completing the total destruction of their space-going capabilities.
It was, perhaps, the last irony. For nine straight years now Ferrol had dreamed of playing a part in the Tampies’ downfall; had hatched scheme after grandiose scheme designed to drive them from space and to pay them back in full for their cold-blooded theft of his world. And now, after all that planning, they were going to do the job all by themselves. By themselves, with a little help from the cycles of nature they professed such love for.
And all Ferrol had to do, quite literally, was nothing. Exactly nothing. For the next two hours.
“Commander, we’re wasting time.”
Ferrol looked up at Marlowe. “Your objections are noted,” he said coolly. “Kennedy, do we still have that two-gee acc/dec course to the space horse corral on line?”
She was still facing him, that same rock-hard expression on her face. “We do.”
“Good,” Ferrol said. “Alert the Handler, then, and let’s get going.”
She didn’t move. “And what exactly do you intend to do there?”
He met her gaze, determined not to be intimidated. “As I said before, I’m not here for a debate, Lieutenant,” he said. “You have your orders; carry them out.”
“You don’t need to take us in to the corral to keep the Cor
donale from sending help,” Roman said quietly from beside him. “And the longer you hold us in this system, the more risk you’re taking that the sharks or more vultures will reach us before the Scapa Flow can clear away the optical net.”
“I’m aware of that,” Ferrol growled, feeling a flash of annoyance that Roman had read his thoughts and plans so easily. “We’re not going there to hide—we’re going there to open the corral netting and let the space horses go.”
It hadn’t been what he’d intended to say; and judging from Roman’s expression, it had come as a surprise to him, too. “We’re what?” he asked carefully.
“You heard me,” Ferrol told him curtly…and, actually, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t such a bad idea. There was no particular reason why the space horses should have to suffer along with their Tampy masters, after all. Destroyed or scattered, the end result would be the same. “Unless,” he added to Roman, “you’d rather see the sharks get them.”
For a long moment Roman stared at him in silence. “So this is how you intend to get your revenge,” he said, very quietly.
“They won’t be hurt—just trapped on their own worlds, out of our way,” Ferrol countered. “Would you rather we went to war and did the job more permanently?”
“You’ve seen space horses in action,” Roman said, as if Ferrol hadn’t spoken. “You know how poorly they handle stress situations. Do you really still believe the Tampies have a secret fleet of warhorses hidden off somewhere?”
Ferrol grimaced. No, not really. Not any more. “The mechanisms and methods aren’t important,” he told Roman shortly. “What’s important is that the Tampies’ very presence in and around human space is a threat to us…and that threat’s going to end.” He focused on Kennedy. “I gave you an order, Lieutenant.”
For a moment he thought she was going to refuse. Then, without a word, she turned away from his gaze and swiveled back to her console. A brief, low conversation with the Handler, and a minute later Amity was moving again. “What’s our ETA?” he asked as Sleipnir reached the indicated two gees.