Challenge Met, page 15
The road to Colin and truth.
“I have to make this a good fight,” Jack said. “We can’t afford to have Bogie damaged.”
Amber paused in her work on his left gauntlet. She smiled gently. “Jack, he’ll fry you.”
“Only if he gets the chance. Why do you think K’rok maneuvered me into armor? He wants to bring the general down as Tricatada’s right hand… why, I don’t know, but he’s always followed his own game plan. Give me the helmet.” He shoved his arms into his sleeves, felt the electric tingle at his wrists telling him he was powered up and armed, as Amber gave him his helmet. He screwed it in place.
The outside world was not muffled away, but keener and sharper than ever before. Bogie’s hardwired senses joined into those of the armor made it like a second skin. He was aware of every curve and nuance of Amber’s body as she leaned forward into the Flexalinks, checking the helmet’s fit. He felt himself sifting emotions and thoughts.
“Let me go,” he said. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“All right.” She pushed a tangle of tawny hair back. “Whatever happens, I’ll be backing you up.”
Her expression was serious and Jack knew she meant what she said. He started to nod, stopped because that was one of the few movements the suit could not imitate, and saluted her instead.
“I shall kill him,” Guthul promised his queen. “I would be pleased,” Tricatada murmured. “I want Malthen for our own, and this alliance has grown as cumbersome as an old egg casing.” She stroked her warrior’s brow. “Do as little damage to the armor as you can, now that we know its worth. Handled properly, it will lead us to the nest of our ancient enemy and we can at last strike at their vulnerable undersides.”
Guthul froze under her touch, his desires raging. Her body glistened with the egg sacs swelling inside of her—his get, his seed—and without a doubt, one of them might well prove to be the savior of their race. He would not fail her. She dropped her arm/leg as if guessing the fever of his thoughts.
“I will be watching,” she sang to him.
The loading hangar had been cleared. The audience watched from above, from mechanics’ booths. Pepys labored in his crèche and Amber put a hand on his shoulder. He was cool to her touch. She immediately ordered a covering, and prepared to watch over the emperor. She had done this, and if she could give her own life to undo it, she would. He had never shown any fear or suspicion of her and guilt bit into her deeply. He patted her hand back.
“You need to be home,” she said. For this man, this enemy who had so confounded her and Jack’s lives, she found pity and understanding when she would rather have hated him. If this had been Vandover instead of Pepys—she would have struck him dead, but instead she found herself grasping the creed that motivated the emperor.
“Jack knows more about the Thraks than just about any man alive,” Pepys said. He did not notice the sharp look Vandover gave him suddenly.
The emperor let go of Amber’s hand. “Here they come.”
The metal hangar clanged and thrummed as the stock portals opened and let the two combatants into it.
Even to onlookers from above, they had not lost their grace or immense stature as they approached one another in a pas de deux de guerre. Amber tightened her grip on Pepys’ shoulder. She did not know if she could strike quickly enough to save Jack’s life, if it came to that, or even if she could strike at all, the Thraks were so alien. Her glance slid away from Jack and Guthul as they sized one another up, thinking that if she could strike, it would be at Vandover.
As if sensing her thoughts, the Minister of War looked up. His brown hair had an unhealthy luster in the booth’s dim light. His thick lips curled. “Good luck to your commander, milady,” he said.
Amber shivered. She looked back to the battle. Rawlins shifted beside her, equally intent on what was happening below.
Jack let Guthul strike first, determining the method of combat they would be using. The Thraks wore wrist lasers, signaling his intent to do some serious damage if Jack’s shields ever weakened. Jack couldn’t remember ever having engaged in hand to hand combat with a Thraks, but he knew of those who had—literally torn from their armor. That was why suits came with a Dead Man circuit, to destroy the armor rather than let it fall into enemy hands. A Thraks could be incredibly strong, though Jack believed that battle rage enhanced the power.
Bogie still lacked full power. The suit could not keep his body heat down properly. Sweat poured off his face, blurred his eyesight and one of the leads clipped to his torso slipped off with a snap. Bogie pulsed across his shoulder blades. *Go for the throat leather, boss.*
“I just want to bring him down.” Jack felt the armor rock back on its heels as the Thraks reared and kicked out. The shock drilled him to the roots of his teeth.
*I think he wants us in pieces, boss* Bogie rumbled back. Jack got in motion, using all the strength and agility of his war suit, hitting the power vault.
Guthul matched him, malice glittering redly in his dark, faceted eyes. Then Jack spun away and for a split second, hesitation was masked on the Thraks’ face. He’s lost me, Jack thought, and then the Thraks responded as Jack landed and pivoted, but not fast enough to evade the Knight as Jack threw him across the hangar floor. Sparks flew as the wrist lasers dragged across the metal plating under Guthul.
K’rok had been right. There was something about the battle armor that Guthul could not quite see—but even as Jack realized it, Guthul fired and the wash of the energy threw Jack off his knee and rolling across the hangar floor. He could feel the heat through his second skin.
The armor could take so much fire—was made for it—but with his evaporation and temperature regulation systems down—enough fire would be the death of Jack. He’d cook inside the suit. He did a backward flip out of harm’s way of a second blast, and leapt to close instead, where armed fire would hurt Guthul as much as himself.
As they closed, the hangar floor vibrated under them. Guthul slammed Jack in the chestplate. The blow reverberated into Jack’s own chest. As he gasped for air, he kicked back and around, seeking to dislodge the Thraks. Guthul went down. He rolled quickly and came up. From the angle of the general’s head, Jack knew the Thraks was looking for him.
But he could not move for a second, doing everything he could to just breathe, the wind knocked out of him. His lungs felt as though a giant fist squeezed them shut.
The Thraks came up. His sight scrolled past Jack. Jack blinked the sweat out of his eyes and gulped a swallow of air as his diaphragm loosened. Son of a bitch, K’rok had been more than right. Guthul could only spot him as long as he stayed in motion.
The Lasertown miners’ gift of having had Bogie coated in norcite years ago had probably saved Jack’s life several times over, since. With irony, Jack told Bogie that. The problem now was to defeat Guthul without destroying him and incurring the further wrath of the queen. And to defeat him, Jack would have to move, drawing the Thraks’ attention.
“What’s he doing?” Baadluster’s face twisted.
“I don’t know. Circuitry damage maybe—he took quite a hit.”
Pepys sucked in a rasping breath. “He’ll be all right.”
“I know,” Amber whispered. “I know.”
“We’re running out of time,” Vandover protested. “He’s got to move and move now.”
As if in answer to his objection, the battle armor twisted and kicked high, just under Guthul’s Kabuki mask of rage. The Thraks fell back, arms flailing in pain. Jack laid down a line of fire that scored the hangar plates, sending the Thraks leaping into his embrace. The two soldiers closed a last time and when Amber opened her eyes, the Thraks lay still on the floor, Jack’s booted foot firmly on his throat leather, the only vulnerable spot on a Thrakian soldier’s body.
They had won.
Chapter 25
The shuttle to Malthen lay in the bay of the mother ship, its ramps down and berth ready for disembarkation. Pepys rested in his crèche, waiting to be loaded, his breathing a little easier than it had been in days, but his color still pallid. K’rok shadowed him as the emperor reached out and took Jack’s hand.
“Against all charges of desertion and treason, I hereby find you guiltless and absolved. Baadluster and Commander K’rok, witness me.”
There was a hearty glint in the Milot’s eyes as he growled, “I witness,” his hale voice drowning out Vandover’s quiet response.
Jack found a tremble in his hand as he removed it from the emperor’s. “Why now?” he asked. “My job isn’t done yet.”
“You’ve earned it. If anything should happen to me or to you, this shadow will be lifted. You’ve protected me from everything but myself. I could not ask you to do more. This needed to be done now.”
He eyed his emperor. “I’ll be back,” he said. “You promised me a throne.” He stepped back as the Thraks approached.
Vandover turned his back on the aliens, his face as dark and clouded as the robes he wore. “Pepys, I ask you to reconsider my returning with you. I prepared to go with Commander Storm and this change of plans is most distressing.”
“I need you with me,” Pepys answered simply.
“My value with St. Colin—”
“Your value is with me.”
Baadluster shut his mouth. Then, shuttering away the abrupt look of hatred in his dark, flat eyes, he bowed his head and stepped out of the way so that the Thrakian guard could wheel the medical crèche up the ramp. As soon as Pepys was out of his sight, he wheeled on Amber and took her by the elbow. He bent his lips to her ear before she could pull away in startlement.
“Do not think yourself free of me. My thoughts will find yours wherever you hide.”
He let go so suddenly she rocked back on her heels, even as she swung her head about to protest his catching her up.
“What was that about?” Jack said.
She shook her head. “A threat to remember him by,” she answered quietly, troubled. She watched Vandover mount the ramp in Pepys’ wake, never looking back. As the shuttle ramp pulled close, she felt him tug at her thoughts, unclean and revolting mental touch followed by his mocking laughter. Unconsciously, she stepped closer to Jack for protection.
K’rok dropped his heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Now it is my time to say good-bye.” With his other hand, he signaled the Thraks to hold up securing the shuttle ramp. It paused, half-shut. “I am being given orders by my queen to go with Pepys.”
“I thought you were going with us.” An unexpected sadness washed through Jack.
“So I was also thinking. But Tricatada has asked me to go to make sure our alliance is strong.” He scratched his thick jowl. “We each be facing our destinies now, Jack. Good luck to you.”
Jack clasped the Milot’s wrist. “And you, K’rok.”
The brace of Thrakian guards began to chitter in agitation. K’rok answered them rapidly and strode across the dock’s floor. He jumped to catch the ramp and as soon as his booted feet rang upon its surface, it began to close again.
Left with only Rawlins and Amber at his side, Jack watched the shuttle engines begin to burn. Amber pulled him through the air lock so the bay could be evacuated and then opened to space. Jack did not linger at the viewing portal. “Suit up,” he told them. “I want them to see us leave in armor.”
“Yessir,” Rawlins said, and grinned.
Pepys mopped at the corner of his droopy eye. The crèche hindered him more than it aided him as the Thraks escorted him across the sere grounds of the palace. He snapped at Vandover, “I want the place staffed again, immediately. And get a medical team in—I want to be out of this thing as soon as possible. Get me a scooter instead. See to it.”
Without replying, Vandover dropped back in the caravan so that Pepys could no longer see him as the crèche rolled past.
“I want the WP out here and this area kept secured. See if we can get them in armor if need be.”
K’rok rumbled, “The suits are being dangerous to amateurs, emperor.”
“Whatever it takes, then, Commander. I’m still emperor here and I think our citizens should know it.”
The Milot gave a half-bow. “Your wish is my command.”
“And Vandover—” Pepys attempted to twist around in his bed. “I want a listening post set up to keep track of what Storm is doing.”
“Of course,” Baadluster said neutrally. He gathered himself as if walking into a strong wind, chin down in thought. The battle-scarred ground crunched beneath his steps. Beyond the side yards, if he looked up, he could see the sentries set up and the sonic watch posts. In the far distance, if he listened, he could hear the faint “pop-pop” of artillery. But the war in Upper and Under-Malthen was nothing compared to the battle raging in his thoughts at the moment.
“We’ll pick up a pilot on Claron. There’ll be somebody there who’s free-lancing; until then, we’ve got the auto. Rawlins here tells me he’s been studying and can make manual adjustments if he has to.”
The younger man looked at Jack, color high on his fair face. Amber laughed at Rawlins’ reaction to the mild teasing. “Better you than a Thraks,” she added.
Rawlins finally shrugged and strapped in. “They could have this baby rigged to blow, for all I know.”
Jack sobered. “They don’t. They’re letting us go too easily. I think they have almost as much at stake in this venture as we do. They’ve been fighting the Ash-Farel far longer—and all it’s done is drive them father afield.” He motioned Amber to a net. “Better settle in.”
Rawlins maneuvered himself into a seat meant for a Thrakian pilot, his armor folding to meet the demands of his body. He looked the control board over. “They’ve ripped stuff out of here, sir. I think they’re not too anxious for us to have one of their ships at our disposal.” He pointed at the dash curving in front of him with open slots and blank areas where clips and leads dangled.
Jack scanned the board. “As long as we have what we need to make the trip.”
“As near as I can tell.”
“Then signal them to get the bay open. We’ve wasted enough time.” Jack loomed over Rawlins a second or two longer, then backed toward his own webbing. Bogie brushed over his thoughts. Jack flinched away from the contact without thinking of his reaction. He could not bear to hear once again his friend’s voice echoing in the scream of fear and anguish that Bogie had recorded. How long could a saint live in the hands of the enemy?
Long enough, he hoped, to be rescued.
Chapter 26
The physician shook her head as she watched the readout. “You will never be the man you were,” she said to Pepys. The emperor squirmed in anger in the crèche.
“Never mind that,” he said. “How soon can you get me out of this thing?”
The woman turned, and a slight smile warmed her cool features, drawing her almond eyes into a graceful curve. “That thing is what is keeping you breathing. Look here and here—these shaded areas are those affected by your stroke. That’s permanent damage and, unfortunately, in an area where even repatterning will not be of very great benefit. This area here—” she traced it with a light pen—“we have bypassed the involuntary muscle stimulus center successfully. Yes, you’ll be off the respirator soon—but your arm and leg will be permanently weakened. And you’re extremely susceptible to another attack.”
“Will I be competent or not?” Pepys’ green eyes darkened as he glared at her.
“You’ll be somewhat handicapped, but I suppose you’ll be as competent as you wish to be…” Her soft voice trailed off.
“That is all I wanted to know. Vandover!” Pepys snapped.
The minister had been watching and listening to the examination with an abstracted expression of his own. He came to the bedside when the emperor summoned him. “Vandover, you’re relived of the burden my illness placed on you.”
“So soon? Perhaps you should wait until you are out of the crèche, at least. There are other susceptibilities…” Baadluster’s voice trailed off as the emperor struggled to sit up despite the shell of the respirator over his chest.
Pepys waved the physician out of the care unit. She left, whisper-quiet. As soon as the door shut behind her, he said, “Take care, Vandover. Take great care. Don’t let your ambitions trip you up now. There is more than enough in all of this for both of us.”
Baadluster held his breath until he had forced his emotions to calm. Then he answered, “You are a ruthless man.”
Pepys smiled. “And it takes one to recognize that, does it not?”
Baadluster did not answer. The emperor plucked at the corner of his sheeting. “Do you still have your contacts among the Green Shirts?”
“Some.”
“Good. I want you to spread the word that, when St. Colin is found, he will be held hostage against Walker good behavior.”
The minister paused, then said, “That may not be necessary. I’ve gotten reports of renewed fighting between Thrakian forces and our outer continents. Even with the Green Shirts among them, how long can the Walkers hold out?”
Pepys lay back. Tricatada dared to invade anyway, under the guise of bringing the entire planet to order. Then he shrugged. “Well, then. As long as they are fighting each other, they cannot fight us.”
“I shall keep that in mind.” Vandover bowed gravely and left the emperor alone in his sick room, staring in thought. Then he called for Commander K’rok.
When the Milot commander turned up, he was slightly winded, his pelt ruffled as though he’d been in a rush. He smelled of laser fire and sweat. He came to a halt at Pepys’ side, with a nod that was far less than subservient.
“Have you men I can trust?”
The Milot’s eyes narrowed as if he’d been insulted. Pepys met his glare with an innocent expression. “I want a man to follow one of the WP.”
“Ahh,” the commander said. He frowned. “But the World Police are your own.”
