Ruler of Naught, page 54
part #2 of Exordium Series
It was Falcomare’s turn to deliver the mock lances, while Lady of Taligar and Barahyrn slashed at the enemy battlecruiser.
“Look at this, Captain,” said Mbezawi at Siglnt. “Got a great shot of the Fist during the last pass.” He tapped at his console as Hayashi nodded. “Couldn’t have done better with a skipmissile.”
A window bloomed on the viewscreen, revealing a close-up of the aft-portion of the Dol’jharian battlecruiser, shifting rapidly in perspective. There was a low whistle from someone on the bridge; Hayashi smiled broadly. They’d hit one of the ship’s hangar bays; a notorious weak spot, it was now a glowing pit lined with snarls of metal, glowing puffs of gas and dust billowing from it at random intervals. The image flickered out.
“Good work, Ushkaten,” said Hayashi. The weapons officer beamed. “‘Zawi, pass that image along to the armory, with my compliments.”
The lieutenant turned back to his console, but as he started tapping at it his motions froze. He stared at his screen for a moment, eyes wide with horror.
“Captain,” he said, all the triumph gone, “you’d better take a look at this. There’s a broadcast from the Fist of Dol’jhar. From the bridge.”
“What, is he asking for terms?” said Hayashi, but the joke fell flat as a grim atmosphere gripped the bridge. “Put it on-screen.”
The starfield on the viewscreen was replaced by the Fist’s bridge. Hayashi recognized the Dol’jharian uniforms. He and his crew were possibly the first naval personnel in twenty years to see such a view. Then came the shock of recognition.
“Telos protect us,” someone whispered as Gelasaar hai-Arkad, forty-seventh of his line, holder of Hayashi’s oath and that of every person on the Falcomare, gazed gravely at them from between two enormous Tarkan guards.
Despite the fact that he knew this was a one-way link, Hayashi almost saluted, so commanding was the man’s presence. “Communications,” he said, not taking his eyes from the screen, “signal Barahyrn and Lady of Taligar. Hold position.”
There was movement in the image; as the other destroyers acknowledged, Hayashi felt certain that this was not a recorded loop, but an ongoing broadcast, a window onto the bridge of the Fist of Dol’jhar from minutes in the past. And then he smiled as he realized the message implicit in the Panarch’s stance, a message the Dol’jharians had no chance of intercepting. It was a command no less compelling for being unspoken.
A harsh laugh escaped Hayashi, throat-scraping and bitter. “Those Telos-damned fools,” he said. “They’re trying to bind us with our oath of fealty. What does a Dol’jharian know of loyalty? They understand only fear.” He tipped his chin at the image. “You know what he expects of us.”
He turned away from the viewscreen, seeing understanding and grim agreement in his crew. “Communications, raise Barahyrn and Lady of Taligar. Conference.”
Ensign Mellieur tapped at her console. Two windows popped up on-screen, revealing Doial and Galt. Hayashi could see the same mix of anger and resolution in their faces that he was feeling, and wondered how even a Dol’jharian could so misread an enemy.
“The captain of the Fist of Dol’jhar has made a terrible mistake,” he said. “I propose we explain it to him.” He paused, tapping up a tactical plot and echoing it to both of them, as a snort of laughter escaped from Captain Doial.
“I propose we execute the third attack as planned, with us dumping the mock lances, but instead of meeting at the next staging point, Falcomare will skip behind Lunaire. The moon’s mass will hide us as we relay a beam through a drone to talk to Juvaszt, and watch him as well. In the meantime, you two join our frigates and chase off those Rifters. Whichever of you can, dump a fourth wave here in relation to the Fist.” The tactical plot responded to his touch as he sketched out the geometry of the attack.
“We’ll be talking to him at that point and powering up in a Katy Wheel, so when he skips up on the first leg of his circum-planetary jump and starts to come about, we can wheel past him and get off a shot at his radiants without endangering Arthelion or the Highdwellings.”
A ship always emerged from skip on the same heading it entered on, with conservation of any rotation. By imposing a yawing spin on the Falcomare and skipping at just the right moment, the ship would emerge with the missile tube already swinging into alignment with the Fist of Dol’jhar.
He held up a hand as he saw the objection on their faces. He knew it wasn’t to the danger of the maneuver—the Falcomare would emerge headed more or less straight for Arthelion, since that was the only way they could get off a shot aiming safely away from the planet.
“Sorry, Bea, Jarnock. Rank hath its privileges.” He smiled. “This one’s mine.”
“Pretty iffy,” Galt growled. “That’s a double Katy you’re planning. Falcomare up to it?”
“Green thoughts, Jarnock.” Hayashi laughed. “The Fistula didn’t connect with any of us, so we’re as ready as you are.”
They laughed at him. He knew they didn’t begrudge him the shot.
It was too bad that there was no safe way to plan a follow-up attack on the battlecruiser. This close to the planet the risk was unacceptable. Only one ship could deliver their response, and that ship would be the Falcomare.
They conferred a few minutes longer, agreeing that they’d keep up the mock lance attack even after they ran out of BBQ materials, to keep the ships guarding Arthelion out of the main battle as long as possible, and signed off. Moments later, the Falcomare skipped out toward Arthelion to begin the third attack.
o0o
FIST OF DOL’JHAR
The radiants of their two attackers dwindled, vanishing in twin bursts of reddish light as the third attack ceased.
“Possible ruptor hit on one destroyer during the last attack. No IDs.”
Anaris noted the obvious relief in Erechnat Chikhuri at the weapons console as the sensors officer reported. Dealing with a fractional-cee attack was difficult, especially from two directions at once, but so far the Fist had dealt nothing to its enemies to compare to the destruction wrought on the aft second hangar bay during the first attack. It didn’t help that since the Highdwellings around Arthelion were now the Avatar’s possessions, their use of the ruptors was severely constrained.
The Panarchists are probably aware of that, too. So far, the enemy’s tactics had shown a thorough understanding of Dol’jharian thought patterns, an understanding unmatched by Juvaszt and the other officers on the Fist of Dol’jhar, especially since the enemy’s ECM had so far prevented them from identifying their attackers other than ship class.
It galled Anaris that though he recognized a ruse, he did not yet comprehend the purpose of the attack. A battlecruiser was capable of absorbing this kind of warfare indefinitely; since the destroyers couldn’t use their skipmissiles, they couldn’t hope to disable the Fist. But there was no sign of any other activity, although he was certain there were other Panarchist ships out there.
The Panarch stood at ease between his Tarkan guards, intent on the viewscreens. That was the only other person on the bridge who realized that this was all a sham, but did he know what the Navy’s real thrust was?
The fiveskip snarled as the Fist of Dol’jhar made the first of the skips that would take it around Arthelion to assist the Rifter contingent in dealing with the latest wave of lances.
So-Erechnat Terresk-jhi stiffened in her pod, tapping at the communications console. “Real-time message from Deathstorm,” she reported. “They are under attack by a battlecruiser... ” Her brow crinkled in puzzlement. “It did not use ruptors, and skipped out after disabling the drives and the skipmissile accelerator.”
And then it all crashed together in Anaris’s mind. Real-time! They had real-time communications at any distance through the Urian communicator, and the Panarchists hadn’t. That’s what they’re after.
He stepped forward to stand beside the command pod. “They want an Urian communicator,” he said. “This attack is merely a diversion.”
Juvaszt gave him a brief glance, tapped at his console, and then looked up again consideringly. “Diversion it may be, but we cannot leave the Avatar undefended.”
He turned away. “Communications, I want a real-time feed on that secondary screen—” He tapped his console and one of the smaller screens near the main viewscreen flashed. “—for all Rifter vessels in-system.”
The communications officer worked at her console, and a number of windows began popping up on the indicated screen. They flickered, the images were grainy, and Terresk-jhi’s movements became steadily more jerky and frantic, signaling severe stress. Occasionally another image would bleed through for a moment. The discriminators were having trouble dealing with the overload caused by the comments and images flooding in from all over the Thousand Suns as the battle at Arthelion engaged the interest of their Rifter auxiliaries.
Juvaszt began issuing orders, dispatching all the Rifters in the system to converge on the Deathstorm’s position. His speech was clearer now; the medic had packed his wound with an absorbent, but Anaris could hear his irritation as he dealt with the increasingly unclear communications with the Rifters in the Arthelion system.
When he was finished he leaned back in his command pod. “If that’s what they want, then they will commit all their forces to gaining it,” said Juvaszt. “Now we can force the engagement and use the full weight of our weapons against them.”
“Message incoming,” said Terresk-jhi. “From the captain of the Panarchist attack squadron. He’s hiding behind the moon, relaying the signal via drone. Two-point-five-second delay.”
Juvaszt glanced up at Anaris again, his expression difficult to read. “Navigation, hold position. Put him on.”
The viewscreen flickered to reveal a powerfully built man with a strong, hawk-nosed face, seated in his command pod. The bridge around him was out of focus. Anaris studied him while the lightspeed delay elapsed, then shifted his attention to the Panarch, whose smile was gone, replaced by the mask of command. It’s happening as I expected.
After five seconds the image spoke. “Captain Metellus Hayashi, of His Majesty’s destroyer Falcomare, commanding. I assume, as is your nature, that you intend His Majesty as a hostage against the safety of your ship. I will need to confirm his well-being before speaking further.”
Juvaszt smiled thinly in triumph as he motioned to the Tarkans. They prompted the Panarch forward, as Juvaszt said, “That, and cessation of your attacks against the Mandala, and of the action in the middle system... ” He broke off as the communications officer motioned to him and pointed to a screen reporting Satansclaw’s engagement with a Panarchist destroyer whose ID matched one of their previous assailants. The Rifter auxiliaries were being drawn out of position again as the enemy committed more forces against them.
As Juvaszt’s reply reached him the Panarchist captain’s eyes shifted from the kyvernat to the Panarch. He saluted, but remained seated, within reach of his controls. “Your Majesty. I regret the circumstances. Are you well?”
Anaris watched the Panarch as he replied, “As well as can be expected.” Anaris wondered if Juvaszt had an inkling of the formal emptiness of the exchange between the two, an emptiness that hid a fullness of meaning that needed no explicit statement. I congratulate you on your tactics,” the Panarch went on in his measured Douloi cadences, so pleasant to the ears, and so fraught with hidden meaning. “I’m sure Kyvernat Juvaszt here will confirm their effectiveness...”
As the two talked on, Anaris sustained the visceral flare of conviction, but hid it. The lightspeed delay made the conversation seem even more dance-like and ritualistic: it was utterly Douloi. He could see Juvaszt’s gaze begin to shift between the two Panarchists. He senses something wrong, but doesn’t have a chance of figuring out what it is. Exultation accelerated Anaris’s heartbeat. This Hayashi was giving him the keys to power on the Fist of Dol’jhar.
“... and so I thank you, Your Majesty. That is good to know.” Hayashi’s gaze moved back to Juvaszt. “Well, Captain, you leave me no choice. Please stand by.”
“By no means,” replied Juvaszt quickly, his uncertainty evaporating. “We will not stand by while your lances attack the Mandala. We will discuss terms after we have dealt with them.” He motioned decisively and the image flickered and froze.
Gelasaar’s eyebrows lifted fractionally, and somehow the gesture, freighted with meaning that no one else on the bridge could grasp, left Anaris feeling even more alone than usual. For the one man who saw and understood his coming triumph was one with whom he couldn’t share it.
o0o
FALCOMARE
The engines of the Falcomare groaned on a rising note, accelerating the ship into a yawing spin that was taking it dangerously close to the stress limits imposed by its elongated form.
On the viewscreen the image froze. The Panarch looked out of the screen directly at Hayashi, his gaze as compelling as if they were still in contact.
Metellus Hayashi laughed, a savage sound; his bridge echoed his emotions.
“Skipmissile charged and ready,” reported Lieutenant Ushkaten.
“Engage,” Hayashi said.
There was a fractional pause—the computer would actually decide the moment of skip. Then the fiveskip burped, taking them out from behind the moon on the first leg of the skip that would hurl them in for the attack. It ceased, and the stars whirled madly across the viewscreen. The ghost of inertial pulled at Hayashi’s inner ear; the gravitors were not designed to compensate for this dramatic a rotation.
The fiveskip burped again, not so harshly. They couldn’t afford too high a real velocity, since they’d emerge headed at the planet. The lower speed would leave them exposed to the enemy’s ruptors all that much longer, but Hayashi was counting on the Dol’jharian inability to believe that they would fire on a ship carrying their liege.
Fools! Juvaszt—not purged, dammit—would be shot, if he was lucky, for doing so. I’d be shot, and rightly so, if I didn’t.
“Emergence,” sang Navigation.
Arthelion was too close behind them, fleeing across the screen as the ship yawed, and then the bright star of the Fist of Dol’jhar came into view. The screen flickered to maximum magnification.. The vast battlecruiser began to come about for its second skip to deal with the fourth lance attack. Its radiants flared brightly, then were overlaid by the reddish pulse-wake of a skipmissile. A gout of light briefly blackened the screen.
Then, as the nose of the Falcomare swung past their enemy, the computer engaged the fiveskip, launching them away from the engagement.
o0o
DESRIEN
Coolness wrapped Ivard round as the light dimmed and changed, echoes pressed on him, a sweet scent clanged in his skull—where were the cymbals, then?
... love is stronger than death...
One had sung that.
And then there was a woman’s face, gray-haired, kindly. Ivard tasted love, felt coolness, delicious, on forehead, lips, and chest. The blue fire leapt up, delighted, and withdrew a measure, and he returned to himself.
“... find your heart’s desire... ” He smiled at the woman. Then the haze returned, blue and smothering. Ivard struggled against it. The woman caressed his cheek and stepped aside, so Ivard moved on, hating the worm-like movements of his body. He was glad Greywing couldn’t see him.
Anger doused the blue fire, leaving him aware of the vaulting space around him. But the blue fire flared up insistently, conjuring crowds of ghosts around him: he could see them—or was it smell? taste?—moving in patterns of grace and courtesy, centered on the white table at the other end of the long room, where he beheld a glint of silver.
He was drawn along with the ghosts. The air around him felt uncertain, as if the boundaries of the now had bled away, leaving him walking in past, present and future, all three suffused in the light from the colorful windows, under the vaulted ceiling so high above.
A swell of music freshened the air. Somewhere ahead a man sat at a tall console raised above the floor, his hands playing over the keys.
As Ivard neared the table, the splendor of his surroundings reminded him of the palace and all the beautiful things they’d taken. They were going to be rich, until the nicks caught up with them. He saw Greywing’s face again, and the little metal disc with the bird on it, that he’d lost. Heart’s desire...
The music broke into a discordant series of tones as Ivard, alone and lonely, limped up the steps of the dais on which the white-and-gold-clad table stood. His crewmates had vanished. Even the ghosts were gone.
Ivard looked at the table. The cloth covering it was richly embroidered. On its surface stood two tall candleholders, intricately worked in gold and silver.
Ivard blinked as the blue fire leaped so high that it blurred his vision. Sitting in the center of the table was a battered old silver goblet, looking entirely out of place. He touched it with one trembling finger, acutely conscious of his unnaturally pale skin, the rusty blotches and scattering of reddish hairs.
“If you are thirsty, drink.”
Ivard spun around so fast he fell against the table, pain shooting through the unhealed wound across his back. A few paces away, an old man stood.
“I wasn’t going to steal it!” he blurted.
The man smiled. “I know. Drink, if you desire. That, none of your treasures could buy for you.”
Ivard stared at the old man. He was sure he’d never seen him before, yet he seemed familiar. But why did he think him old? There were no lines on his face. His hair was dark and glossy. Yet he was very old. Ivard was sure of that.
Ivard was also thirsty. He grasped the cup. It was cool in his hand. Inside, the clear water caught the light from the huge window high above, shimmering with color. The blue fire mounted, but this time it did not swallow him. A rich scent welled from the cup. He tasted life. He tasted years and multitudes as a kaleidoscope of flames infused him, voices whispering and murmuring in comforting patterns.
