Ruler of Naught, page 55
part #2 of Exordium Series
He drank.
It tasted like the old woman’s fingers had felt on his forehead, like the approval in Greywing’s eyes when he got something right without prompting, like the gentle rumble of Markham’s voice, joking and teaching by turns, like the genuine interest in the blue eyes of the Aerenarch...
Ivard carefully set the cup down. When he looked up, he gazed straight into Greywing’s eyes.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. She put out her arms and caught him in a fierce hug.
“Greywing, you were... in the palace... ”
“Hush, Firehead.” She pushed him out at arm’s length, smiling; like the old man, nowhere to be seen, she looked old, but young, too, younger than he’d left her, under the palace, her body lifeless... He pushed the memory away. It didn’t fit here.
“I lost your coin,” he said.
“No, it’s here.” There was her old special smile. “I’m proud of you, Ivard.”
He understood. In truth she stood a long way off, even as she was here, now, and when she spoke his name she meant all of him, as he had been, was, and would be. To the blue-fire part of him it was perfectly clear, for its memory reached far back in time; but for the part of him that was a young and tired human boy, it was too much, and darkness shot through the blue fire like veins of smoke, whirling him away from her smile into an echoing peace.
o0o
FIST OF DOL’JHAR
Anaris watched as Juvaszt stretched in his command pod. Anaris perceived the gesture as the assertion of control that it was and smiled in response. Juvaszt’s brow furrowed.
The viewscreen cleared from skip, stars fleeing across it as the Fist of Dol’jhar began to come about for the second skip that would take it back over Arthelion to deal with the lances that Satansclaw and the other Rifter vessels had failed to stop.
“Emergence pulse!” shouted Durriken at the sensors console. “One-seventy mark 8, destroyer, course 262 mark 33, coming about for skipmissile attack... ”
“What?” shouted Juvaszt, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Ruptors! Fire at will...”
A savage blow jolted the bridge. The lights flickered and a wave of gravitational distortion from unstable gravitors threw several officers off their feet or out of their pods. Gelasaar clutched at one of his Tarkan guards.
As Anaris clutched at the back of the captain’s pod for support, he exulted. Captain Hayashi, your timing is impeccable!
Juvaszt’s mouth snapped shut. He stared at Anaris, eyes distended as they’d been at the eglarhh hre-immash, the ghost-laying ceremony. Then he slapped at his console.
“Damage Control!”
“Skipmissile impact on radiants, severe damage to engine one, automatic shut down sequence engaged; engine two destabilized. Skip aborted.”
“Enemy vessel has skipped out, no other traces detected,” reported the sensors officer.
“Communications, raise Satansclaw and the frigates.”
The unexpected sound of laughter turned the heads of everyone on the bridge. The Panarch gazed at Juvaszt. Anaris very nearly burst into laughter himself. Morrighon’s lips twitched as well. Juvaszt wore an expression of utter outrage, almost betrayal.
“He told you the truth,” said Gelasaar, his Dol’jharian distorted by a heavy accent. “You left him no choice, nor did his oath.”
The Tarkans on either side of him looked confused until Juvaszt motioned to them with a savage slash of his hand while he issued a rapid volley of orders to the Rifter defenders of Arthelion on the other side of the planet. They grasped the Panarch under each arm and marched him toward a hatch.
Anaris waited until they reached it before he gave in to impulse and signaled them to halt.
They obeyed, dropping back when he approached, so that he and the Panarch faced one another alone. Anaris waited, studying Gelasaar’s face. There was no hint of defeat, only the well-bred inquiry that indicated tight control.
Anaris pitched his voice so that only Gelasaar could hear, and said, “Brandon is alive.”
The physical reaction was all he could have wished; the Panarch’s head jerked up, one of his hands going to his heart before dropping to his side.
His lips parted, but Anaris waved to the Tarkans, who stepped forward, one clamping a hand on the Panarch’s shoulder.
But before Gelasaar was taken away, he shook off the Tarkan’s hand and bowed, graceful despite his unaccustomed weight in the deliberate deference of unalloyed gratitude.
Then he was gone, leaving Anaris to face the covert curiosity of Juvaszt and his bridge officers. Anaris knew they would have misjudged the meaning of the Panarch’s reactions, having only seen him from the back, they would assume that a bow of surrender, of defeat. They had not seen the Panarch’s joy.
Anaris examined his own reaction to that, which had surprised him. Laughing at himself, he began considering ways to use his fellow Dol’jharians’ misperception.
EIGHT
GROZNIY
Margot Ng closed her eyes as the subtle pulse of the ruptors died away. On the viewscreen another Rifter ship dissipated in shreds and tatters of glowing debris.
“It’s your empathy that makes you such a good captain,” Metellus had said to her once. “You can put yourself in their minds, see as they see... ”
And feel as they feel, she thought. Maybe it was the core of her success, but she sometimes wished it didn’t hurt so much.
“That’s another empty,” grumbled Commander Krajno. “I wonder if KepSingh or Armenhaut is doing any better.”
“Evidently these FTL coms are less common than those Rifters thought,” said Rom-Sanchez.
“That’s good news, of a sort,” rejoined Krajno.
“Navigation,” said Ng, “take us to position three.”
As the stars slewed around on-screen, Ng wondered if their luck, or lack of it, would hold. As the battle progressed, if you could call such a spread-out, cold-blooded hunt by that name, their information on enemy positions became older and less accurate. They’d jumped right on top of their first victim; the second one had taken almost ten minutes to locate. They could expect an even longer search for the next one, and eventually their chances would be no better than a random search. And they hadn’t heard from Hainu squadron since the third attack commenced.
“Emergence pulse, courier,” said Siglnt.
“Navigation, hold position,” Ng snapped.
“Message incoming,” Ensign Ammant said. “Flammarion’s got one, a destroyer. Two frigates and a destroyer have already responded. Coordinates transferred.”
Ng checked the timing on the message, automatically noting the uncertainty—still not too bad—encoded by the tactical com protocols. The courier had taken less than ten minutes to find them. She dispatched one of her own to find KepSingh, just in case the one Armenhaut reported sending didn’t make it.
“Navigation, take us in, eight light-minutes out at forty-five degrees, your discretion.” She tapped her console plot-pane to clarify her request.
The fiveskip burred harshly. The viewscreen cleared, and a tactical plot windowed up. She studied the information as the Tenno shifted and stabilized, hearing without attention the twittering from the communications section as tacponder information flooded in: reports from Armenhaut and others in his squadron. Rom-Sanchez’s fingers flickered as he sorted the data, applying temporal filters.
She sighed. Armenhaut was fighting with his usual parade-ground style, a flourish of bravado as if he expected his enemy to quail before his righteousness. He’d not yet gotten his lances away. KepSingh’s squadron should be showing up soon.
“Let’s take this one,” she said finally, tapping at her plot-pane. A red circle ringed a Rifter frigate. She turned to Rom-Sanchez. “I want updates to and from the tacponders as often as you can handle it. Navigation, take us in to these coordinates, three light- minutes out for an update. Prepare for high tac-level attack. Weapons, charge skipmissile.”
She paused, feeling the lift in spirits on the bridge. Not for the first time, she wondered at the human preference for danger to boredom, a failing—if that’s what it was—that she fully shared. Perhaps it’s that the waiting for danger to strike is worse than actually dealing with it.
“Engage,” she said, and there was no more time for meditation.
o0o
SATANSCLAW
Anderic moved his hands over his console, trying to keep up with the actions of the logos as that cold intelligence fought the ship for him. It was using the hyperwave masterfully to coordinate Kali and Mojendaro. One of the Panarchist destroyers had taken damage, and they’d failed to keep him away from the third lance attack. On the viewscreen green fingers of light reached out and clawed at the last few lances, transforming them into bursts of plasma and debris that shredded away in the upper airs of Arthelion.
His hands ached, both with the tension of keeping up appearances and with the effort to keep them from trembling. His exultation had died away. Loathing filled him at his former captain’s stupidity, worse at his own cowardice. What credit is there in following the motions of a machine? I’m just a chatzing puppet.
He was beginning to think that nothing the Dol’jharians could do to him would be as bad as what he’d done to himself. He was damned, in inescapable slavery to the machine that haunted the Satansclaw.
“ALL ATTACKING VESSELS DESTROYED,” reported the logos in his inner ear. Anderic slumped back in the command pod, wringing his hands in his lap, trying to relax them. At least they were here pot-shotting lances, instead of dueling with Panarchist battlecruisers in the middle system, or sitting dead in space like the Deathstorm.
He was distracted by a long, considering gaze from Lennart that he found vaguely threatening. Something had changed. He snorted. No wonder. That image of her and Luri with the chocolate had become a favorite of every Rifter ship with a hyperwave. Anderic grinned. Some inspired tech had dubbed in a new sound track with outrageous noises; just thinking about it made his sides ache all over again.
Lennart turned away as her console beeped. She listened, her head cocked. “Signal from Fist of Dol’jhar. New attack, coordinates transferred.”
That’s on the Fist’s side. Why isn’t Juvaszt dealing with them? “Take us around,” said Anderic, his heartbeat accelerating again.
The fiveskip burred, ceased. The ship came about, then skipped again. As the screen cleared, targeting crosses sprinkled the limb of Arthelion below, while above, tiny with distance, the Fist of Dol’jhar hung, with vapor leaking from its radiants.
Because they don’t have a logos.
Wearily, Anderic began his deadly charade anew as the logos mercilessly slaughtered the lances diving toward the surface they would never reach. He wondered how long the Panarchists could keep this up.
“DEBRIS SIGNATURE INCONSISTENT WITH HUMAN OCCUPANCY,” said the logos. “INSUFFICIENT ORGANIC TRACES.”
Anderic frowned. That was strange. Were they throwing empties now?
“Sensors, scan the debris for organic residue again.”
After a moment the tech replied: “Different signature, Captain. Not enough organic molecules.” He looked up, brows raised. “I think they’re empty.”
“Communications, signal the Fist.”
The harsh features of Kyvernat Juvaszt windowed up. “Report.”
“Scans indicate the lances are now unmanned,” said Anderic, too weary even to attempt an ingratiating manner.
Juvaszt stared at him, then the image froze. A few seconds later it jumped to a new view of the Dol’jharian captain as transmission resumed. “Cease fire and skip to these coordinates,” said Juvaszt. “You will cooperate with the destroyers Hellmouth and Bloodknife and the frigate Golden Bones to destroy the Panarchist battlecruiser attacking the Deathstorm. Stand by for further orders after emergence. Juvaszt out.”
The screen blanked. Anderic stared at it for a moment, empty of emotions, and then began issuing the commands that would take them into battle again, conned not by flesh and blood, but by the crystalline incarnation of warriors long dead. Did they even care, he wondered, if they died again?
o0o
FIST OF DOL’JHAR
Anaris watched Juvaszt issue orders to the Rifter destroyer and frigates that had been defending Arthelion against the lance attacks. Despite the hammer-blows the man’s assurance had taken in the last few minutes, his actions were precise and accurate.
It helped that the reports from Engineering were fairly hopeful. One engine was down for at least forty-eight hours, but even so, the Fist of Dol’jhar was still a formidable engine of war with the Urian-enhanced skipmissiles. Now that they knew there was no threat to the Avatar, events would turn rapidly against the Panarchists in the middle system.
As for his own campaign, Anaris was fairly sure that he had the edge with Juvaszt. He hoped so. It would be a shame to have to purge him.
Well, that was still in the future. There was much to do in the meantime. He motioned to Morrighon, then held up his hand and stayed him as he heard the next orders.
“Navigation, as soon as Engineering reports ready, take us in to ten light-minutes out from Deathstorm’s position. Weapons, charge skipmissile.”
He means to deny the hyperwave to the Panarchists by destroying the ship.
Anaris stepped forward. Juvaszt turned to him, his air of deference deeply satisfying.
“Kyvernat,” said Anaris, pitching his voice for Juvaszt alone, “perhaps this delay is for the best.”
Juvaszt seemed puzzled “Well, the Panarchist forces will be concentrated around Deathstorm longer, so our auxiliaries will have more time to find and kill them.”
Anaris was chagrined at having revealed his tactical ignorance—in hindsight it seemed obvious that using the Rifter destroyer as bait would make the enemy easier to find. But he didn’t miss a beat. “I leave that to you. I was merely concerned that our Rifter allies not lose heart.” He smiled, inviting Juvaszt to share his joke. “They are not, after all, Dol’jharians.”
A short bark of laughter escaped Juvaszt. Anaris sensed his appreciation—never to be expressed in words—at the lack of gloating on his part. “No more than I am a Panarchist, it seems.”
Anaris felt a wave of triumph. That was the equivalent of surrender in a proud Dol’jharian noble like Juvaszt. He gestured dismissal. “I’d be a fool if I lived on Arthelion as long as I did and learned nothing of their ways.” He paused for effect. “And even more a fool if I learned too much.”
Juvaszt laughed again. “A fool, or dead,” he agreed. “Among the Children of Dol it’s usually the same thing, which is our strength.”
He turned back to his console. Anaris could see the real-time feed changing as he queried various Rifter ships fighting around the Deathstorm and called more to the engagement. After more reports from Engineering and Weapons, Juvaszt issued new orders and the Fist of Dol’jhar finally skipped out of Arthelion orbit to join the battle.
o0o
EISENKUSS
Dyarch Ehyana Bengiat watched as the Flammarion fell away behind her lance and then vanished in a pulse of reddish light. She switched the viewscreen to the forward view. Ahead a dim spark of light marked their target, the Rifter destroyer Deathstorm, dead in space.
There was no other sign of the struggle all around them. Space was too large, and human ships, even battlecruisers, far too small. She couldn’t even see the other lances. Had she known where to look, their stealthed hulls would have defeated her eyes, just as their other countermeasures defeated the far keener senses of enemy ships. In silence, against diamond-sprinkled velvet, the Eisenkuss lunged toward its prey.
It would be several minutes before they reached the sprint point, where the engines would trigger into overload to take them through the destroyer’s shields, past any weapons that might be brought to bear. And they must know we’re coming for them. As Meliarch Abrams had pointed out in the briefing, the fact that Captain Armenhaut hadn’t used the ruptors was a dead giveaway.
Well, there was no use worrying about that. She stretched against the dead weight of her battle armor, not yet energized, and then triggered the diagnostic sequence.
“Again?” came a dramatic groan over the general access channel.
“You’d look pretty funny wallowing around in half a ton of inert dyplast and battle alloy, Jheng-li,” she replied. “Yeah, again.”
She grinned privately. Solarch Jones Jheng-li affected an aversion to any effort that went beyond the usual Marine avoidance of scut work, but his squad was consistently near the top of the ratings in simulations and exercises. A few mocking comments followed, but quickly subsided. A Marine’s battle armor was serious business: the thirty men and women on board—five squads—busied themselves confirming the status of the servo-armor that made them the deadliest fighters in human history.
A web of colored lines swept across her faceplate, followed by a flux of alphanumerics as the eyes-on display cycled. All AyKay there.
The diagnostic sequence completed as the navcomp warned of the approaching sprint point, just as she’d intended. Now the Deathstorm had a shape, long and angular, slightly blurred by the gas and debris leaking from its wounds.
Bengiat tapped the big go-pad with one gauntleted hand, the only part of her yet powered up, and that at only five percent. Her faceplate sealed. She felt the clamps engage around her armor.
‘Time to shut your face or suck vacuum, Mary,” she said, observing the ancient tradition. “Prepare for gees.”
“Will you respect me in the morning?” yelled Jheng-li, his voice near manic in one of the many traditional responses, provoking a flurry of similar cracks as her five squads pumped themselves up for attack.
Then the heart-lifting cascades of the Phoenix Fanfare’s trumpet chords filled the com channel. The navcomp triggered the engines, and no one had any breath left for talking. Everything in a lance was aimed at one goal: taking it safely through the space-time distortion of a fully driven tesla field behind the fierce jet of a shaped nuclear charge. Only the bare minimum of energy was spared to cushion the Marines from gee-forces. It was a ten-gee ride all the way in.
