The doors to Channa’s room slapped open. Channa stepped through, needler at the ready. Belazir could feel the aimpoint on his forehead.
“You wanted me again, Belazir?” she said. “Better late than never. Here I am.” A slight movement waggled the muzzle. “This is set on spray. It’s quite fatal. Now, away from the shell, please.”
Belazir smiled at her. What a woman! he thought. I will beat her, but not too badly. “There are three of us,” he said, shifting slightly. Although unfortunately I have my helmet off and these two are immobilized by the load they carry, he added to himself. “We are in armor. You can scarcely expect to frighten us with that toy alone.”
Patsy Sue Coburn followed her friend out of the quarters, leveling her arc pistol. A red burn-mark welted one cheek, bleeding knees and elbows showed through the holes worn in her coverall, but there was real pleasure in her smile.
“Life’s full a‘ surprises, ain’t it?” she said as Belazir snarled silently. “Real bitch sometimes, too.”
Channa tossed her head in a vain attempt to get the sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes.
“Yes,” she said evenly, “I do expect to frighten you. Now, replace the shell in the main column cradle and reconnect it. Then, all of you, throw your helmets aside and move over there.” She gestured towards the door to Amos’ quarters. “I expect your pirates will trade a good deal for you.”
“And keep your hands up,” snapped a voice from above.
Kolnari heads turned to the opening in the ceiling. A head and arms protruded, far too small for an adult of their bigboned race, but the muzzle of the plasma rifle was held steadily in those slight arms. The weapon looked absurdly large for the person who controlled it, but it was braced against the interior wall and the lip of the hole, and he could see the aimpoint, a red dot that wavered over the three pirates.
“Up,” the child repeated, lifting the muzzle of the weapon for emphasis.
Belazir’s mind computed the angles. Good. My left hand is not visible, he thought.
“You leave us little choice,” he said aloud. Which was true; honor aside, he had no choice at all. Pol’t‘Veng or any other Kolnari noble would cheerfully let Father Chalku or their own sires be flayed alive rather than disgrace them by paying ransom, much less do so for him. He would rather be flayed than live on those terms himself.
“Move the shell,” he said to the two troopers. “It’s only three paces.”
He raised his gauntleted hands, closing his eyes and flagging positions. The deck boomed like a drum as the pirate groundfighters moved a pace in lockstep unison, the ton weights of their suits added to triple that of titanium and machinery . . . and the few kilos of a body that had never seen the light of day.
Three, he counted and dropped the flash grenade. Before it hit the shell, he was leaping backwards, and so were the two other Clan warriors. He squeezed his eyes tight and willed his pupils shut, but even so the flash was dazzling. He hit the doorframe going out, went flat, scrabbled the helmet he had snatched onto his head. The plasma rifle had crashed simultaneous with the grenade. A brief scream and the smell from inside told him it had still been on target.
He blinked open his eyes as the locking ring of the helmet clicked. The combat medsystem sprayed a mist into his eyes, but his vision was severely degraded in any case. He activated the sonic sensor, to cheep the location of things at him.
“Takiz!” he called.
“Fully functional, lord,” the warrior answered. “Kintir is dead.”
I will beat her very severely, Belazir amended. Even with the dazzles before his eyes, he could see several arc-pistol shots snap out through the doorway, and his machine-augmented hearing picked up the telltale click of an arming plasma rifle. The walls were reinforced here, as well. It would be tricky, and he had not much time. Now he did not put it past these extraordinary scumvermin to blow the station themselves.
The comm chimed and Baila’s face filled one of the chinscreens, a vague dark blur. Her voice was scratchy with interference but audible. “Great Lord,” she said calmly. “Ships detected, incoming.”
No! he shouted inwardly. No!
“Lord,” another voice spoke. The senior ground-fighter officer. “We’re holding a counterattack on the main axial, but I cannot guarantee your withdrawal. Not for any period beyond now.”
For perhaps ten seconds Belazir panted sharply.
“I will be there in five minutes, or not at all,” he said. “Out. Takiz, follow me. We head for the docks.” Thank the joss, he thought with savage irony, the north polar docking tube is so close to here.
I’m blind, Channa thought. Her skin crinkled, waiting for the clamp of powered gauntlets. Beside her Patsy was shooting.
“Careful, Pats,” Channa gasped. The blackness was starred with red, now, and she felt needles of pain in her forehead. Her free hand felt upward, touched her eyes. Wetness . . . tears, only tears. The eyes felt normal to her fingertips. For a long moment, she had feared it was something like that horrible popper Joat had made.
“I’m careful, all raht,” Patsy said. “Got my shootin‘ iron right on the doorway. They cain’t move quiet in those tin suits.”
“Joat?”
“I’m all right,” the girl’s voice said. Her voice had a saw-edged note that denied the words. “Hurts and I can’t see, though. I’m coming down.”
“Don’t get between me an‘ the door!” Patsy said sharply.
Channa dropped to her knees and shuffled forward, hand outstretched. That touched something hot, which brought a sharp gasp of pain; next a warm wetness. She wiped her hand on the carpet and tried again. The smooth titanium-matrix surface of the shell was like a benediction. When she moved to the keypad, a smaller hand touched hers. They gripped for a moment, then pressed the key.
“Nnooooooooooooo—” The scream was piercing, but Simeon’s backup speakers on his inner shell had limited volume. He stuttered, babbled, then organized his voice.
“Thhh . . . ank you,” he said. “Channa? Joat?” Patsy came into the field of his vision. “What’s happened?”
“He dropped something,” Channa said. “There was a white light and we can’t see.”
“Flash grenade,” Simeon answered. “Don’t worry! It isn’t permanent!”
Channa gave a sobbing sigh of relief and heard it echoed. “How long?”
“Well . . . how close were you?”
“Two meters to six, and looking right at it.”
“Oh.” A pause. “About a day, with medication, I’m afraid,” he said. At least for the person who was six meters away. About the others I’m worried. Long-term reaction was variable.
“Oh, great. They may come back in the door—”
“No, they won’t. I can hear their armor moving away toward the docking tube. Lots of fighting. Look, it’s the answer to my prayers to have three beautiful women hugging my shell, but could you get me reconnected? Please? It’s important.”
“We can’t lift you back, that’s for sure,” Joat said.
He frowned inwardly at the shakiness in her tone, but he had no instant remedy for her.
“There’s plenty of spare play in the cables,” Channa said. “How did they?” Her voice trailed off tactfully.
Simeon felt himself cringing again.
“No, it’s all right.” Sure it is. “They cut the cable guards and then just pulled the jacks,” he said. Cutting away my strength, my sight, my feeling, cutting away me. “Problem is . . . they’re color-coded. And the receptors may be damaged.”
“I’ll get them sorted out,” she said as she moved out of his severely limited range of vision.
How do softshells stand only one pair of vision sensors? he wondered. Even for a few minutes, his control had been strained to the breaking point.
She returned with the cables, a double armful even with ultra-high-data-density opticals. The jacks for the leads were like a spray of fine hairs.
“Oh, oh,” Simeon said.
/> “What do you mean, ‘oh-oh,’ ” Channa replied.
“Everyone knows what ‘oh-oh’ means,” Simeon said. “It means, ‘I screwed the pooch.’ Your hands . . .”
“ . . . are too big,” she answered. “Damn.”
“I can do it,” Joat said.
“You can’t see, Joat.”
“Neither can Channa. I’ve worked in the dark lots of times. Had to. Got that toolbelt with the micros from Engineering, too.”
“They gave you one?” Simeon said, momentarily startled.
“No.”
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “All right. Someone should stand guard. I can hear if anyone’s coming and give you a bearing. Patsy?”
“Surely will,” Patsy said. She felt her way to the doorframe.
“You keep the slack on the cables, Channa.”
“I’ve wanted to yank your cord for a long time anyway, Simeon,” she said with an attempt at a gallows humor. Simeon felt his heart turn over as she smiled down at him.
“Okay, feel your way up the face of the shell, Jack-of-All-Trades and master of some.” Her small hands slid upward over the smooth surface to the rounded top. “Stop,” he said to prevent her fingers from tangling the hair fine wires protruding from the receptor couplings.
“You be my hands, kid, I’ll be your eyes, ‘kay?”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, what do I do?”
“Walk the fingers of your right hand two paces forward, one pace to the left. Feel that wire?”
“Yeah.”
“Follow it to the lead. Now, with your left hand . . .”
A minute later Simeon yelled again, this time a long high screech that sounded something like Patsy as she had at game-time rooting for the home team.
“Sorry, I’m sorry Simeon, I didn’t mean to hurtcha, honest!”
“You didn’t.” A bugle fanfare blew through the lounge, and segued into a Souza march, then the Ganymede Harp Variations.
“You’ve bollixed his oxygen feeds,” Channa said frantically, groping forwards.
“It’s the cavalry! Ta-ta-tata-tara tat-teraaaa!”
“Simeon!”
“Has he gon‘ an’ lost it?”
Aragiz’t‘Varak lolled, half-dreaming. A very pleasant daydream. He was back on homeworld, a territorial lord like the old recordings, and somehow Belazir’t’Marid was there. Aragiz had just defeated him the old way, spectacular battles amid spouting radioactive geysers. Blasting into the stronghold with primitive fission weapons, hand-shaped plutonium triggered by black powder. Belazir groveled, begging mercy for his line, but they were led out and slaughtered before his eyes. Aragiz was just getting into the interesting post-victory part when the communications officer interrupted him.
“Detection . . . Outer ring satellites. Ship signatures, inbound.”
The bridge of the Age of Darkness came alert. Everyone had been waiting, nothing more to do until they undocked next cycle and escorted the transports back to rendezvous. He had brought everyone in, ready for departure. Now—
“Another pullet for the plucking,” Aragiz said lazily. He felt tired. Perhaps from that scumvermin boy, what was his name, Juke. A nice active squealer, not like that unpleasant one who’d gone into fits after a single kiss, back in the corridors. He’d kicked that one aside with a shudder. Not for a moment did he think that he would catch any disease, but it had been an unpleasant sight.
“Action stations.” The soft chimes rang, eerie and ironic in their gentle harmony. “Give me a reading, and relay to flotilla command and station-side.”
The sensor officer consulted the machine. “Very large mass, Great Lord. Seventy to eighty kilotons.”
“Probably an ore carrier,” the captain said. “Useful, if not dramatic.” The Clan could always use—
“Link is down,” Communications said.
“Again?” Aragiz barked. He couldn’t decouple from the station without clearance. That Bad Seed chugrut Belazir had been fairly dear about that. Also, running an intercept on an incoming freighter could be tricky. And his head hurt, as if he’d been knocked unconscious and recovered . . .
“Check climate control,” he said. It was hot. He was sweating, and he rarely did, even in combat practice at Kolnar-noon temperature.
“Yes, Great—we have lost comm with the station-side watch.”
“What?” Aragiz sat bolt upright. “When?”
“Some time ago. We have been getting repeats of the last routine hailings.”
That made his stomach lurch, and suddenly he bent over the arm and spewed.
“Fool!” he screamed. “Alarm—” He choked on bile. What is happening to me? He tried to rise, fell back, thrashed, and slipped over the arm of the commander’s couch into the spilled vomit.
Shouts of alarm rose from the crew. The groundlink screens flickered. One cleared to show a Kolnari face being pounded against the pickup.
The executive officer looked down at the jerking form of the captain, and took command.
“Remaining crew, prepare for boarding action. Suit up and—”
“Cancel that,” a gravelly voice said.
The officer blinked, and almost shouted in gratitude. Pol’t‘Veng trotted in, her combat armor scored and still smoking in places, like that of the others behind her. Still, she was’t’Veng—
“Lord Captain,” he began. There was a careful protocol about subclan ship territories.
She cut him off. “Uprising. Couldn’t make the Shark. Stationer electronics scrambled, hostile-controlled. Emergency. Dump your system and call up the backup.”
Pol glared at him, sparing the time until he submitted and saluted. Then she sank into the command couch. Inwardly, she sighed. Every time the joss seemed to throw the Clan a little luck, they were knocked back to a handful of homeless fugitives again. Every system on the ship dipped, then firmed, as the duplicate backup computers came on-line. A glance at the captain’s readouts gave her the situation.
“Monitor the incoming,” she said.
“Lord captain, it is a freighter. Should we not be assisting in getting the station back in the fist?”
“Shut up. You assumed it was a freighter. Check that reading again. Now!” Her voice was a bellow, its natural volume increased by the suit’s system to an ear shattering volume.
“Reading . . . Anomalous readings, lord.”
“Let me see.” He keyed over to her the feeds, unfiltered data. “Young fool, that’s not anomalous—that’s Fleet!”
She paused a second to free a sidearm and pump a pulse of energy into Aragiz’s thrashing body. His squealing was distracting.
“Emergency decouple,” she said. Besides, she had wanted to kill him for years. This one should have been culled before he walked.
“We are loading fuel!”
“Move.”
He did. His hand swept the controls, and the Age of Darkness shuddered as explosive charges blasted it loose from the SSS-900-C’s north docking tube. Fire blossomed out of the dockway after them, along with steam and pieces of cargo and humans. Kolnari as well as scumvermin, she supposed.
“Broadcast, override, High Clan seek Refuge, High Clan seek Refuge,” she snapped. “Put it on loop, open Clan frequency.”
The officer’s eyes flared wide. That was the command to break, run and scatter, to approach the preset rendezvous points only years later and with maximum caution. Those points were in no file, no hedron, only in living brains and only a few of those. The final desperation measure to protect the Divine Seed, that it might grow again.
“Heart Crusher. Chindik’t‘Marid.”
“Put it through.”
“Lord Pol, you are receiving what I do?”
“Yes.”
“Data coming in,” the sensor chief said.
Pol’t‘Veng looked down again. The Fleet warships were coming up out of subspace like tunglor broaching in the seas of Kolnar; huge masses, neutrino signatures of enormous powerplants, ripping through into t
he fabric of reality.
“Command frequency broadcast! Identifying following,” she said. “Fleet units emerging coordinates follow, probables: destroyers, six—correction, six destroyers plus three light, one heavy cruiser and possible . . . Confirmed, three assault carriers. All Clan ships, report status. Lord’t‘Marid, report status.”
“We coordinate?” Chindick asked.
“No. You have not the insystem boost. Use the station for cover as long as you can. They will not endanger it.”
“Repeat?”
“Scumvermin psychology. Go. Lord’t‘Marid, status.”
“T’Marid here,” the familiar voice said, harsher than she could remember. “Bride decoupling. We can cover.”
“No, with respect. Yours is the more valuable Seed.” Especially since this ship has’t‘Varak’s sweepings as crew. “Bride, Shark and Strangler should cover the transports.”
A pause. “Agreed. Wait for us with the Ancestors, Pol’t‘Veng.”
“Guard our Seed and Clan, Belazir’t‘Marid,” she replied.
Then her attention went back to the work at hand. A Central Worlds Space Navy medium attack group bore down on them, with a dozen times the firepower the High Clan had available here and now, given the general pathetic botchup. About equal to the whole current Clan armada, give or take a dozen factors. Pol had fought the Fleet before and had a healthy respect for their capabilities. They were dangerous scumvermin.
“Helm,” she went on. “Set course. Coordinates follow.” She had plugged the suit’s leads into the couch. “Maximum boost.”
“Lord Captain,” the executive officer said. “That is a course for the enemy fleet. What are we to do there?” With one undercrewed frigate, went without saying.
“Do?” Pol’t‘Veng roared out a single bark of laughter. “We die, fool!”
The commander’s couch reclined, locking into combat position. “We will attempt to break through to the transports,” she said. “The warships will maneuver to protect them. We fight for maximum delay. Any questions?”
“Command us, lord!”
“Prepare to engage.”
“They are smashing us like eggs,” Joseph said.
The City Who Fought Page 39
