He hadn't thought what would happen if he succeeded: the bursting reservoir meant a cloud of dispersing paint, still tacky enough to cloud several more faceplates. More screamed curses came over the radio; the other troops lost the last remnants of discipline, and rushed into the repair bay.
Esmay pulled herself into the ship. Both outer and inner hatches were open, which argued that anyone aboard would be in an EVA suit. She edged across to the inner hatch, noting the slightly greasy feel of a substandard artificial gravity generator, and peered around. She was looking into a large open compartment with rows of upright stanchions, each fitted with a top crossbar and several loops. It looked nothing like anything she'd seen in a Fleet vessel. Then she realized how handy that apparatus would be for someone getting into an EVA suit without help. This was where the Bloodhorde troops prepared for boarding.
Where was their bridge? Was anyone there? She waved two of her people forward, and two aft. She herself went forward, behind the other two. She saw the leader's arm lift, and held her breath . . . they and Bowry's team had the only five needlers available, weapons that were safe to use in the confines of a warship's bridge.
His hand jerked twice, and then he moved forward. Esmay followed, alert for movement from any direction. There was none. On the bridge, the Bloodhorde had left two—she had no idea what their duties had been—and both were dead.
"Let's get this ship going," she said. Someone dragged the bodies back to the big compartment near the locks; the specialists moved to their areas.
The controls looked familiar enough, despite the odd lettering on the labels.
"This'll do, Captain," said Petty-Major Simkins. Esmay started to say she wasn't the captain, when she remembered that she was . . . at least for the moment. A captain, if not the captain. Simkins was her engineering section, ordinarily in Drives and Maneuver. "It's just a basic small freighter perked up with some weaponry . . . shields aren't more than civ level. If the others' shields are no better, it'll only take a few hits." That it would take only a few enemy hits to destroy them was understood.
"Weapons?" she asked. That was Chief Arramanche, who held up a finger for a moment's more grace.
"We've got . . . almost a full arsenal of missiles, Captain" she said then. "Ample for the mission. But this thing has no beam weapons." Which meant they'd have to come close to be sure of a kill.
"Scan?" Esmay asked.
"Power . . . on . . . Captain, we're operational." Lucien Patel had a light, almost breathy voice, but it sounded confident enough. "And we have . . . there's Kos's signal . . . the three other Bloodhorde ships. One's probably a pirated superfreighter, and the other's about this size."
Vokrais eyed the empty curved passage uneasily. Something was different, and he couldn't be sure what.
"Which deck is this?" he asked.
"Four."
"I'm going to check the air," he said. He pulled down the mask, and lifted the helmet. The lights . . . had they or hadn't they told that bitch to cut the lights below Deck 8? He couldn't remember. The smell . . . it seemed fresher than he remembered, but that might be breathing through that mask for hours. He couldn't see or hear or smell anything definite, but he could not relax. Every since he'd found that Bjerling was commanding, he'd had the feeling that things were going wrong.
"Trouble, packleader?"
"Nothing I can taste," he said. "But—" His team was shorthanded now—they were so few, and Bjerling hated him, he was sure. If Bjerling's people killed them all, it could be blamed on the Familias troops. Who would ever know?
"We need a hostage," he said finally. "Someone Bjerling would want . . . maybe those admirals if any of them are still alive."
"The Serrano cub?" Hoch asked.
"No—if he's still alive, he's still just a cub. Bjerling will have to talk to us if we have important prisoners, and enough of his people will hear to bear witness. Otherwise . . ."
"The bridge?" Hoch asked.
"I suppose." He was in the trough of the waves now, the sky far away and the sea cold and near . . . the space between waves of battle joy, where he could feel exhaustion and hunger and realize that it wasn't over yet. "Yes. The bridge."
Running up the stairs ahead of the rest, his rage came back and the energy with it. Bjerling's sons should all have shriveled balls; his daughters should all whore for prisoners in the arena. The Antberd Comity should fall to quarrels and jealousy, its last survivor dying poor and crippled—
He saw the little pile of trash an instant too late to stop and had just long enough to recognize what it might be instead, and extend his curses to the entire Familias Regnant when the stairwell erupted in flame and smoke and he died, unrepentant.
The question they couldn't answer ahead of time was what the other Bloodhorde ships would do. Now, as they powered up Antberd's Axe, Esmay kept mental fingers crossed.
"Think we ought to trust their life support?" asked one of her techs.
"No," Esmay said. "Lift off when ready, maximum acceleration—ours, not theirs."
Antberd's Axe bounded off the drive test cradle like a bucking horse; its gravity generator compensated only a little, and Esmay's knees buckled.
"Wow!" said Simkins, sitting helm. "I guess they moved the red line over . . ."
Eighteen decks of T-3 flashed past, and a howl of Bloodhorde that Esmay assumed was invective crackled from the speakers around the bridge.
"They're annoyed," said the pivot-major sitting the communications board. She was supposed to know some Bloodhorde. "They think their captain got bored and went off to play. But I now know our name: Antberd's Axe."
"Where's the other one?" Esmay asked. She couldn't interpret the blurry scan she saw. "Scan—?"
Bowry's voice came over her headset, scratchy but recognizable. "We're off. I'm taking the big one," he said.
"Scan—"
"There!" The scan image steadied, still grainy but now she could interpret what she saw. Bowry's Bloodhorde ship, that must be, veering from hers toward the biggest blip on the screen. The Bloodhorde flagship, if they had flagships. Esmay looked for her own target, which had been parked, as it were, some thousand kilometers on the far side of Koskiusko, where it had a clear shot down the throat of anyone coming through the jump point.
Had it mined the jump point? She suspected not. Setting minefields wasn't a Bloodhorde sort of thing to do, even if they had put that mine on Wraith. It didn't matter . . . she was going there anyway. The third Bloodhorde ship, positioned insystem of the DSR from the jump point, would require a separate attack run. From where it was, missile attack would risk blowing Koskiusko; she hoped it was like this one in having no beam weapons.
Arramanche said, "Got it. Ready on your order, Captain."
"That ship wants to know what you think you're doing," communications said. "They're saying this is no time for dancing with the bear, whatever that means."
Wait, or shoot now? Her mind grappled with the geometry of it, their motion relative to Koskiusko, to the Bloodhorde ship, to the other Bloodhorde ship, the distance, the velocity of the weapons, the probable quality of the other ship's shields, its maneuvering ability. "Hold it," she said. "We're going closer."
Going closer was like riding a polo pony; Antberd's Axe, whatever its shortcomings by Fleet standards, bounced happily from heading to heading with no resistance. She had been right to close; the other ship could dodge as well . . . instead, it held its position, as if certain she was no threat.
"The big one's moving," Lucien said. "Putting out quite a plume, but Bowry should have it . . ."
"Range in, Captain," Arramanche said.
"Go ahead," she said. Arramanche hit the controls; the whole ship shuddered, with every departing missile.
"It's no wonder they don't mount beams on this thing—it'd fall apart," said Simkins.
"On track!" yelled the scan tech on Kos. "You've got—"
The screen flared, and their target disappeared.
"Good sho
t," Esmay said. "Now—let's go after that third one."
"Two down," said the Koskiusko contact. That must have been Bowry, in the other Bloodhorde ship. Surely they hadn't gotten Wraith out that fast.
"Lovely shot," Lucien said. Esmay glanced at his screen, and saw that it was now much crisper than before. Maybe he was a genius.
Their ship's artificial gravity wobbled as Simkins tried to maneuver sharply enough to get a good angle on the third Bloodhorde ship. It had boosted toward Koskiusko, then veered as both Esmay and Bowry went after it.
"It's launched missiles," Lucien said, just as Koskiusko's scan tech told them the same thing. "Tracking . . . one flight at Kos and one each at us and Bowry. Lousy aim . . . you'd think with a target the size of Kos—"
Esmay ignored that, and told Simkins to get the last bit of acceleration out of the ship.
"We're not going to make it," Arramanche said. "It—"
Wraith's position lighted up on Lucien's scan.
"All hot," Lucien said. "I didn't know they had that much left—"
"Got him," said Seska calmly in Esmay's headset. And the entire portside array of beam weapons focussed on the fleeing Bloodhorde ship, overwhelming its shields . . . the screen flared again, a final time.
"Captain to Captain," Bowry said. "I'd say there'll be no rank-pulling on this raid, eh? One each, that's pretty fair shooting. Even if two of them were sitting ducks."
"Not our fault," Seska said. "Besides, you two had to get 'em with their own guns—that brings the challenge up to an acceptable level."
"Thank you," Bowry said.
Esmay grinned at her crew. "All right, let's get this thing back to Kos before someone else takes a potshot at us."
"There's nobody in this system who'd dare," Arramanche said.
* * *
Esmay brought Antberd's Axe back to the test cradle with no flourishes; a Koskiusko crew waited to talk them into the docking pad and tie the little ship down with "appropriate care." She supervised the powerdown, the locking of weapons; she made sure the two Bloodhorde corpses were bagged and turned over to the deck crew. Simkins handed her the little red key—an actual key, she was startled to note, completely unlike the command wands that Fleet used to unlock controls—and she tucked it into the holdall of her suit. Then she followed the others out of the ship, and closed the hatches herself.
When they got back to Koskiusko, back into aired space and out of suits that had acquired a stench all their own, Esmay thought she wanted only three things: a shower, a bunk, and word about Barin Serrano. Instead, she found herself the center of a shouting, laughing, crying, dancing mass of people. Her crew, Wraith's crew, Bowry's crew, coming at a dead run through the tunnel, and at least half the people who'd been left in T-3. She was hugged, pummeled, cheered. She and the other two captains were lifted shoulder high, carried through the passages toward the core . . .
Where she saw Admiral Dossignal, standing a little lopsided, near the lift tube cluster. Seveche and Major Pitak were beside him, watching her.
The crowd slowed, still exuberant but aware of stars and their implication. Esmay managed to wriggle down, and then make her way out of the crush.
"Sir—"
"Good work, Lieutenant! Congratulations to all of you."
"Is there any word . . . ?"
"Of Ensign Serrano?" That was Major Pitak, sober-faced; Esmay braced herself for the worst. "Yes . . . he was found; he's alive, but badly hurt."
But alive. He had not died because she'd done nothing. With the knowledge that he was still alive—and surely if he was alive, he would be fine when he got out of the regen tanks—her heart lifted to impossible heights. She turned back to the crowd, hunting for those she knew.
"You did it!" she yelled at Arramanche. "You did it!" to Lucien. "We DID it!" with all the others, to all the others.
Admiral Dossignal leaned over to speak to Pitak through the din. "I think we can quit worrying, Major. I do believe life has given her that kick in the pants."
Chapter Twenty
By the time Esmay finally got some sleep, while others headed Koskiusko back toward Familias space, her initial euphoria had worn away. She woke several times, her heart pounding from dreams she couldn't quite recall. She felt angry, but couldn't find a target for her anger. The Bloodhorde intruders were dead; no use to be angry with them. Nothing seemed right . . . but of course schedules and ship's services were still upset. Those who had been aboard Antberd's Axe with her came around for more congratulations; it was hard to give them the responses they deserved. She wanted to, but she felt empty of anything but unfocused irritation. When Lieutenant Bowry sought her out and told her he'd be glad to give her a strong recommendation for a switch to command track, she felt a prickle of fear.
Another sleep cycle helped, but in the next, one of the nightmares caught her again, this time vivid enough that she woke hearing herself cry out. She turned on the light, and lay staring at the overhead, trying to slow her breathing. Why couldn't she get over this? She was not that child any more; she had proven it. She had commanded a ship—Despite didn't count, but she allowed herself credit for Antberd's Axe—and destroyed an enemy vessel.
Only because it had suspected nothing; only because its captain had been stupid. Her mind led her through the many ways every decision she'd made could have gone wrong. She had been hasty, impulsive, just like that child who had run away. She could have gotten everyone killed.
Others thought she had done well . . . but she knew things about herself they didn't. If they knew everything, they'd understand that she could not really be qualified. Like a novice rider who might stay on over a few fences, she had been lucky. And she'd been supported by skilled crew.
It would be safer for everyone if she went back into obscurity, where she belonged. She could have a decent life if she just kept out of trouble.
Admiral Serrano's face seemed to form before her. You cannot go back to what you were. Esmay's throat tightened. She saw the faces of her crew; for a moment she could feel the surge of confidence that had freed her to make those critical decisions. That was the person she wanted to be, the person who felt at home, undivided, the person who had earned the respect the others gave her.
They would not respect her if they knew about the nightmares. She grimaced, picturing herself as a cruiser captain who followed each battle with a round of nightmares . . . she could see the crew tiptoeing around listening to the thrashing and moaning. For a moment it seemed almost funny, then her eyes filled. No. She had to find a way to change this. She pushed herself up, and headed for the showers.
The next shift, word came down that Barin was out of regen and could have visitors. Esmay didn't really want to know what horrors he'd endured, but she had to visit him.
Barin's eyes had no light in them; he looked less like a Serrano than Esmay had ever seen him. She told herself he was probably sedated.
"Want some company?"
He flinched, then stiffened, looking past her ear. "Lieutenant Suiza . . . I hear you did good things."
Esmay shrugged, embarrassed again. "I did what I could."
"More than I did." That with neither humor nor bitterness, in a flat tone that sent prickles down her spine. She could just remember that flatness in her own voice, in that time she didn't want to think about.
She opened her mouth to say what he had, no doubt, already been told, and shut it again. She knew what others would have said—it had been said to her—and it didn't help. What would help? She had no idea.
"I don't belong," Barin said, in that same flat voice. "A Serrano . . . a real Serrano, like my grandmother or Heris . . . they'd have done something."
In the split second before she spoke, awareness of what she was going to say almost clamped her jaw shut. Against the ache of that, Esmay got out the first phrase. "When I was caught . . ."
"You were captured? They didn't tell me that. I'll bet you gave 'em a rough time."
Anger and fear together
roughened her own voice until she hardly recognized it. "I was a child. I didn't give anyone a hard time . . ." She could not look at him; she could not look at anything but the moving shadows in her mind as they came clear out of the fog. "I was . . . looking for my father. My mother had died—a fever we have on Altiplano—and my father was off with his army, fighting a civil war." A quick glance at his face; now his eyes had life in them again. She had accomplished that much. She told the story as quickly, as baldly, as she could, trying not to think as she told it. The runaway . . . the fat woman on the train . . . the explosions . . . the village with dead bodies she had first thought were sleeping. Then the uniformed men, the hard hands, the pain, the helplessness that was worse than pain.
Another quick glance. Barin's face had paled almost to the color of her own. "Esmay . . . Lieutenant . . . I didn't know . . ."
"No. It's not something I talk about. My family . . . had insisted it was a dream, a fever dream. I was sick a long time, the same fever my mother had had. They said I'd run away, gotten near the front, been hurt . . . but the rest of it was just a dream, they said."
"The rest of it?"
It felt like knives in her throat; it felt worse. "The man . . . he was . . . someone I knew. Had known. In my father's command. That uniform . . ."
"And they lied to you?" Now Serrano anger flashed in his eyes. "They lied to you about that?"
Esmay waved her hand, a gesture her family would have understood. "They thought it was best—they thought they were protecting me."
"It wasn't . . . it wasn't someone in your own family—?"
"No." She said it firmly, though she still wasn't sure. Had there been only that one assailant? She had been so young—she had had uncles and older cousins in that army, and some of them had died. In the family book of remembrance, the notations said "died in combat" but she was well aware now that notations and reality were not the same thing.
The Serrano Connection Page 38
