by Timothy Zahn
A cold chill ran through Barrington’s body. A hundred years ago, though no one had known it at the time, the war the Dominion had thought it was waging against the entire Troft Assemblage had actually only been against the handful of border demesnes who’d felt threatened by human encroachment. The Dome and Asgard had been hoping fervently that it was the same situation this time around.
Only now, here at the extreme far end of Troft space, at least one of the local demesnes possessed current data on Dominion weaponry. If that meant the entire Assemblage was united in this latest war against humanity—
He squared his shoulders. “Apparently not big enough for everyone,” he reminded Garrett firmly. “Whoever Sixteen represents, he clearly has issues.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the Trofts attacked.
The first assault, as expected, came as a coordinated burst of laser fire from all six of the closing ships. The blasts raked over the Dorian’s hull, bow to stern tracking from two of the enemy triads, stern to bow for the third. “Damage?” Barrington called.
“Minimal to portside sensor arrays,” the damage control officer called. “Main hull shielding is holding.”
“Looks like we’re right on the edge of their effective range,” Garrett said, his eyes narrowed as he studied the analysis section’s rolling data stream. “Probably hoping they can knock out some of our sensors and ECM before the serious combat begins.”
Barrington nodded. That was a standard Troft technique, though it worked better against Troft ship design than against human.
The lasers winked off, their capacitors probably needing to recharge. “Minimal additional damage,” Garrett continued. “Sensors down three percent; lasers and launchers undamaged. Do we reply, sir?”
Barrington looked at the tactical. The Dorian was within laser firing range now, but not close enough to do serious damage to hull metal. More importantly, they were also out of optimal missile range, particularly given that the enemy had up-to-date ECM to use against them.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Unless their ECM was too up-to-date. If the Trofts thought they were facing one class of missile, but would actually be on the receiving end of another, their ECM screens would be less effective than they expected.
He rechecked the range. If this was going to work, he needed to make sure the Trofts didn’t have enough time to recognize their mistake and correct it. That meant closing another few seconds’ worth of distance without the Trofts veering off their current vectors or deciding to start their own barrage.
Which meant giving them something to focus their attention and targeting systems on something besides throwing missiles…
“Launch Pluto cones at One, Four, and Eight,” he ordered. Pluto cones, dense clusters of shrapnel traveling at high speed, were technically an anti-missile weapon, but they were also useful for drawing out, distracting, and draining a target’s point-defense systems. “Stand by ECM,” he continued. “I want a sixty-percent drop in transmission levels on my mark.”
“A sixty-percent drop?” Garrett echoed, frowning.
“A sixty-percent drop,” Barrington confirmed. The displays lit up as the Trofts, their laser capacitors recharged, fired off a second volley. Once again the energy beams swept across the Dorian’s hull—
“Mark!” Barrington snapped.
The lines on the ECM status display dropped precipitously. “ECM sixty percent down,” Garrett confirmed, his professional tone colored with confusion. “Sir, if they launch their missiles now—”
“They won’t,” Barrington assured him. “Not yet.” He pointed at the display. “See where they’re concentrating their fire?”
Garrett’s forehead creased in puzzlement as he flicked back through the data stream. Then, suddenly, the frown smoothed out. “That’s the spot where their lasers were targeted when the ECM went down.”
“Exactly,” Barrington said.
Which the Trofts now clearly assumed was part of the ECM system. Only it wasn’t. What they were wasting energy on was in fact nothing more crucial than one of the docking system’s sensor clusters. Something the Dorian could easily do without for the foreseeable future.
And with the Trofts’ attention focused on opening the way for their own missiles, the Dorian had now slipped into range to use its own. “ECM to full power,” he ordered. “Fire lasers at locked targets.”
From the bow and stern of the ship came the dull rumble of sequentially cascading capacitors as the lasers were pulsed. “Laser damage to enemy ships appears minimal,” Garrett reported.
Barrington nodded acknowledgment. They were still well beyond laser kill range, as he and Garrett both knew.
But as the Trofts themselves obviously knew and were counting on, even undamaged sensors could sometimes be temporarily dazzled.
The attackers’ main error was that they hadn’t followed up their laser sweep with missiles. The Dorian wasn’t going to make that mistake. “Fire missile triads,” he ordered. “Follow up with a Pluto cone at all attacking ships.”
The Dorian shuddered with the multiple vibrations as the rail-launched missiles were thrown from their tubes. “Missiles away,” Garrett reported.
“Enemy ECM?” Barrington called.
“Marginal,” the tac officer called, his voice grimly satisfied. “Missiles targeting true. Enemy ECM retuning—point defense engaging—”
And then, the main display lit up in a stuttering flicker of light as the missiles began detonating.
“Damage?” Barrington asked, scanning across the displays and resisting the temptation to dip a quick look at the Dorian’s data stream. That was Garrett’s job; Barrington’s was to maintain a general overview of the entire battle sphere without getting bogged down in any particular set of details.
“Direct hits on Two and Five,” Garrett reported. “Looks like they took some major damage—we’ll know more when the debris clears. Near misses and probable minor damage to One, Two and Nine.”
“Missiles incoming,” the tac officer called. “Two each from One, Two, and Seven; four from Nine. Pluto cones on the intercept.”
“Second salvo,” Barrington ordered. “Triads on One, Two, and Nine.”
“Missiles away.”
“Incoming missiles engaged,” Garrett said. “ECM is slowing them…Pluto cones engaging…incoming missiles destroyed.”
“Salvos detonating,” the tac officer called. “All missiles wide. Enemy ECM appears to have retuned.”
So as often happened, this was going to end up as a laser duel. “Stand by lasers,” Barrington ordered. “Target damaged ships—”
“Enemy disengaging!” Garrett snapped.
Barrington blinked in surprise. Already?
Already. The Troft vectors were once again changing, shifting from intercept to a multiple-angled dispersal pattern. “Watch them,” Garrett warned. “They could be going for a encirclement spread.”
“I don’t think so,” Barrington said. “At this range dispersal won’t gain them much.”
“Picking up break-in sequence,” the sensor officer called. “All attackers…make that all unidentified ships, Captain. They’re running.”
“What do you know?” Garrett murmured. “Six to one odds, and they still run. No stomach for a fight, I guess.”
“Or no orders for one,” Barrington said. He watched the fleeing attackers another moment, then shifted his eyes to the long-range display.
He’d told Garrett earlier that Sixteen would probably hang around until after the battle. Still, it was nevertheless to his mild surprise that the Troft had actually done so.
It was, though, considerably farther ahead of its pursuers than it had been when Barrington last saw it. Apparently, its captain had decided the Dorian was handling things well enough that he didn’t have to serve as a lure anymore.
Especially now that its three pursuers were also breaking off and preparing for hyperspace. Even as Barrington watched, they flickered and were gone
.
“We could still take out a couple of them, sir,” Garrett said into his thoughts. “Three and Eight are moving a lost slower than the others.”
“So I see,” Barrington said. And yet, the other ships of the attack force hadn’t simply abandoned their damaged comrades. They were still nearby, ready to break in but still holding station. Presumably still prepared to fight if the Dorian insisted.
“Sir?” Garrett prompted.
“Let them go,” Barrington told him. “Stand ready, but if there are no additional attacks just let them go.”
A minute later, Three and Eight flickered into hyperspace. A couple of heartbeats later, the others were also gone.
“I hope that was the right move, sir,” Garrett said, a little doubtfully.
“We may need to deal with some of these demesnes someday, Commander,” Barrington reminded him. “Until we know which, we’d do well to limit the amount of blood on our hands.” He gestured. “Speaking of dealing, let’s give Deputy Kopdji another call. The Hoibe’ryi’sarai demesne-lord may be more willing to talk to us now.”
#
He wasn’t.
“What the hell?” Garrett demanded when Deputy Kopdji had once again curtly broken off communication right in their faces. “Sir, this is ridiculous.”
“Easy, Commander,” Barrington soothed, his eyes on the long-range display. Sixteen had sprouted another vector arrow, this one leading away from the planet and toward the Dorian. “I doubt we’re the kind of diplomatic entanglement the demesne-lord was expecting today. He’s probably busy weighing us against whoever it was we just chased away, and until he figures out the best course it makes sense for him not to talk to anyone.”
“Even someone carrying Governor-General Chintawa’s blessing?”
“Maybe especially someone with Chintawa’s blessing,” Barrington said dryly. He nodded toward the display. “Sixteen, on the other hand, looks like he might be interested in a conversation. Let’s find out, shall we?” He keyed his radio. “Unidentified Troft ship, this is Captain Barrington Moreau, commanding the Dominion of Man War Cruiser Dorian. I appreciate your assistance in drawing off some of our attackers.”
There was a short stream of cattertalk from the CoNCH speakers. “As I also appreciate your aid, Captain Moreau,” the translation came. “As you no doubt surmised, the Drim’hco’plai warships you bested had arrived here in hopes of removing me from my ship and taking me to their demesne-lord for interrogation.”
“Had we surmised that?” Garrett murmured.
“We knew they wanted him alive,” Barrington murmured back, tapping the mute key and double-twitching his left eyelid. If he was remembering correctly…
He was. The Drim’hco’plai demesne had been one of the coalition who had attacked and occupied the Cobra Worlds. “We just didn’t know why,” he added, unmuting the radio. “Was there anything in particular their demesne-lord wanted to know?” he asked the Troft.
“Several things,” the Troft said. “And given this fortunate meeting, I would very much like to discuss those same matters with you, Captain Moreau. Is there a way for us to meet in private?”
Barrington lifted an eyebrow at Garrett. “Is there something you feel a need to hide from my officers?” he asked.
“Not from your officers, but from the universe at large,” the Troft said. “There is little I can say on an open channel, but I can say this: it concerns your kinsman, Merrick Moreau Broom.”
Barrington felt his breath catch in his throat. Merrick Broom, son of Paul and Jasmine Moreau Broom, who’d mysteriously vanished in the last days of the Troft invasion on Qasama. “What about him?” he asked carefully.
“I know where he is,” the Troft said. “I also know that he’s in great danger. Is there a way for us to meet in private?”
Barrington chewed at his lip. Bringing a Troft aboard his ship could be dangerous. It was also expressly forbidden except in the most extraordinary of situations.
But there were ways to minimize the risk. “I can meet you in one of my hangar bays,” he said. “If you’re willing to come across, we can talk there.”
“Have I your word that you’ll allow me to go free and unharmed after our discussion?”
“Yes,” Barrington said without hesitation. The Dominion had no policy for the taking of hostages or non-combatant prisoners. “I have your word in turn that you’ll make no attempt at espionage or sabotage?”
“Yes,” the Troft said. “How close may I bring my ship before boarding a shuttle to complete my journey?”
“You can close to one tenth of our present separation,” Barrington told him. The Cobra Worlds had introduced the metric system to the Hoibe’ryi’sarai and their other trading partners, but he had no idea whether or not his new contact’s demesne was familiar with it. “I’d ask that you also leave your weapons uncharged.”
“Of course,” the Troft agreed. On the tactical his ship’s vector arrow shifted to an intercept course. “I shall be there within the hour.”
“I’ll look forward to our meeting,” Barrington said, suddenly realizing that he’d somehow forgotten to ask the two most obvious questions. “May I have your name?”
“I am Commander Ukuthi, fourth demesne heir to the Balin’ekha’spmi demesne,” the Troft said.
Beside him Garrett muttered something under his breath. Barrington nodded: the Balin’ekha’spmi demesne had also been part of that Troft invasion coalition. A recent enemy of the Cobra Worlds; and one of their demesne heirs wanted to come aboard his ship? “And how exactly do you know of Cobra Broom’s danger?” Barrington asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.
There was an almost-sigh from the speakers. “Because, Captain Moreau,” Ukuthi said,
“I’m the one who sent him. Please prepare your conference room; I am most anxious to speak with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Merrick’s nanocomputer clock circuit indicated he’d slept less than five hours by the time the sunlight and the activity around him dragged him awake.
Somehow, in all their talks together, Merrick and Anya had never covered her people’s morning rituals. Certainly he’d never noticed anything like that aboard ship, nor had Anya performed any such rituals during the time they’d spent together as Ukuthi’s prisoners.
But now, as he left the shelter, wincing with aching muscles, Anya took his arm and led him to where the others were gathered in a line facing the rising sun. They joined the end of the line; and as they did, the ritual began.
Leif started it off, speaking solemnly in a language Merrick didn’t recognize or understand. A few sentences later, his wife joined in, followed a few sentences after that by Gina. For a minute all three spoke in unison, and then both adults fell silent while the child intoned the final three sentences alone.
And with that, it was apparently over. “Let’s get moving,” Ville said briskly as he picked up his bag from beside a dead log. “Same marching order as yesterday.”
“That was our village’s sunrise greeting,” Anya explained to Merrick as the group set off down the road toward the red-tinged sky. “It’s performed whenever there are families present and the sun can be seen or its position inferred.” She gave him a sideways look. “I’m sure your morning ritual is much different.”
Merrick nodded, agreement and understanding both. So that was why she hadn’t mentioned it before. As someone who was supposed to be from elsewhere on Muninn, he wouldn’t be expected to know how Gangari’s customs worked.
He just hoped no one would be courteous enough to ask about his own town’s customs. Maybe he ought to work up a few, just in case.
The rest of the trip was mostly uneventful. Around noon they ran into another pack of fafirs, but Anya, Ville, and Dyre again easily drove them off. There were no spine mace trees in the area this time, so the defenders instead used whips made from tapering vines they tore off a cluster of nearby trees.
As with the last fafir attack, Merrick was ordered t
o stay with the Streamjumper family. This time, he obeyed.
It was late afternoon and Anya was estimating only a couple of kilometers left to go when Merrick began seeing razorarms again.
They were, for the most part, a mixture of aggression and caution. Six of the seven that Merrick spotted stayed behind the first line of trees, paralleling the humans for a few minutes before turning back into the forest. The seventh came all the way out onto the shoulder, its foreleg spines quivering as it scowled at the intruders. But even that one never set foot on the road itself. It was as if the predators had decided the road was the humans’ section of territory and were treating it just as they would that of another razorarm family.
Which might be exactly what they were doing. The mojos which had been the razorarms’ symbionts on Qasama had known how deadly humans were and had been careful to steer the predators away from potentially lethal confrontations. Somehow, the birds’ caution had been impressed on the razorarms’ more limited minds.
From Anya’s description of her hometown as a village, Merrick had pictured it being similar to the Qasaman version: small and rustic, with high walls surrounding it as protection against dangerous animals.
Gangari was certainly small enough. The whole thing looked to be no more than a kilometer across, with a good two-thirds of the cleared area taken up by cropland stretching between the forest and the village proper. The rest of the landscape was also more or less as he’d envisioned it: around the cleared area was more forest, while behind it the ground rose sharply into the line of rocky, tree-covered mountains he’d seen in the distance from the landing area. To the north, a narrow white-water stream rolled down from the mountains and disappeared among the trees.
But the rest was nothing like Merrick’s mental image. The homes and community buildings were made of smooth-planed wooden planks, laid out in an elaborate cross-hatch design. The roofs were peaked, with carvings at the upper and lower corners that reminded him of upside-down ocean waves. Unlike the buildings in Qasaman villages, the ones here were well-spaced, with small gardens filling many of the spaces between them. The people he saw were dressed in a variety of clothing styles, ranging from bright colors to quieter and more muted tones. Here and there, in the distance toward the center of the town, there were occasional glimpses of people wearing copper-trimmed black.
