by Steve White
She was staring at the holoplot. “They have shifted lock, sir.” The four missiles that had been following the first wave had not hit the well-shielded Woolly Impostor, but had bypassed it. They were now heading for the smaller green blip further along the vector: the prospector hull.
Damn it, they suckered me. “Ross, shift our lasers back to PDF mode. Acquire—”
“Sir, we’ve already lost fifty percent capacitors—”
“Then burn the other fifty percent. Shoot what you have, damnit.”
Ross did. And vaporized two missiles.
But the last two struck the abandoned prospector in her engine decks. What began as a modest responding flare of flame burgeoned outwards into a blue-white sphere of annihilation.
“Bogey correcting her course, coming about,” reported Engan.
“Our shields?” asked Wethermere.
“Solid,” replied Zhou.
“Lasers?” he asked Ross.
She shook her head. “Burned out, sir.”
“Then Lubell, back us away: open the range and cover our tail. And Schendler, send this encrypted but in the clear: ‘the enemy ship is not to be—’”
At that moment, four green blips raced into the holoplot from where the intruder had originally emerged. And as they did, they were firing weapons.
“It’s the cavalry from our carrier, sir. Delta flight—with plasma torpedos inbound.”
“No damn it, no!” Wethermere snapped, standing up from the con. “Don’t destroy—!”
The enemy ship was struck along the length of its already savaged portside hull by four of the torpedos. The viewscreens suddenly whitened and then shut off.
Staring at the monitors, then the readouts on the sensor board, Wethermere resisted the urge to rub his brow in exasperation. Well, there go both of the only clues we have—
Schendler looked up. “Sir, message from the Celmithyr’theaanouw.”
Wethermere sighed. “Is it Least Fang Kiiraathra’stakjo, himself?” No doubt his friend, the Orion commander, was calling to find out if his fighters had rescued Woolly Impostor before any serious damage had been done to her, and to also do some oblique bragging on behalf of his fighter jocks.
Schendler shook his head. “No, sir. It is Counselor Ankaht on secure one.”
Ankaht? Well, I might as well tell her the bad news: that we just destroyed every useful lead we had in this investigation. “Pipe her through, Mr. Schendler.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ankaht’s soothing alto vocoder-voice seemed to swim up from a dark, still pool into his ears. “We are glad you are safe, Ossian. This was most unexpected.”
“Yes. So unexpected that it caught us by complete surprise—and so we lost both ships. Almost lost our boarding team, too. Tell Jennifer that Tank is all right. But damn it, I think I just ruined our entire investigation beyond any hope of—”
“Ossian,” Ankaht interrupted. Her voice was tense, as if she was constraining some news that both excited and horrified her. “Ossian,” she repeated, “you have not destroyed the investigation: you have propelled it into its final stage.”
Wethermere blinked in surprise. “I what? But how—?”
“The ship you fought was not guiding its missiles by lascom or radio, but by selnarm links.” She paused. “Your opponents were Arduans.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Raising his distinctly felinoid chin, Least Fang Kiiraathra’ostakjo waved away the datapad proffered by his human adjutant. “Ossian Wethermere, you may rest assured that the selnarm detected by Counselor Ankaht was not simply that of a lone Arduan operating with humans. Your caution and prudence in raising this possibility honors the name of your many-times cousin-uncle, Kevin Sanders, but your skepticism overreaches, this time. You know that Arduans do not operate as rogues; their actions are always aligned with the purposes of their community—whichever community that might happen to be.
“Secondly, Celmithyr’theaanouw’s sensor suite was able to analyze the last spread of enemy laser fire. The signature—both its wavelength and intensity fluctuations—are unmistakable. They are distinctly those produced by the batteries of Amunsit’s ships.”
Jennifer, who was still hugging herself tightly even though she’d spent a few reassuring moments chatting with Tank over the secure circuit, shook her head. “I don’t understand: are Amunsit’s weapons different from those of other Arduans?”
“In fact, they are slightly distinct, Jennifer,” Ankaht explained. “Each subsequent Dispersate arrives with slightly altered technology. This model of hetlaser is somewhat more advanced than the ones which we brought with us from Ardu in the First Dispersate.”
Jennifer looked from Ankaht to Kiiraathra’ostakjo and finally over to Wethermere. “So this laser didn’t come from ‘our’ Arduans back in the Rim Federation, out near Bellerophon.”
“No, Miss Pietchkov,” said Kiiraathra’ostakjo with a slow smoothing of the whiskers on either side of his abbreviated and unusually flexible muzzle. “We encountered this more advanced Arduan hetlaser in the recent war. And since it is standard among the ships of the Second Dispersate, its only reasonable origin is from among the formations in the Zarzuela system.”
“Meaning that, figuratively speaking, Amunsit’s fingerprints—er, cluster-prints are all over it.”
“I cannot think of another way to explain it, Jennifer,” Ankaht offered in conclusion. “And with the selnarmic transmissions, that conjecture becomes nearly as certain as had we captured the gunboat itself.”
Ossian, who was walking with his head tilted forward and hands behind his back, muttered, “All true. But we still have no explanation why Amunsit—or some of her lieutenants—are taking these actions. We know it’s not something as simple as fostering a fifth column among the Destoshaz of the First Dispersate: they’re more than a dozen warp points away from here. But that’s almost all we know. Hell, why are they out in these old graveyard systems at all? And why are they killing almost all the specially-skilled humans they’ve recruited?”
Jennifer hugged herself closer, suppressed a shiver. “I just want to know how they got their tendrils on a warship. Yes, I know, it’s a small warship—everyone’s explained that to me enough times, now—but it’s still a warship. How the hell does that happen?”
Kiiraathra’ostakjo made an apologetic rumble in his throat. “Ms. Pietchkov, as Celmithyr’theaanouw maneuvered to rendezvous with the Woolly Impostor after the engagement, my staff examined the PSU’s integrated ship registry database. This includes supplements from the Rim Federation and the Terran Republic, which we exchange in the interest of coordinating security and law-enforcement activities. From the wreckage we have already been able to retrieve, we know that the ship which attacked Captain Wethermere and his crew was originally laid down as the Shenboth fifty-four years ago, was converted to a training vessel thirty-one years ago, was decommissioned twelve years ago and was remaindered into mothballs at that time. She was sold as a customs cutter to the planetary government of Overijssel four years ago. Only eighteen months later, all interest in the hull, including the outstanding bank lien, was bought out by what is clearly a legally fabricated holding company—what I believe your investigators call a ‘shell company.’ She was then transferred, along with other assets, as part of an exchange between that holding company and a sealed private trust.”
“A sealed trust? What does that signify?” asked Ankaht.
“That the beneficiaries of the trust are not disclosed except to the administrators of the trust.”
“Is that legal?” Jennifer asked with a sharp glance.
Ossian shrugged. “Well, if Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s information is correct, Overijssel is a member of the Terran Republic. The Republic insists that all its member systems retain a great deal of local autonomy. That in turn means a lot of legal diversity within the Republic and, obversely, minimal universal codes.” Ossian looked up as they passed the forward bulkhead. “Odds are if you need to make a
shady deal legal, you’ll find some planet in the Republic where it’s permitted.”
“And the crew of the prospector? “Jennifer asked. “Do you know anything about them, yet?”
Ossian shook his head. “No. Positive identification will take some time.”
“But we should have those results before we get home to Bellerophon, right?”
Ossian glanced at Kiiraathra’ostakjo. “We would if the Celmithyr’theaanouw—and her labs—were traveling further with us. But she’s not.”
Ankaht looked from Ossian to the Orion. “Least Fang, I thought you would be working with us until we had concluded this phase of our investigation.”
“Counsellor Ankaht, as much as I enjoy working my old friend Captain Wethermere once again, I am unable to accompany you further. Your path back to Bellerophon would have me retracing the steps we have already taken. Regrettably, my path necessarily leads me onward.”
“Where to?” Jennifer asked.
“Although it is atypical to share deployment information outside of the ranks, I believe your collective intelligence clearances allow me to inform you that Celmithyr’theaanouw is scheduled to put in a rotation at the Zarzuelan blockade before she is either upgraded or decommissioned. Her final disposal is yet to be determined.”
Ankaht returned her three-eyed stare to Wethermere. “And you knew this?”
“Yes.”
“And did not inform me?”
“You are not PSU naval, Ankaht. I couldn’t: mandatory compartmentalization of strategic intelligence. But it won’t make a great deal of difference. We’ll pick up the smaller escorts waiting back in the inner system and take the evidence back to the labs and analytical teams on Bellerophon.”
“Very well. Although I will confess that I have grown accustomed, and happy, to know that as we pushed forward, Least Fang Kiirathra’ostakjo was our protector, waiting just out of sight but always ready.”
Bowing was one of the human physical actions which had a close parallel in the Orions’ impressive array of highly codified ritual gestures: Kiirathra’ostakjo bent slowly at the waist as his haunches retracted, leaving him in a low jackknife profile, his tail inflected into a slight upward curve. “Counselor, your words do me much honor. It would be a pleasure to both continue the hunt with you, as well to continue instructing my friend in the finer points of my native language. Captain Wethermere is never quite so amusing as when he has been furnished with a few more phrases to mangle in the Tongue of Tongues.” The Orion allowed himself a tooth-covered smile when he peripherally noticed Ossian’s rolled eyes. “But Captain Wethermere is quite right. From the moment he invited me to travel with you, it was a surety that I must leave before your journeys were finished. Indeed, it was only possible for me to accompany you this far because your path of investigation closely followed the waypoints established for Celmithyr’theaanouw’s passage to her new station. The captain was, according to explicit orders that originated far above either of us, not at liberty to share that information with anyone outside the command or field grade ranks. Nor was I.”
Ossian noted that Ankaht, for whom other species’ physical gestures were often more foreign than language, did not realize that the Least Fang would hold his posture of courtly compliment until she acknowledged his speech. “I’m sure Counselor Ankaht understands the constraints of your duty,” Wethermere said, attempting to prompt an appropriate comment from his Arduan coinvestigator.
She may have even realized what Wethermere was trying to do: Ankaht seemed to start, and the voice from the vocoder seemed a bit rushed, “Yes, I do understand. Least Fang Kiirathra’ostakjo, we shall miss both the might of Celmithyr’theaanouw and the wisdom of your counsel.”
The Least Fang straightened, turned toward Ossian. “The repairs required by your ship are minor, my friend. We shall have them completed before the next watch.”
Wethermere smiled crookedly. “I should have let the Arduans dent my hull a little more, force you to stay a few more days.”
Kiirathra’ostakjo brushed his whiskers slowly to hide a well-pleased grin. “You humans are entirely too—what is your word—maudlin? We lack such a word in the Tongue of Tongues, being warriors who possess no such defects of excessive sentimentality. But I still hope that our paths will cross again, Ossian Wethermere. Who else will see to—or could endure—teaching you the Tongue of Tongues?”
“I’ll miss you, too.” Wethermere said.
The Least Fang’s felinoid eyes crinkled then widened. “And remain cautious in your journeys. This is strange prey you hunt. I think it is disposed to turn on its harriers, to ambush its ambushers. Since you do not know what you are pursuing, you cannot reliably predict its habits or its reactions. Be careful, Ossian Wethermere.”
Who shrugged and grinned. “I’m always careful.”
But Kiiraathra’ostakjo did not mirror the human’s shift back to jocularity. “Yes, you are always careful. But now, be more so,” he rumbled from deep in his throat. “I would see you again. Go now to put your ship in order. I am not, as you humans say, fond of goodbyes.”
The large-shouldered alien turned with swift, powerful grace and stalked aft, back through the forward bulkhead, already giving orders to his adjutants.
*
Ankaht ensured that her spine was erect but not tense as she and Wethermere resumed their progress into the bow of Celmithyr’theaanouw and passed through the final security hatches leading to the forward small craft bays. There, the pinnaces that had scooped up Alessandro Magee and the rest of his Bloodhound reconnaissance detachment were finally being secured into their fast-launch berths. The eyes of the human and Orion guards on the far side of the hatches prompted Ankaht to further groom her posture and demeanor to be as languid and nonthreatening as possible. All those eyes—whether the pupils were human and round or Orion and narrow—watched her with what their owners would no doubt have considered cool, businesslike attention. But to her Arduan sensibilities, so little accustomed to outward signification of inner emotions, those eyes seemed maniacally, ferociously intense. Had she not seen what such eyes looked like during actual combat, when Magee and Li and Jennifer and others had stormed into the very heart of the Arduan stronghold on Bellerophon, she would have found it hard to believe that there could be a greater physical expression of hostility than what she was seeing now. But she had seen human eyes during close range combat and so she knew to distinguish this lethally detached watchfulness from the barely controlled monomaniacal beserkergang of desperate soldiers.
It seemed improbable that Ossian Wethermere would notice the subtle changes she made to her posture, but then again, he was an uncommonly observant human. “This crew doesn’t have a lot of contact with Arduans,” he offered in a tone tinged by apology. “You’re probably the first one that most of them have ever seen.”
“I can appreciate the caution elicited by my strangeness—as well as by having their comrades attacked by members of my race, once again. And if Amunsit’s direct reach has extended to these far systems, we may be on the cusp of events which will transform their suspicion into fear and ultimately, renewed hatred.”
“Which is why we can’t afford any mistakes. And which is why, no matter what Kiiraathra says, it is damn near disastrous that I botched the encounter with that gunboat.”
“Maybe not, Cap’n,” added a new voice: Harry Li emerged from between the two blue-uniformed guards flanking the egress from the post-flight debriefing room. Jennifer, who had been moving steadily faster and further ahead, was already shouldering past Harry to get to Magee.
Wethermere smiled at the diminutive Li. “Good to see you, Lieutenant.”
“Good to be seen. And to have some of our suits’ biometric sensors see a known face among the crew of the prospector.”
Ossian started. “You registered a tentative visual match?”
Lighthorse Harry Li nodded. “Several. Our suit-chips’ started flagging matches just a few minutes after we bailed out. Of
course, we had no way to relay that intel to you: radio silence and insufficient range.”
Ankaht let the lid of her central eye sink slightly, sluggishly. “It may not be wise to speak so openly of this, Lieutenant Li.”
Harry looked from his Arduan superior to his human superior and back again. “Uh—why not? Ma’am?”
“Because, Lieutenant Li, the command staff aboard Celmithyr’theaanouw is unaware of the advanced state of, and highly miniaturized biometric technologies available to, our investigation.”
Li stared. “You mean—even the Least Fang himself isn’t in the loop?”
It was Wethermere who answered, his eyes unblinking. “Yes. Even him.”
“Damn,” Harry muttered. “Why?”
“Compartmentalization: no one outside of our investigation may be informed of its particulars,” Ankaht answered. Seeing the sour look that word elicited from Li, she added, “It is regrettable but necessary.”
Wethermere smiled slightly. “Hmm. I seem to remember saying something similar to you about compartmentalization only five minutes ago.”
Ankaht heard the vocoder infuse mild amusement into her reply. “Yes. Well. That is different.”
“How so?”
“Because I was the one being excluded from the information within the compartment.”
Wethermere’s smile became broader. “Ah. I see.”
“I suspect you do.”
Li was almost scowling at the two of them. “Sir, ma’am, if you don’t require anything further of me—” Li snapped one of his species’ abrupt, almost startling, “salutes.”
Wethermere returned a more relaxed version of the gesture. “Good job out there, Lieutenant. You are dismissed—right after you transfer the biometric data to my palmtop.”
Li unclipped a data stick from the collar-liner of his duty coveralls and muttered a command at it. “Should be on your system, now, Captain.” He snapped another fierce salute at Wethermere, nodded politely at Ankaht, and turning, on his heel, immediately started berating some of the Bloodhounds who had been slow to dress out and process to the debriefing rooms in the flight section.
