by Steve White
Magee nodded. “Yeah, that’s a pretty crazy plan, all right,” he affirmed—and then shot an apologetic look at Ossian. “I’m sorry, sir. I meant to say ‘inspired.’”
Wethermere smiled. “No, you meant ‘crazy.’ And in light of the fact that it’s unprecedented, you’re right. But on the other hand, it might buy us a weapon that can be more decisive than any other: surprise. The Kaituni don’t know any of us are here. They don’t know we have a warp generator. They don’t know a matching warp generator is waiting in Bellerophon. And they are all busy focusing on the very sizable threats that are closest to them—the PSU fleets near Pesthouse and the Bellerophon Rim Fleet—which they presume will eventually be trying to retake Zephrain. Furthermore, we’ve now had multiple confirmed reports that the largest Kaituni fleet of all—perhaps the output of half a dozen Dispersates—has arrived in the Alowan system and is heading for Pesthouse, so they clearly mean to fight a decisive battle there. And in order to do so with maximum force, they are not occupying systems. They’re simply disabling them and moving on.
“Which means that, given their current lack of routine patrols throughout the space they’ve blighted, and given their current lack of information about us, they would have to be more insane to suspect such a ploy like ours than we are insane to plan it.” Ossian smiled. “So we are going to take advantage of their unimaginative sanity.”
Wethermere hadn’t meant his summation as a pep talk, but the faces on the other side of the table brightened. Except Harry Li’s. “Something still troubling you, Harry?”
“Yes, sir,” the diminutive lieutenant shot back. “I want to know one more thing.”
Ossian suppressed a sigh. “And what is that?”
“Sir, with all due respect, why the hell are we still sitting here when we’ve got a campaign to prep?”
Part Four
The Hand of God
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ossian Wethermere managed not to visibly react when the approaching Orion carrier appeared on the viewscreen in maximum magnification. But others on the bridge of the Woolly Impostor were not under the same rank-dictated requirement to suppress externalizations of their surprise. At the helm, Sam Lubell inhaled sharply between gritted teeth, sounding like a hissing snake. Katherine Engan allowed a long low whistle escape as she alternated between studying the image on the screen and the sensors in front of her.
Commander Knight glanced at her. “How bad?”
“Frankly, sir, I’ve never seen a ship this badly battered that was still making way.”
Wethermere studied the carrier. Her engine decks were leaking hydrogen that must have occasionally been supplemented by vented atmosphere from stricken crew sections: the mix intermittently flared as a diaphanous sheet of twisting yellow-orange flame. One of the ship’s two fighter ops hull extensions—both mounted outrigger style—was blackened and lightless. That same side of its hull was almost as cratered as Old Earth’s moon, occasionally illuminated by strobing polarity contests between discharges from both damaged railgun mounts and destabilized gravitics generators.
Engan’s report detailed the further damage that eyes could not see. “She’s only at quarter speed but her tuners are still dangerously hot. Gravity is functioning in about half of the crewed hull. No active sensors or comms of any kind. If she’s got any lascom ping-back capability for tight beam alignment, I can’t find it, even though I’ve been sending a wide-beam poll for coordinates. So if we’re going to talk to her, we’ll have to send by broadcast.”
Wethermere frowned, glanced at the tactical-scaled plot. Nothing in it except the Woolly Imposter and the stricken Orion behemoth. “Any sign that the warp point signature is changing?”
“Nothing indicating imminent transit, sir.”
Knight stared at Wethermere meaningfully. “Definitely your call, sir. This is a strategic choice.”
Wethermere considered, then said, “Mr. Schendler, you are to send a message using PSU cipher Charlie Three, trapdoor protocol Miasma. Two-second squeak. You send our ID, a request for theirs, and their preferred telemetry to receive a gig.”
Ensign Schendler complied, listened. Five seconds passed. “Still nothing, sir. I’m not sure they can—”
“Yes, they can communicate,” Engan interrupted, smiling at her sensor board. “Energy fluctuations. Precise and repeating. They’re replying using PSU binary, sir. Requesting a meet—and immediate assistance.”
*
Wethermere glanced at Kiiraathra’ostakjo, who had changed into his dress uniform pauldrons: colorful, flaring shoulder pieces that were baroque exaggerations of the pre-industrial Orion armor they recalled. When coordinating Ossian’s arrival aboard Celmithyr’theaanouw, the Least Fang had suggested that Ossian be formally attired as well, but without insignia of rank displayed. When Ossian had asked why, Kiiraathra had deflected the inquiry by asking his human colleague to make haste so that he would be on hand before the master of the battered Orion carrier arrived. And also, to allow any mention of creating an artificial warp point to Bellerophon—now only a week from achievement—to come from the Least Fang himself.
Wethermere achieved that, but with barely five minutes to spare. The appearance of the ship in the almost uninhabited Oweohar system had been a complete surprise, transiting the warp point just as the Woolly Impostor was about to go recon it. The Viggen, standing guard behind a medium-sized rock in the far belt near the warp point, had held position while the tense encounter played out.
But once the bogey had been identified as an Orion carrier, and had signaled that allied craft might approach it, the Viggen popped out of hiding and sent its own gig forward to make contact. Meanwhile, Wethermere’s hasty lascom confab with Kiiraathra arranged a tow for the battered carrier by bringing their one civilian tug out from the flotilla’s hiding place behind the outermost gas giant in the system. At the same time, Celmithyr’theaanouw scrambled two of her fighter wings, just in case the Orion had pursuers. The Least Fang had then become wholly preoccupied rearranging their irregular battlegroup, lest they would have to give fight to intruders as well as assistance to a wounded ally.
Once Viggen had launched its gig, it had swung around to pick up Ossian. They had traveled under “need-only” comm protocols: keeping the channels free of clutter and space free of nonessential emissions was de rigeur when hanging near a warp point which might start vomiting threat forces at any moment. So until Ossian Wethermere stepped into Least Fang Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s ready room, he hadn’t been able to ask about the formal dress or lack of insignia. And judging from the shrill, ear-rending wind-chime device that was the Orion equivalent of a bosun’s whistle, he wasn’t going to have a chance to inquire now, either: the commander of the Orion ship was near at hand.
Kiiraathra’ostakjo glanced at Ossian, nodded approval, stood with his legs very straight, facing the ready-room’s hatchway. Ossian decided upon a faint imitation of his friend’s stance, not wanting to veer into unintentional parody, and waited.
The Orion who appeared in the hatchway had to stoop—deeply—to duck under the top of the coaming. When he had stepped through and stood straight, it was clear that his body had been every bit as affected by the combat as the hull of his ship.
Missing one eye where a gash had evidently lifted up a flap of his fur from his brow all the way back to the joint of his jaw, the remaining hairs on that side of his face were short and end-crinkled from being singed. A deep wound in his opposite shoulder occupied the spot that one of his two missing dress-pauldrons should have had; the blood leaking through the wrapping was still fresh. The hand at the end of that arm was missing two fingers and stitched in numerous places: it had probably gotten in the way of a hail of highly energetic pieces of his own ship being blasted inward. There was a soft splint on what would have been the left femur of a human, and one of his long, graceful ears now reminded Ossian of a saw-toothed equivalent that he had once seen on a much-embattled tomcat.
But
, true to the expectations and toughness of his heritage, the Orion stood straight—all 2.1 meters of him—and presented the closed fist (hence, claw-sheathed) salute of the Khan’s military. “I ammmh Small Claww Rrrrurr’rao, captainn ovf the Tleikh’uu, and 952nd of my rank. I come withhh honorrrr, to honorrrr you”—his one green eye flicked at Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s left dress pauldron—“Leassst Fang.”
“We receive your honor and gladly add it to ours for this day,” answered Kiiraathra’ostakjo. It was the reply to the ancient guest-right greeting between warriors sharing the same roof, which had been adopted as the formulaic military salute after the Orions’ Unification Wars. “I am Kiiraathra’ostakjo, and you may call me so without rank-title. This,” he continued, gesturing toward Ossian, “is Commodore Wethermere of the PSU, currently on detached duty to the Rim Federation.”
Who just about swallowed his tongue. Commodore? Either straight-arrow Kiiraathra had discovered a sudden penchant for lying, or had gone senile. Or perhaps, Ossian realized in the very next moment, I’ve just been brevetted and that’s why he didn’t want me to wear my insignia of rank. But that suggests—
Rrurr’rao offered a human salute. “Greetings, and I am honored, Commodore.”
More out of instinct than reason, Ossian elected to respond casually, and specifically avoid the formal response, which would have revealed him to be well-acquainted with the intricacies of how Orion military personnel dealt with their alien opposite-numbers. “The honor is mine, Claw Rrurr’rao. We’re glad to see a friendly face.” The concluding idiom was peculiar to human languages and would further suggest that Ossian was far more ignorant of Orion culture and language than he was—which, given Kiiraathra’s suppression of Wethermere’s actual rank and then sudden promotion, might help further the Least Fang’s apparent attempt to misinform their visitor. But why would he do that to a fellow—?
There wasn’t even the time to complete the thought. Rrurr’rao squinted and then shook his head. “You sshhhall pleassse forgiffe me, Commodorrrr. I amm not ssskilled in your language.”
Wethermere half-expected the sudden intervention that Kiiraathra introduced with a wide wave of his hand. “I am sure the commodore shall not be affronted if, therefore, we communicate in the Tongue of Tongues. I have been his occasional tutor in its complexities—but fear I was born a warrior, not a teacher.”
All three exchanged brief, tooth-hidden smiles that were, collectively, more a sign of polite acquiescence rather than amusement. “By all means,” Ossian assured the two of them, “carry on in the Tongue of Tongues, I shall not feel excluded.”
Rrurr’rao nodded his thanks, turned to Kiiraathra, and, shifting into the Tongue of Tongues, asked with extraordinary bluntness: “Can the human be trusted?”
To his credit, Kiiraathra’ostakjo managed to express what Ossian considered to be an optimal mix of surprise and fervor in his response to this wholly unexpected question. “Of course he can. The commodore is a comrade from the Arduan war—the first one, I mean. He is a human of high honor.”
“And he does not understand this language?”
“As I said, I am not a good tutor,” Kiiraathra’ostakjo answered. Technically a truth, since it did not claim anything about Wethermere’s actual conversancy. Ossian silently congratulated his Orion friend on his canniness and was glad for his own study of Orion in the years before they had met, because it seemed that there were secrets Rrurr’rao was about to reveal that he did not want alighting upon human ears. And Kiiraathra had clearly anticipated—somehow—that this might be the case.
Rrurr’rao slowly swept his good paw along the unsinged whiskers on the opposite side of his face. “It is well the human does not know our language. He would not appreciate hearing my thoughts upon his race, at this time.”
“The humans? What fault do you find with them?”
“Least Fang, their most recent action—it makes me wonder if the hard-liners have been right all along.”
“In what way?” Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s voice was almost casual, but, knowing his friend, Ossian could hear the careful, assessing tone beneath it.
“The hard-liners at court have long cautioned that, if we were ever to need the humans to support us at their own risk, they would show themselves to be incapable of—or insensate to—the demands of theernowlus.”
“You suspect they will not bear the shared risk that an ally swears to? This is a serious charge, particularly to levy against an entire species, Small Claw Rrurr’rao.”
“And I am sorry to make to make such a charge.” Rrurr’rao paused, studied Kiiraathra’ostakjo with his one remaining eye. “So you have not heard, then.”
“We have heard little, these last weeks. We sheltered in the Sreaor system and gathered intelligence before choosing the waypoint systems—such as this one—which would allow us to approach our new objective with maximum safety. It has been our intention to avoid all contact.”
“You were not bound for the defense of Valkha?”
Kiiraathra’ostakjo stiffened. “Alas, I was not. We have—other orders that took precedence.”
“Precedence over defending our homeworld, Least Fang? What manner of orders are these?”
Ossian wondered if he had heard a faint tone of rebuke rising up through Rrurr’rao’s surprise, a tone which asked, “And what manner of Orion would follow such orders?”
Kiiraathra’ostakjo stood very straight and, although at least four centimeters shy of Rrurr’rao’s height, seemed taller than his subordinate. “The orders I am following ultimately came from the PSU High Command—from the polity in which our race enjoys a majority membership. If I were therefore to fail to carry out orders ratified by the political representatives of the Khan himself, I would not merely be theermish in breaking the pledge we made to the PSU, but would be guilty of hiri’k’now to our Khan himself.”
As Rrurr’rao seemed to weigh Kiiraathra legal assertions, Ossian was busy trying to remember what all the terms meant. Theermish meant “to shirk risk sharing.” So had Kiiraathra’ostakjo refused to place the warp point generator where it might bring through the Bellerophon fleet, he would have been derelict in his duty as an officer of the PSU. However, hiri’k’now was to break a liege-vassal oath. So by invoking that, Kiiraathra was also claiming that the same violation of orders would have been, by direct consequence, disobedience to the Khan himself. After all, it was the Khan who had approved the orders which his own representatives had supported in the PSU. It all sounded pretty convincing to Ossian.
Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s honor-based assertions seemed to have much the same effect upon Rrurr’rao: the large Orion bowed his head slightly. “Then you carry a heavy burden of honor, Least Fang, that your duty carried you away from, not toward, the final defense of the world that gave us life.”
Kiiraathra’ostakjo straightened further, stiffening. “The last defense—and you speak in the past tense?”
Rrurr’rao kept his head lowered. “I am sorry to be the one to bear this news to you. Valkha is no more.”
Wethermere hoped he had suppressed any physical expression of his surprise by forcing himself to look more puzzled at Rrurr’rao’s suddenly solemn tone and Kiiraathra’s physical reaction to the news.
Ossian’s Orion friend remained stiff, almost at attention. “How could this happen? And so quickly? The fleets of the Khanate, collapsing inward en masse upon Valkha, should have given the enemy months of resistance, at the very least.”
“This was also the expectation of the surviving members of the Kimhakaa—”
—Ossian cast about, snagged the definition for the word: the Kimhakaa was the Khan’s advisory council—
“—but they could not anticipate what we encountered.” Rrurr’rao shook his head. “No one could have. The chofaki fleets arrived before we could gather more than half of our forces. They forced the warp point within two days. Their flood of SBMHAWKs, and their strange minesweepers, was almost unending, and so they reduced the fort
s. Their largest capital ships were a match for our own—monitors, mostly—but they had so many more than we did. And their fighters—”
Rrurr’rao stopped, breathed deep before continuing. “Allow me to show you, Least Fang. I do not trust my composure if I must speak the words.”
Kiiraathra nodded, glanced at Wethermere, kept up the charade by informing him in English, “Valkha has fallen—possibly destroyed. Small Claw Rrurr’rao will show us the salient points of the battle.”
Ossian felt genuine sorrow and regret when he bowed to Rrurr’rao and said, “I grieve for your race and littermates, both of near and distant blood. We shall avenge them together.”
Rrurr’rao returned the bow. As he put his wrist computer into data relay mode, he shifted back into the Tongue of Tongues. “The commodore is a polite human. Does he make this blood oath personally, or officially?”
“I am unsure he understands the full consequence of either, Small Claw. Humans often confuse what they intend as expressions of sympathy and solidarity with our blood oaths of specific vengeance and restoration of honor.”
Rrurr’rao emitted a somewhat dismissive grunt as Wethermere suppressed the impulse to smack his forehead: you idiot. Out of fellow-feeling, and because you forgot the deeper, formal meanings of your phrasing, you made a promise you probably can’t keep.
“Least Fang, you will kindly pay particular attention to the Arduan fighters as they maneuver.”
“I shall,” Kiiraathra’ostakjo assured his comrade. “You may also wish to know that our adversaries distinguish themselves from the Arduans of the First Dispersate. The ones attacking us now call themselves the Kaituni. They are equally committed to the extermination of the First Dispersate Arduans, who are the only of their species who still retain that label.”
Rrurr’rao simply stared at his superior. iHis His gaze was not insolent, but the wounded Orion was clearly unconcerned with the relabeling of a subset of the race that had just killed his own species’ homeworld. “I am ready to play the relevant scenes.”
