The Rifter's Covenant

by Sherwood Smith

  Hreem sat down heavily in his pod, irritated with the one-way communication. The light-lag was nearly ninety minutes, but he knew that was as close as Lochiel could come without her emergence pulse betraying her to Neyvla-khan or to the Barcan transponders.

  His irritation dissipated as Lochiel detailed their rendezvous with a destroyer from Charterly’s fleet that had been reported lost. Even without super-powered skipmissiles, that would tip the balance strongly toward Hreem, especially with the element of surprise.

  “Best news is, Ducamer managed to liberate three stealthed lances from a naval armory. Newtech. The Panarchy was just about to deploy them!”

  Norio tingled with Hreem’s thrill, mixed with a pleasantly dissonant tang of unease. Rumors of such a weapon tended to crop up with a regular rhythm on the RiftNet. Hreem was doubtless thinking that they might have been used against him at Charvann to get even closer than the oldtech ones that had almost wrecked the Lith.

  “Our idea is, we use ’em to take over the weapons on the outer moon,” Lochiel continued, “and turn those against Neyvla-khan . . .”

  “I like that,” Hreem said slowly. “I like that a lot.” Though he wanted to be the one to burn Neyvla-Khan out of space. Maybe he could make that work.

  Unhearing, of course, Lochiel went on. “ . . . If we succeed, that’ll be your signal, or a squawk if all we can do is shut ’em down. So stay away from the inner moon.” She laughed. “And if you play your Barcan contact right, you can blame it on the Navy when that little blunge-sucker Barrodagh starts screaming.” Lochiel detailed some more timing and contingencies and signed off.

  “Dyasil, take her coordinates and squirt back an acknowledgment. Carcason, plot courses that’ll take the maximum number of ships into the shadow of Barca from the inner moon in three-point-five hours, outside its orbit as far as you can. Dyasil, set up the relays for an all-fleet com.”

  Then Hreem settled back in his pod, one heel-claw flexing, and looked up at the viewscreen, with the Scorpion dead center.

  SEVEN

  HAARSCHARF

  Meliarch Refren ZiTuto lay immobile in the confines of his yet-unpowered armor. He wished he could have been aboard the Kelly Intership to which the Haarscharf was grappled, instead of lying here in the acceleration tank. He endured another wave of jealousy, wondering what Dyarch Sussonius and his squad were encountering in the second Kelly ship of this third. The remaining one had taken the Elder aboard and was staying out of the fight.

  But his responsibilities put him here with his squad, and in any case, there wouldn’t have been any way to transfer from the ship to the lance.

  The countdown on the screen his armor projected into his field of vision indicated less than fifteen minutes to launch. The squad had begun the banter that preceded action. ZiTuto listened to each joke as if it were orders. Better than over-thinking the coming sprint.

  “I still think the comedian who invented the tesla mole should’ve been forced to ride one.” Dyarch Amahiro drawled in a wiredream parody, as always trying to hide her Douloi origins.

  “Ri-i-i-ght, Shuchi,” Dyarch Meenhyr replied sweetly. “Much safer to ride a nuclear bomb into the hull of a starship.”

  ZiTuto tried to concentrate on the old rivalry between the two and their squads, but memory of a full-sensory simulation from his Academy days was stronger: the flare of rock disintegrated by the momentum conversion of the tesla effect, roaring back in ablative fury past the lance’s hull as it bored into an asteroid. If the lance’s engine power ran out before they penetrated to the deeply buried Barcan installation, they’d be entombed, the only way out up a tunnel of white-hot rock—if it didn’t close behind them.

  Octo is right. I much prefer hull-punching. The usual lance attack used a shaped nuclear charge to penetrate the relatively thin shield and hull of a ship, cushioning its crew from the deceleration with an engine overload. It rarely failed, and if it did, one died too fast to know it.

  ZiTuto sighed and tried to relax; he wanted the adrenaline spurt once the sprint started, when it would be useful. Before? It would just make him jiggle as uselessly in his armor as an empty joybed.

  A lurch shifted him. Then a window popped up on his helmet display, framing the Kelly captain. He echoed it to his squad, with a blip to the Kelly to notify them.

  “We’ve emerged at the edge of the resonance field. Thirteen minutes to release.”

  The Intermittor Ish bent her head-stalk in the equivalent of a smile. “Wethree have been trying to understand how any sentient could think up such a mad weapon as a lance.”

  “What did youthree come up with?” ZiTuto asked, glad of the distraction.

  “Wethree remembered a biology chip of human reproductive habits. All was explained.”

  Amahiro cackled, her voice high with fake amazement. “But how do you explain Mynheer, who couldn’t find his nacker with a locator stuck on it?”

  “What nacker? I thought that was a pimple,” a lower female voice from Amahiro’s squad inquired, and the Marines hooted with laughter and rapid-fire insults.

  On the screen, the trinity twined threir head-stalks together, an expression of amusement. Then threy straightened out as she said, “Wethree will land over the horizon from the ship bay of Avasta Station and await your signal. The other ship will land the squad assigned to the lazplaz tower that covers our escape route. After they release their lances, the other two Interships will rejoin their four consorts to relay tactical updates to Captain Cameron’s fleet.”

  ZiTuto relayed acknowledgement, interested to note that the Kelly seemed to take comfort from rehearsing decisions as much as humans did.

  “Wethree will be ready to extract you from the ship bay. Space has been made for the full complement of three lances.” Ish tipped her head-stalk forward and folded the ‘lips’ of her lily-like mouth inward so all three eyes peered over them at ZiTuto. “Are you and your squad comfortable with the weapons we have furnished? There was little time to adapt them.”

  “Our computers can handle them. Just,” ZiTuto admitted. That had been another of the Kelly secrets now revealed at the command of the Elder: that they had developed and deployed weapons specifically designed to disable Ogres.

  The remaining time passed swiftly until the Kelly captain signed off. ZiTuto led his squad through the litany of diagnostics and preparation.

  On their displays, the thirty men and women of his lance could see the pitted surface of Avasta skimming past as the Kelly Intership vectored in on the penetration. The other tesla mole approached in similar fashion on a different course, while the standard lance headed straight in at the massive lock doors of the ship bay.

  Despite the countdown, the release took ZiTuto by surprise, for the grapples didn’t let go with a clunk, like human tech. In fact, he caught a glimpse of the lashing simply separating and whipping back into the Intership as the lance fell away under its own power.

  A low range of mountains loomed ahead; the horizon tilted down and back up again as the lance bobbed over them in terrain-following mode. The spidery line of a massdrive feeder seemed to sweep in from the right, crossing their course to terminate in a lazplaz aiming tower on their left. Sweat prickled in ZiTuto’s armpits as he watched the tower dwindle swiftly behind them. It didn’t appear to be moving.

  Then the surface of the moon swiveled around dizzyingly as the lance pivoted up, flipped over, and dove toward the rugged surface of Avasta, angling steeply toward the deeply buried control center.

  A flare of light blanked the screen, and the roar of disintegrating rock past the hull of the lance took his thoughts away as they bored into the heart of Avasta surrounded by a flaring bolus of rock-turned-plasma.

  AVASTA STATION

  The harsh buzz of the seismic alarm jolted Cuonn tar-Fennyn out of a pleasant daydream into alertness. Then he felt the shift in the rock under his feet.

  Tidal stress. But it didn’t die down, and the trembling that followed was too fast, more like a gr
oan or roar.

  “Marshal?” one of the monitors queried as the sound grew. “Two point sources of seismic activity approaching.”

  A screen sprang to life, modeling the Barcan weapons station enwrapped in the darkness that was the system’s symbol for the safety of deep rock. But in that darkness there now flared two blurred points of light: one aimed at the station proper, the other, coming in from 180 degrees to the first on a somewhat higher course. Jagged lines of color flickered out like lightning along faults revealed by the energy being liberated.

  “Sources identified,” interrupted the smooth voice of the Servant. “Tesla moles, most likely mounted by Arkadic Marine lances. Estimated arrival four-point-five minutes.”

  Cuonn punched the redsquirt and the siren yodeled Situation One. While he waited through the light-speed delay from the CCI center, the green light indicating the ship bay suddenly flared red.

  “Ship bay not responding,” said the Servant.

  The response from CCI arrived as another quake shook the center. “Nuclear detonation in ship bay consistent with standard Arkadic Marine lance attack,” the smooth voice added.

  As the face of the CCI watch officer windowed up, Cuonn forced his voice under control and delivered a brief précis of the situation, then bent over the tactical plot of Barcan space while waiting for a response.

  That came sooner than expected. “We can’t know yet which Rifters they’re from. You’re going to automatic installation defense. Confirm targeting of Rifter ships, by fleet, and hold.” The image blanked.

  Cuonn stared at the screen, then at the tacplot again. But it was obvious. Anger blazed the higher at the contemptuous nature of the lie. What was CCI up to? Then he shivered, remembering the shuttle descending to Barca from the Flower of Lith. It had only recently returned. Had the Matria allied with that ship’s captain to eliminate the other Rifters, sacrificing Avasta to convince the Dol’jharians they were blameless victims? An expensive ploy, but he’d seen the vids relayed by both Rifter fleets. The new masters of the Thousand Suns were not given to half measures if betrayed.

  But Barca was not given to half measures either. Rapidly, Cuonn issued the few necessary orders: they’d be ready to switch the lazplaz aiming points to ships of either fleet but he left them targeted on the five most distant of Neyvla-khan’s ships. If he’d guessed right, it would save retargeting time.

  “Assuming defense-control status,” the Servant stated as soon as Cuonn ceased speaking. “Niches activated. Antipersonnel systems activated. All tags Class Two and below to safety recesses.”

  Cuonn fingered his Class One tag, which identified him to the Servant, and shuddered at the thought of being caught without it when the Black Ones emerged from their niches. The thought of the invaders meeting the Black Ones caused him to smile with anticipation as he settled back into his command module to await further orders.

  CLAIDHEAMH MOR

  A Kelly ship materialized dead ahead.

  Cameron’s neck prickled. He couldn’t get used to the lack of an emergence pulse; it made him feel myopic and defenseless. He sensed the same tension in the rest of his primary bridge crew, freshly returned from the truncated Z-watch he had ordered. Though he could not rest himself, he wanted them alert and ready.

  Ensign Rincon’s fingers sprang into action on the communications console. “Signal to flag.”

  “Put it on.”

  A Kelly appeared on-screen. “Attack has commenced. Squirt incoming.”

  “Got it, sir,” said Rincon as the Kelly sketched its tripled version of a salute and vanished.

  The little ship yawed and blinked out, its departure as invisible as its arrival.

  A whirl of tactical updates propagated through the Claidheamh Mor’s systems, and thence to the rest of the fleet. As he studied the evolving situation, struggling with the new Tenno, Cameron wondered how Lochiel’s antiquated destroyer was handling the downloads. Antiquated, with more of a punch than all three of ours combined, he thought.

  “I wish I could be sure that Neyvla-khan will recognize what’s going on, if he even sees it.” From her nearby pod, Kor-Mellish gestured at a screen showing only the Rifter vessels positioned to see the rock-flares of the lances on Avasta.

  “He’s been on the bonus chips long enough to make me think so,” replied Cameron. “But he’ll certainly interpret it differently.” He nodded at the tactical plot. “Hreem’s taking up pretty much the orbits we assumed he would, which’ll have the majority of his ships hidden from Shimosa right when Lochiel told him she’ll skipmissile Avasta. There’s no sign Neyvla-khan has seen that pattern yet, but he will. What the Barcans are thinking is anybody’s guess.”

  “Depends on who they’re thinking of backing, I suppose.” Kor-Mellish ran her fingers over the inlaid keys of her console, a purposeless gesture that Cameron couldn’t interpret.

  “Right.” She was grabbing at what they could predict, same as he was. “The sneak-missiles, leeches, and gee-mines the Kelly ships have launched into the resonance field will certainly mess up the Rifters’ plans.”

  “And the Rifters and the Barcans have got their own dragon’s teeth out there too, aimed at everything.” Kor-Mellish flashed a humorless smile. “Oh, if everything goes perfectly, it’ll be one for the sims. How to destroy two Rifter fleets without firing a shot.”

  Her grin vanished. From Cameron’s other side came an intake of breath, and he knew everyone was sharing the same thought: How long before we stop making careless references to the Academy that doesn’t exist any more? And then what, forget it was ever there?

  Cameron forced a smile, and a bantering tone. “If only their aim were that good,” he said.

  The responsive laugh was fierce, as were the comments in return.

  No, they would never forget.

  SCORPION

  Leaning back in his command pod, Neyvla-kahn sought out the screen with the Flower of Lith pinned in its center. A fierce surge of satisfaction confirmed the pleasant sight: Hreem was losing the lower orbits to him.

  “Captain, energy flares from Avasta.”

  The triumph abruptly evaporated. He sat up and gestured at the screen. A window expanded to show the limb of Avasta, with two small jets of flame darkside of the terminator.

  “Spectrum gives vaporized rock.”

  Were the Barcans launching something? But why the wasteful display of power?

  Rock! Lances? Neyvla-khan’s jaw tightened; were there more lances out there, targeted on him?

  “Other traces?”

  The scantech responded with gratifying alacrity. “None, cham.”

  Now he knew without any doubt Hreem’s story to be a lie. The pattern confirmed his suspicions. First, the resonance trap after a shuttle from the Lith. Now, a few hours after the return of the shuttle, this. He must be in communication with the Barcans via his computer tech Riolo, whom he’d claimed to have yielded to justice on the planet.

  But as he glared at the screen, his tactical vision shifted, the plot on-screen abruptly different. Hreem’s retreat to higher orbits was clumping his ships inside the penumbra of weapons fire from Shimosa, while leaving them vulnerable to Avasta.

  Hreem wasn’t worried about the weapons on the outer moon.

  Had his secret negotiations with the Barcans merely been a delaying tactic? If so, where had he gotten lances? They had to be from Hreem’s ships; Scorpion would have detected emergence pulses if they were coming from outsystem.

  Neyvla-khan remembered, then dismissed, the RiftNet rumors of stealthed fiveskips. He was convinced those rumors—and many others—were planted by Panarchist sources just to keep the Syndicates guessing.

  Neyvla-khan began snapping out orders, for relay to his fleet. He had to get as many ships as possible shadowed from Avasta—more difficult with the outer moon—or as far from it as practicable. Fortunately the preparations were well advanced for a sneak-missile attack on one of the generators that had trapped them. Now, however, it would cos
t more ships.

  And then, to deal with Hreem. Neyvla-khan had sneak-missiles shadowing his enemy still, despite his apparent retreat. Just as Hreem had doubtless targeted him.

  Nonetheless, Brother, he thought: I will consign you and that vile mindsnake of yours to the fire. He sighed with regret, but too fast was better than not at all.

  He motioned to his communications tech, relishing the burn of pleasure at the way the crew obeyed his wordless commands. “Hreem,” he said.

  But first, to cloud Hreem’s mind with anger.

  HAARSCHARF

  The roar of ablating rock dwindled away into ringing silence.

  “Eyes out,” ZiTuto commanded, activating their servo-armor. A sharp bang: the tip of the lance blew off. His screen windowed up a view of a corridor from the spy-eye, then extruded, and he caught a glimpse of a bulky, dark humanoid figure before the screen flared and blanked.

  “Ogres. Punch-out, Octo.”

  Dyarch Meenhyr acknowledged; a muffled roar rocked the lance as the tesla field propagated outward in destructive overload.

  ZiTuto tapped a control in the tank, triggering a much louder, final explosion as the whole front of the lance blew off. His tank dumped him upright and he approached the opening cautiously as his squad assembled, two pushing past him to secure the adit.

  Despite his book and sim knowledge, ZiTuto was stunned at what he saw. The momentum conversion of the tesla overload had simply dissolved rock and dyplast into a bubble of emptiness fully ten meters across, with corridors and smaller cannulae exposed in various cross sections. Imagination supplied an image of the pyroclastic blast of plasma and shattered rock that must have swept through them, destroying everything in its path.

  Uneasy shadows hung everywhere in the glare of the lights deployed by the Marines. Something long and red dripped out of one of the small openings and sizzled messily on a torn flap of hot metal far below.