The Rifter's Covenant

by Sherwood Smith

  No one looked away from their console. Cameron struggled to breathe, to think, but all he could remember were the many, the hundreds, he’d known, classmates and instructors alike, all slagged to ash on Minerva.

  He saw the shape of his career narrowing to this point, this time, delivering into his hands the catharsis of those memories, shared with everyone in the Navy. The regs were strict: any ship. Any ship that surrendered, was to be secured and given aid.

  He gazed straight at the burned man who stared back at him, fighting for every breath. “Fire Control, lazplaz.” He spoke the words softly, but deliberately, tasting each. “Minimum aperture. Control to me.”

  He couldn’t ask anyone else to throw away their career.

  The targeting cross appeared on the window displaying the exterior of the ruined destroyer. Cameron moved it carefully to the rear of the bridge.

  “Help you? Yes, Neyvla-khan. I will help you.”

  The Rifter squeak-hissed again. “Panarch’s mercy.”

  Rage caused Cameron’s ears to ring; the man spat upon ancient usage. “Mercy,” he repeated flatly. “No, that got all used up at Minerva. All I have for you is justice.”

  He tabbed the control. A vivid thread of light lanced down through the bridge of the Scorpion behind the dying Rifter, briefly silhouetting him. The screech of air escaping from the ruined bridge came clearly over the link. Neyvla-khan’s eyes bulged; he waggled his arms furiously. One finger broke off as he slapped helplessly at his console.

  When the vacuum had finished its work, transforming the Rifter into a bloated, oozing horror, Cameron exhaled.

  “Fire skipmissile,” he commanded, and the Scorpion vanished in cleansing flame.

  Then he turned to Lochiel, who gazed at him, wincing with pain. She knew what his choice would cost him.

  “Cousin,” he said, “I’m curious. Where does one buy a surplus destroyer?”

  “Damage Control, what’s up with the log?” Commander Kor-Mellish exclaimed. “I’m having trouble with my entries.”

  At the damage-control console, Lieutenant Argule cleared her throat. “Yes, sir. We apparently took a little more damage than I thought. I’m having problems with the system links to the log.”

  Cameron turned uncomprehending at Kor-Mellish, catching the tail end of a significant glance directed at Ensign Rincon.

  “Umm . . . yes.” His fingers walked deliberately across a few keys. “I’ve lost some weapons data in the middle . . . got it back at the skipmissile.”

  No one looked at Cameron, but he felt the conspiracy close tightly around him.

  “I begin to see just how complex loyalty really is,” Lochiel murmured, her head tipped. On the main screen, a misshapen blot of plasma that had been the Scorpion and its master dissipated slowly against the stars. “Still need an answer to your question, cousin?”

  “No,” said Cameron, breathing out. “We have a rendezvous to make. And then to Ares.”

  TELVARNA: ARES SYSTEM

  A half hour after the Telvarna emerged from skip an acknowledgment came from Ares, along with instructions on approach.

  During the long journey in real time from the edge of radius, one of the Marines stood directly behind Vi’ya’s pod and the other inside the hatchway to the bridge, but she had grown so accustomed to their presence she no longer felt that urge to alter her own posture so she could see them at all times.

  They had been quiet and cooperative; the only time they had interfered with the ship’s handling had been to countermand the order by Omilov to approach the Suneater closer than their orders specified. Vi’ya knew they had to have been briefed on everything from Rifter politics to the Eya’a’s lethal psi abilities. They were probably both walking bombs in case she did try to space them and run. Nyberg was putting off as long as possible Dol’jhar’s discovery of the coordinates for Ares.

  But they had made an effort to adapt themselves to the customary usage on Telvarna. The woman had played with Lucifur in quarter-gee, the way the big cliff cat loved, and she’d teased Ivard, which he seemed to enjoy; the man exhibited a taste for ancient music, which Montrose loved. Someone—probably Captain Ng—had gone to some trouble to select two guards who would not be averse to Telvarna’s strange amalgam of a crew. Vi’ya had contemplated this, as well as recent events, during the long wait spent in skip.

  But now Ares lay dead ahead, and she put all other thoughts out of her mind. The com crackled to life with the offer of a tug. Vi’ya refused—interested to note that she could—and began to guide her ship in manually. She could feel the Marines’ sharpened attention. Even for an experienced pilot, and at the mandated slow speeds, Ares had accreted enough hazards in its proximity to require careful attention.

  “Chatz!” Marim exclaimed from the damage-control pod. “Looks like the station sprouted Myrkwudi fungus!”

  Ivard snickered as Vi’ya surveyed the revolving cylinder of Ares, with its stationary cap. A halo of refugee ships surrounded the entire station, an astonishing array that had come in during the weeks they had been seeking the Suneater. They were all in the same solar orbit as Ares. Tugs maneuvered among them, nudging when necessary to compensate for tidal forces. Countless clusters of tiny ships, like insects gathered at a fruit, nearly obscured the Cap.

  Vi’ya steered the Telvarna slowly past a big merchant ship. As they passed its length, her eyes were drawn by the black scarring down one side and the melted nacelles aft. Someone had modified the ship, adding weapons capability—and it was evident it had seen some action.

  “Mmmm,” Montrose rumbled from the back. “I wouldn’t mind a look inside the Vakianos Atheniad there, portside.” He indicated the sleek lines of a fabulously expensive yacht.

  Vi’ya glanced at it, but her interest was drawn to the silvery hulks of three battlecruisers nestled down in the vast pits on Ares’s Cap. She tapped a different view up onto a side screen.

  “Sgatchi!” Marim said. “Look at the closest battleblimp. Those logos-lovers took some hits, huh?” She twisted around in her seat to face the two Marines. “Know who that one belongs to?”

  Vi’ya brought up a closer view of the hull, on which was painted a highly stylized fierce-looking raptor, its two crowned heads facing opposite directions. Surmounted over that was the familiar Sun and Phoenix of the Panarchy. Both were partially obscured by lazplaz scoring.

  “That’s the Astraea,” Zhedong said from his post beside the hatchway. His voice was flat, but Vi’ya felt a wash of intense emotion: pride, fear, envy. “Its captain is Jeph Koestler.”

  Ivard surprised Vi’ya by saying, “I know that name. He was in one of the last big battles with the Shiidra, wasn’t he? Ended up commanding a frigate when he was middy or something?”

  “Or something,” Zhedong said, smiling.

  Vi’ya turned her attention back to navigating. The hazards were more numerous now, but she brought the Telvarna on a smooth path closer and closer to the Cap.

  The com issued another offer, more authoritative this time, of a tractor into the bay gaping ahead. Vi’ya declined, and after a minute or two, was granted permission for a manual approach.

  This brought them close enough to distinguish the makes of the ships in the various pits marking the top of the Cap. Now very few pits were empty, and around every ship the tiny lights of repair vehicles darted, as shuttles made their ponderous way to and fro in a bewildering but stately pattern.

  Directed by Ares Control, Vi’ya nosed the Telvarna through a lockfield into a bay and settled the ship neatly on the scarred deck, so quietly the only sound was the engines winding down. Around Vi’ya the others’ emotions were sharp: excitement, anticipation, relief from the Marine directly behind her pod. Reluctantly Vi’ya tapped out the commands to permit access to the engines, then she rose and left the bridge, hearing behind her the decisive tread of one of the Marines.

  Ivard ran ahead and activated the ramp, then he and the Kelly rushed down to the deck, Lucifur swarming after them wi
th a soft thudding of feline paws. From the rec room Sebastian Omilov and the tall Dol’jharian, Manderian, appeared. Omilov made a formal courtesy to Vi’ya. “Thank you, Captain. With your permission, I will remain here to oversee the transfer of my data.”

  As he spoke, techs in coveralls formed up just below the ramp, faces upturned expectantly.

  Vi’ya knew that his request was merely a polite formality. In consenting to return to Ares, she had to agree to surrender her ship. But so strong was his moral authority—the Praerogate who had saved the Panarchy—that the techs waited for her to say, “Over to you.”

  She was about to start down the ramp when a couple of the more impatient techs began mounting—and then rapidly backtracked as, behind Vi’ya, the Eya’a approached, bare, twiggy feet scratching the deck plates.

  The techs faded back as the Eya’a glided down the ramp. Vi’ya suppressed the urge to laugh as Manderian approached and raised his hands to semaphore, “We go to your hive.”

  The Eya’a flashed twiggy fingers in the air, “We go to our hive.”

  Manderian turned to Vi’ya. “I will escort them to Detention Five.” Vi’ya saw he had his boswell on—he’d obviously received orders from somewhere.

  Montrose joined Vi’ya at the top of the ramp. “Surgery is closed up. Time to find out if I still have my old job.” His right hand brushed against his side, three fingers down in Markham’s old signal: Talk later.

  He passed her by, the ramp booming under his heavy step. She watched as each of her people was greeted by military personnel and taken away for separate debriefing. The Kelly veered off and went toward another hatch. Their hoots and blats echoed in the bay.

  Omilov had vanished inside the ship. After Vi’ya descended, the techs rushed in a body up the ramp and also vanished. From inside came the murmur of voices.

  “Captain,” the closest Marine said, “Commander Nyberg requests your presence for a debriefing.”

  There was no refusing, of course, however it was worded, but she found the politeness interesting; their first arrival at Ares what felt like years ago had brought no such niceties. They had merely been herded off to be searched for weapons, had been informed of their options (few), the rules (many), and had been taken to their assigned quarters in Detention Five.

  With the efficient smoothness peculiar to the military, the two Marines stationed themselves at Vi’ya’s either side and led the way across the bay, through a different hatchway into a waiting transtube, which one of them set into motion. No one else was on it.

  The long journey to somewhere deep within the Cap passed in silence. Vi’ya was not disposed to talk, concentrating instead on holding off the bombardment of minds that intensified steadily. She sensed both Marines’ attention also infocused: they were probably receiving a steady stream of situation reports and orders via boswell.

  She expected more guards and retinal scans, but there were none, only a quick journey up a lift to a corridor whose carpet and muted but well-designed lines indicated flag country. At the end of the corridor the Marines stopped before a door, which slid open with soundless speed. One Marine motioned for Vi’ya to go inside, after which the door closed at her back.

  Vi’ya walked down the short hallway past archways to a large room dominated by a wall-sized port affording a breathtaking view down the length of Ares’s cylinder.

  The guards had faded, leaving her alone. Vi’ya’s boots sank into thick white carpeting. A random air current brought to her a trace of a rare, tangy herb. Markham’s scent—memory impacted her with all the force of the unexpected—

  And then another, fiercer impact, when she passed room dividers and saw not Markham’s shade, or even Commander Nyberg, but Brandon Arkad, framed at the extreme right of the port, his blue eyes wide.

  Did he get that scent from Markham, or was it yet another of those things that Markham took from the Krysarch Brandon whom he had mimicked so faithfully? She would never know, for she could not ask. It was difficult enough to control her response.

  Brandon smiled. “Well? Are you surprised? Did I manage to keep you from hearing me?” He tapped the side of his head and then held out his hands in welcome.

  “I did not hear you,” Vi’ya said, moving not to his open arms, but to the huge port. It was real, a mute testimony to the power now held by the man with whom she was now alone. Very few people could command a room with a real port for just an interview.

  “Any trouble on the mission?”

  “None,” she said. “No traces, which probably means there was no one out there to pick up ours.”

  Though that was not what he was asking. But until she had regained her equilibrium, she would stick to superficials.

  He had his own sensitivity, to a remarkable degree. “You’ll find changes here,” he said. “For the worse. Despite our best efforts it was inevitable the coordinates for Ares would get out to the Dol’jharians, but since they can’t attack, they’ve done the next best thing.”

  “Released the coordinates into the Net,” Vi’ya said, considering the strategic situation: Ares located within the gravity well of the red giant it orbited, beyond the range of any weapon short of throwing an asteroid. Eusabian of Dol’jhar would not waste the time on that. His intent now was to power the Suneater; with it he could easily detonate any sun whose gravity well Ares relocated to. “Where are you going to put them all? And how do you process them for saboteurs?”

  “There’s a staging point, already nicknamed the Reef. Processing goes through a Navy team. It’s slow, but it’s as thorough as can be managed. Once they come here . . .” He shook his head. “We’re building more temporary domiciles. Want something to drink?” He moved to a console.

  She kept her gaze on the silver-gleaming curve of the cylinder. “No,” she said.

  Unfortunately, though she kept her gaze on the view, she could feel his proximity and sense the dizzying alterations in his complex emotional spectrum. Markham had been her mate, and losing him had been the most painful event in a life wherein pain had set an exacting standard—or had been until she met Brandon Arkad and discovered that Markham’s sense of humor and compassion and taste in music, even the tricks of gesture that somehow combined grace with humor, even the cadences of his speech, all had been artificial reflections of Brandon Arkad’s sun.

  The only defense she had had was escape. Denied it, she had withdrawn behind a shield of anger. With laughing challenge he had broken that, leaving her to face the truth.

  He stayed on the other side of the room. She breathed; the scent was still there.

  “Are you angry with me again?” He spoke softly. “It was not my choice that we did not meet after my father was killed.”

  Vi’ya closed her eyes against the glorious infinity of space. “I know,” she said, remembering how—with the Eya’a amplifying her psi abilities despite her will—she could feel the depth of his grief across the kilometer-wide gulf separating his quarters from hers aboard Captain Ng’s Grozniy. Afterward, everything he had been denied access to while his position was anomalous had been opened to him. “We left for our mission before your first briefing had ended. Omilov was almost as impatient as the Eya’a.”

  He said, “I’ve received the briefest preliminary report on the success of your mission, but I’d like to hear your perspective on it.”

  This she could do. Describing the Suneater as precisely as she was able to steadied her—took the focus of her mind away from the Arkad’s mesmerizing emotional tones to the complexities of military, political, and xenological interests in Omilov’s find.

  When she finished, she believed herself steady enough to face him at last. “Omilov doesn’t want you to destroy that station,” she said. “He’s going to exert whatever influence he has to preserve it.”

  Brandon inclined his head. He had seated himself across the room, his chin leaning on laced fingers as he listened. With his attention otherwhere she could observe him; the recent weeks had changed him, made him se
em older. “Nyberg, Ng, and the rest are going to want to destroy it—much easier than mounting an invasion.” He looked up, his expression concerned, questioning. But he asked nothing personal. “Did you get much more about the Suneater?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Orders were to stand out at least a light-day—”

  “Transponders,” the Arkad said with another nod. “Of course Eusabian has raided whatever naval stores he’s captured, and the entire area is probably well seeded.”

  “Which means they will know about an attack the moment your nicks emerge from skip.”

  He drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair. “But we’ll have one of their hyperwaves with us. So we’ll know everything they know—including their orders.”

  “You’ve deciphered Barrodagh’s headers?”

  “Close,” he replied. “I’d say that makes us about even.”

  “Except for the skipmissiles. And whatever else he’s found on that station.”

  “Sifting Barrodagh’s broadcasts for truth has been absorbing the attention of a good-sized team,” Brandon said with a quick smile. “But this much is clear: they haven’t been able to establish control of the station yet.”

  “But Eusabian still has the silver sphere, yes?”

  “As far as we know they had the Heart of Kronos with them when they arrived at the Suneater.” He looked up, his eyes narrowed with sudden mirth. “Be a priceless joke if after all that chasing around, the damn thing doesn’t work.”

  Vi’ya thought about the terrible effort—and the lives—that had been expended to obtain the sphere for Eusabian.

  And she’d had it in her hands.

  And lost it.

  “It’s probably nothing so simple,” she said.

  He rose to his feet. “Cheer up.” He opened his hands. “You lost it. I lost it. If we had it now we still wouldn’t know what to do with it. And there is that possibility it no longer functions. It had been housed on the Shrine Planet for millions of years.”