Battle of the Ring s-2

by Thorarinn Gunnarsson

  “The process should proceed fairly quickly now,” Dyenlerra explained. “You see, they have the genetic advantage. A mating of the old and new always produces a child of the new variety, never one of the old or even a half-breed.”

  She paused, for everyone was watching Consherra closely, for the first officer was preoccupied with feeling the shape of her skull. She found it rather unsettling to be told that she was something other than she had always believed herself to be. It made her feel very alien and alone, and she could well imagine how Velmeran was going to react to this; he felt alien and alone as it was.

  “Shall I send for a mirror?” the medic asked. “Dear girl, you are not going to turn into a Faldennye.”

  “Besides, what do you have to complain about?” Mayelna asked. “I feel like an obsolete model, out-of-date technology.”

  “Returning to the matter of Velmeran,” Dyenlerra reminded them. “He needs our help more than ever just now. To begin with, our other telepaths need to develop their own talents. Velmeran needs Kelvessan he can relate to on his own level. Velmeran did tell me that you are the most promising psychic on this ship.”

  “Yes, although a child compared to him,” Consherra admitted. “Tregloran is a better pure telepath, but he has less luck with related talents.”

  “He also needs to be trained by someone who knows what they are doing, which means the Aldessan of Valtrys,” Dyenlerra continued. “If Valthyrra would be good enough to call Home Base and have them pass the word, I have no doubt that they would send someone out in a hurry to take over his training. And a few months in airdock would be the perfect time for that.”

  “Unfortunately, it will have to wait a while longer,” Consherra said dourly. “There has been another prediction.”

  Valthyrra’s camera pod snapped around to face her. “Now what?”

  “He said that he is going to have to fight Donalt Trace again. He said that the Methryn is going to fight something that we have never seen, and Valthyrra is not going to win. He said that he will have to fight hard to save her.”

  “And why does it have to be his problem?” Dyenlerra demanded.

  “He said that if he does not fight it now, then it will destroy other carriers until he does,” Consherra answered. “I do not like it either. But if his foreseeing is true — and I certainly hope that no one cares to dispute it — then we have no choice.”

  “I have no problem with that,” the ship replied. “I simply applied a little old-fashioned logic to the problem.”

  “How is that?” Mayelna asked suspiciously.

  “Well, the problem arose from the basic assumption that it is impossible to predict the future,” she explained proudly. “But I have observed that Velmeran can indeed predict the future. Therefore, Velmeran can do the impossible.”

  The others stared at her in astonishment.

  “There are certain inherent fallacies in your logic,” Mayelna said. “But if it makes you happy, then I am not about to argue. Consherra, when is this supposed to happen?”

  “Sometime in the next two weeks. Velmeran indicated that we will be called first. Trace will catch another carrier first and thrash it soundly.”

  “Wonderful,” Mayelna said sourly. “That implies that it will not even be in this sector. At least he can have as much vacation as time allows. Valthyrra Methryn, where is the nearest likely port?”

  “Kanis?” she asked after a moment’s consideration. “I can be there in three days.”

  “Good enough.”

  For once in her career as the Commander of the Methryn, Mayelna did not try to look busy when someone entered her private office. She had always thought that she should look busy, as if to impress upon others that she really did serve a vital function on this ship. But not for Velmeran, certainly not this time.

  “I am not disturbing you?” Velmeran asked apprehensively, glancing about the room as she let him in.

  “No, of course not,” she insisted, directing him toward a chair before her desk. “I asked you here.”

  Velmeran nodded absently as he seated himself. “I guess you heard that there is trouble.”

  “Yes, Consherra told us everything you told her,” Mayelna said as she took her seat behind the desk.

  “And you believe me?” he asked fearfully.

  “Yes, we believe you,” she assured him. “All of us. Do you know where and when this will happen?”

  “No, not with any certainty. It will be soon, and in another sector. We must go to him when he makes the first move.”

  “The first move?” Mayelna asked. “Will we lose a ship to him just to learn what he is planning?”

  “No, I am sure of that. He will fight Starwolves and win. But they will flee. And they will call for me. Until then, I can only wait.”

  “And until he reveals his schemes, would you prefer to do your waiting on extended port leave?”

  “Kanis?” he asked immediately.

  “How did…?” Mayelna paused, and shook her head. “I should not have to ask. We will be there in three days. You can go down immediately, and then forget that you are a Starwolf until you are called away.”

  Velmeran leaned back in his chair, his arms folded on his chest. “There are times when I wish that I could forget. But it is a very difficult thing to ignore.”

  “No, not really,” Mayelna said. “Have you never pretended to be human on port leave?”

  “Human?” he asked in disbelief. “How could I possibly pass myself off as human?”

  “Look at this.” Mayelna pulled a photograph from a drawer of her desk and handed it to him. Velmeran recognized it as his mother only because he had been forewarned; in those days of mutant stock, it might have been a human girl of some divergent race. Her lower set of arms were obviously folded behind her back and hidden within the folds of a heavy cape, drawn around her upper shoulders. The dark color and heavy material of her clothes helped to hide any revealing shadows, while a hat disguised the fact that her ears were large, pointed, and not even in the right place. There was nothing that she could do about her immense eyes and tiny nose, but those features were not as noticeable as he thought they would be.

  “When others look at Starwolves, all they ever see is the armor,” Mayelna explained. “Take away that and the second set of arms and they do not know what they are looking at.”

  “Amazing,” Velmeran agreed as he handed back the photograph. “But I do not think I want to play such a game.”

  Mayelna shrugged. “I was only suggesting a diversion. Once this battle is done, you will have all the rest you want. Valthyrra is taking herself into airdock for an overhaul.”

  Velmeran paused a moment, and nodded slowly. “Yes, then I can rest. But Valthyrra will have no choice in the matter. After Trace is finished with her, she is going to need more than an overhaul.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “That is no prediction, but a statement of fact,” he said. “She cannot fight this thing without getting a few dents in her nose.

  But I would not tell her that, since she will not refuse this fight.”

  “No, I imagine not,” Mayelna agreed, and frowned. “Did Dyenlerra talk to you? About what you are?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “And it does not bother you?” she asked cautiously.

  “Bother me?” Velmeran asked. “It comes as something of a relief. Now I feel that I am exactly what I was supposed to be, rather than some type of freak. But I also feel very different from everyone I have ever known.”

  “Not everyone,” Mayelna reminded him. “Do not forget that Consherra is like you, and she will always be with you.”

  Velmeran smiled. “I do not believe that I could ever forget that. She will make certain of it.”

  5

  Among the most ancient legends of the Faldenneh there exists the story of the creation of life. In the earliest days there was just the universe itself, the stars and the empty worlds, and the gods knew a happy existe
nce, free from worry and concern. But in time they came to think that they were lacking something, and so they created all life so that they might have something to worry and care for. It was not long before they realized their mistake.

  Somehow that story came to mind while Velmeran was preparing for port leave. He was beginning to appreciate a few universal rules that governs all life. On the whole, life is a complicated, disagreeable, and largely disillusioning affair, not at all what it was made out to be. And yet all creatures cling desperately to life, perhaps because the alternative appears less attractive. Just now complication was the key feature in his own life. He had no real desire to take port leave, but he could not refuse.

  Standing in his cabin, Velmeran moved his arms around to check the articulation of his new suit. Since he was also the leader of the Methryn’s resident special tactics team, Valthyrra had been very careful about the manufacture of his suit. Consherra, standing nearby, nodded thoughtfully.

  “Good enough,” she said, and retrieved the helmet. “You recall the operation of the new features.”

  Since the chestplate was still open, Velmeran looked down into the folded-down mirror at the controls. Valthyrra had incorporated two special features into his suit. One was a two-way system that allowed him to hear and speak with those outside while his helmet was on. The other was a control device that, when activated, gradually equalized pressure within the suit with that outside. Sudden pressure changes caused a temporary muffling of his acute hearing; during his last raid, he had nearly been shot by a mechanical sentry he should have heard.

  “Everything works fine,” he assured her. “Are you certain that you will not come with me?”

  Consherra shook her head sadly. “I cannot. We will be getting the Methryn battle-ready. Any advice?”

  “Yes, two things. Do not take anything apart that will take more than an hour to put back together again. That is all the warning we will get.”

  “That is understandable,” she agreed. “What else?”

  “Make certain that the conversion cannon is ready for firing.” Consherra paused, startled. The Methryn’s conversion cannon possessed the destructive potential to reduce the planet below them to dust. Valthyrra had never fired the cannon in actual battle, since there was rarely any need for such power. If Velmeran planned to use this weapon, then he expected a battle such as the Starwolves had not seen since the ancient days.

  “Yes, it will come to that.” Velmeran knew well enough what she was thinking. “We will be facing something quite capable of destroying us if we are careless or unlucky.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” she promised. “And you watch out for yourself while you are down there.”

  “I will. Without you to keep me company, I will probably be too bored and lonely to get into trouble.”

  Velmeran hurried down to the landing bay, where he knew that his pack members would be waiting impatiently. They were already in their ships and ready to fly, and he dashed to his own. But he slowed as he neared the centermost of the nine fighters, savoring his first look at his new ship. It radiated newness in the deep matte black of its finish, unscratched by debris and handling and unfaded by cannon flash, hot engines, or the extremes of space.

  Velmeran took his pack out of the bay and, without warning, led them on a wild chase as he tested out his new fighter, defying them to keep pace with him. They were real pilots now, far from the mere students they had been only two years earlier. They were the best pack on the Methryn by far, perhaps the best pack in the entire wolf fleet.

  Although he knew that his days might well be short, this was not a time of sad reflection on what might have been. He was content with what he had accomplished; he would have said at peace, but that suggested a stoic but resigned surrender to one’s fate. He was by no means ready to surrender; his fate was not sealed and he meant to fight for his own life as hard as he fought for the Methryn But in his own order of priorities, the Methryn had to come first.

  Velmeran knew that he could save his ship, but saving his own life in the process was problematical. He looked upon his apparent ability to glimpse the future as a method of forewarning, not a pronouncement of inescapable fate. There were always alternatives, and most of his forewarnings were self-defeating because they revealed those alternatives. Just because he had not yet seen those alternatives did not mean that they did not exist.

  Such thoughts occupied his mind for the flight down to the port, but his first look at the mountainous landscape rising swiftly beneath him chased away such brooding thoughts. Kanis was a second home for the Starwolves. In terms of their balance of power, Kanis was Starwolf property, one of several worlds deep within Union space that enjoyed the freedom and independence that Starwolf protection brought. In practice, Kanis was an independent world, an empire self-contained in its own system, self-governed and free of the economic tyrrany of the trade companies. Its governing council did treat with the Union as one nation dealt with another, making trade concessions and treaties. Small allowances, but it kept the Union placated.

  Still, no one doubted that the Union would arrive in force if the Starwolves relaxed their voluntary protection. In return for this service, Kanis was a strong supporter of the Starwolves. The Kelvessan enjoyed port leaves here such as they seldom knew, free from danger and at liberty to be their true selves, not their carefully maintained image of armored death.

  Kanis itself obliged by being climatically ideal for the physical requirements of the Kelvessan. Most of its two major continents were extremely mountainous and situated in thick bands just below the polar seas. Thus the climate was cool at best, the summers short and pleasant and the winters long and harsh. The native population had been there long enough to adapt somewhat to the adverse climate, and they found it no hardship. For Starwolves, Kanis was something of a paradise, one of the very few inhabited worlds where it was both safe and practical for them to come out of their armored shells.

  Kanis remained a frontier world, very sparsely populated, lacking in vast reserves of natural resources that would attract settlers and industry. Most of the natives were ‘Rangers’, keeping vast herds of langies — indigenous beasts of vast size, sharp wit, and evil temper — in the high mountain plains. Langie wool was a luxury item throughout the Union, so high in demand that trade companies argued among themselves for a share of the limited market. The wool was so profitable that the animals were seldom slaughtered, although a good langie hide was nearly worth its weight in gold. ‘Ranging’ was a harsh life for the natives, but rewarding.

  Velmeran brought his pack down in the port field — such as there was. Kallenes was the only port, and even it saw little traffic except in late spring when scores of company freighters would descend upon it for their share of the thousands of bales of langie wool brought in from the highlands. Otherwise there was one ship in port at most, importing machines and luxury goods the Kanians could well afford.

  The main business district was near the port, for the convenience of the members of ship’s crew and for the rangers who came into port to sell their wool. The main part of the shopping, district was the Mall, several blocks of the port’s best shops and restaurants that had been enclosed under a protective roof. It made no pretensions toward the domed cities of the inner worlds, a crude frontier flattery of the wealth at the Union’s heart. A simple wooden platform on heavy posts stretched between the roofs of the buildings. No attempt was made to enclose a warm, comfortable environment beneath. It was meant only to keep away the worst of the local weather, the harsh winds and volumes of snow that fell more than half the year.

  Indeed, there had been a serious attempt to preserve the frontier appearance within the Mall, for Kanis could afford better. The shop fronts were dressed out in rough-cut wood and large windows of framed glass, while the narrow streets were paved in brick, stone, and planks of seasoned wood. Velmeran was not certain just who the natives were trying to impress with this touristlike atmosphere where there were
no tourists, although his own suspicion was that they simply preferred things this way.

  Velmeran first took his pack to a local jeweler, where they could sell the pieces of jewelry they received as pay for local money. Their business concluded, he dismissed his pilots to enjoy their port leave as they desired. The Mall was large enough to swallow up an entire ship’s portion of pilots so well that a glimpse of black armor became rare, and he wanted to be alone. Or so he thought, until he looked around and wondered what he was actually going to do with his port leave. If this was how he proposed to spend what might be the last days of his life, he would be better off to return to the ship, retire to his cabin, and read Shakespeare. Or Kipling, for all the good this did him.

  Still pondering this problem, Velmeran began to walk slowly down the street, peering inside each shop as he passed. There were few people in the narrow streets; with winter coming, the rangers had long since returned to the highlands. Even beneath the protective canopy, the morning air was sharply frigid. After only a moment he came upon a tailor’s shop, an oddity that was more than enough to distract him. He knew what a tailor was, but he had thought that such an occupation had long since ceased to exist.

  What captivated his interest even more was the fact that the tailor was a Feldennye, for that defied all reason. The Feldennye were a canine race, in appearance not unlike large wolves walking on their hind legs. Since they wore no clothes except for their own natural fur coats, it was unimaginable that one would choose such a profession. The Feldennye saw his staring and hurried to open the door.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked eagerly in a thick accent that indicated that he had come from a Feldenneh colony.

  “Surely not, I suppose,” Velmeran replied. “I could wear nothing of yours.”

  “Oh, there you are wrong!” the tailor insisted, surprising Velmeran again by taking him by the hand and pulling him into the shop. No one dared to touch a Starwolf, but Velmeran was so bemused that he went along willingly.