He swayed dizzily, as though the planet under him had flinched away from another blow from orbit, then he recognized the rolling motion of a mild quake. A muted comment from Osri brought a fragment of the leading guardsman’s explanation as he waved Brandon through the hatch of the ship: “... faults are well lubricated, but there are always some undischarged tensions...”
The planet was beginning to ring in a resonance excited by the near-cee impacts of the Rifter missiles. It had taken the Shiidra more than two weeks to get this far in their siege of Alpheios. What do they have on that ship up there? He watched the sky a moment longer, then, sensing the pressure of the guard’s impatience, followed Osri onto the ship.
The craft’s plasma jets burped to life even as the hatch closed, and by the time Deralze had strapped himself into his seat, they were already crossing the outlying suburbs of Merryn. The ship shuddered as they entered transonic flight and then the only sound was the faint whine of the jets.
The trip to the booster field was accomplished in silence. Deralze sensed that Omilov’s son was trying to justify leaving his father, and having no success. Brandon watched the pilot handling the small ship, his face blank.
How long would the flight to Ares be? Except among those in the very highest levels of state, the location of the Naval Station was found only in coded chips like the one that would be installed in their escape craft, and not only did the codes change, but from time to time, Ares moved. As a major deterrent to real and potential enemies, the uncertainty of Ares’ location was an important asset of the Navy, and jealously guarded. Deralze, remembering that the last time Brandon and Osri had seen one another was right after Markham vlith-L’Ranja had been formally cashiered from the Naval Academy, braced himself for a grim trip. And at the end...
—Arrest and trial, for himself and his charge.
Deralze wondered if Brandon had looked that far ahead. Again the Krysarch was contemplating the Archon’s ring, his profile closed. He has.
The lights of the booster field streamed below them, and Deralze forced his attention away from the future. First they had to live through the launch. Unless a miracle happened, that destroyer up there would zap them the moment they boosted past the Shield.
At the field the techs fitted them for suits while they waited for the final checkout on the escape craft to be completed. The directional-stress dyplast that would brace him against the savage acceleration and protect against possible air loss was cool against Deralze’s skin, until the thermal sensors stabilized. Then he could no more feel it than his own skin, until he moved, when subtle pulls and checks of his motions announced the suit’s function.
After his fitting, Brandon stood at a window facing the field, watching the preparation of the module.
Behind him Osri fretted, demanding adjustment of this and that segment of his suit. From time to time the queasy motion of a temblor manifested the tensions building in the planet’s crust. Like all machines, the teslas were not one hundred percent efficient: the Shield, which translated momentum through ninety degrees, could withstand the pounding of the missiles far longer than the fragile human-built cities could withstand the effects of the energy its losses were coupling into the crust.
Finally a small maglev whisked them to the ship, accompanied by a single technician, and a small platform lifted them to the hatch. Deralze watched their distorted reflections in the shiny black metal of the towering booster as they ascended—the crimson glare from the heavens made it look as if they were in Hell. The inside of the escape module was claustrophobic: two acceleration pods were embayed side by side in a wraparound console, an arm of which jutted aft between the two seats. There was no viewport, only two screens. Behind these pods was an even smaller passenger pod, with no screens or controls.
Deralze recognized the vessel from the Academy simulation chips that Brandon used to study so intently: an Ultra Class courier skiff. He remembered the lecturer-voice describing the ship: Just imagine two overstuffed chairs sitting on top of a fiveskip big enough for a frigate. No matter where Ares was, nothing could get them there faster, which was good, because comfort was not part of the design.
Deralze climbed into the tiny passenger pod. He forced himself to relax and submit to the ministrations of the tech as she showed him how his suit connected to the ship, and helped him adjust his helmet. The woman’s quick, precise motions and her intent concentration on her task were oddly comforting.
“When you boost, try to relax,” she said in a quiet, husky voice. “Don’t try to hold your breath, and don’t worry if you feel you can’t breathe—your suit will see that you get enough oxygen. You’ll be under ten gees only about five seconds, then you’ll zero out under geeplane.” She smiled. “It will probably seem like hours. After you reach radius the computer will take you from there, but I’ve programmed genz Omilov’s console for manual piloting if something happens.”
Deralze fought a surge of panic which was not helped by the closed-in dimensions of the passenger pod. Whatever happened, he would be utterly helpless to do anything about it, strapped here without any kind of control in reach.
The tech activated the ship’s console and then left with a soft “Good luck.”
Osri nervously set up his side with slow, fussy movements of his hands—Brandon’s side, identical to Osri’s, was dark except for some communications functions. Deralze watched Brandon tune in to the field-control frequency as he braced himself for the boost ahead.
Boosters were an ancient technology originally used to eliminate the need for high acceleration during takeoff by drawing their thrust from ground-based lasers: only the military used them at the limits of human endurance, and then only under the lash of desperate circumstances. Deralze had experienced a maximum boost once, during his early training days. His and Brandon’s boost from Arthelion had been compensated to an undetectable one gee; the Krysarch had probably never experienced ten gravities for more than a brief moment, in the mock dogfights that had eventually terminated his and Markham’s careers at the Academy.
Reminded of Markham, Deralze wondered where Markham was—whether he knew about the firefight going on above them, or not—and then the raspy voice of Field Control interrupted. “Shield Control, this is Laggam Field. Ready to boost.”
He couldn’t hear the acknowledgment. A red light illuminated the interior of the courier, instructions scrolled up the screens, and moments later soft padded restraints pushed his limbs into the proper position for launch and his helmet snapped shut.
Now the voice came over their helmet intercoms, to give them psychological space to prepare themselves. “Timing sequence initiated...”
They were waiting until just after the next skipmissile impact, when the Shield would be safe from another for a period.
“... four... three... two... one... Boost!” The last word blurred in Deralze’s ears as the entire universe sat down hard on him, and his vision went gray.
o0o
Tallis chewed morosely on his thumb while watching the tactical display. On the viewscreen the northern hemisphere of Charvann rippled with light, waves of iridescence marching northward from the equator.
The Satansclaw was under power in a forced orbit, its accelerator tube oriented on the coordinates Hreem had given them. Several windows on the screen showed a scan of surrounding space, with data overlays displaying objects too faint to see, and indicating velocity, mass, distance, and other computer-generated information. The Esteel was a bright blot nearby, the Flower of Lith a fainter one past the limb of Charvann. Smaller blotches denoted various communications and weather satellites, as well as debris from the recent battle. It was the debris, with its random mix of velocities, that worried Tallis: a perfect screen for unpleasant Panarchist surprises.
What had that quickcode meant? Who, or what, had received it—and answered? They’re on about something. There’s something out there in all that junk. A cold finger wormed its way down his back as he envisioned trying t
o fight off a lance contingent of Marines.
“Report,” he subvocalized. “Tactical.”
“NO THREAT PERCEIVED AT THIS TIME,” replied the logos in its passionless voice. “MONITORING BATTLE DEBRIS AS INSTRUCTED. MOVEMENT IS APPARENTLY RANDOM.”
Tallis tried to relax and leave the tacticals to the machine. So far, its performance had been flawless. Its advice and tactical support had kept the Satansclaw untouched during the battle, while accounting for two enemy vessels. Most important, to the crew it had looked like Tallis’s work. The awe in some of their faces had given him a visceral thrill that was addictive in its intensity. He leaned back and luxuriated in the memory, which helped him to ignore the ache in his butt and the grit in his eyes from running close to three watches in a row. But he didn’t dare rest, or release his primary crew. Not yet.
An update rippled across the main screen, bringing his attention back to the display. His eyes ranged anxiously across the many windows, some of which showed only fast-moving objects or close-up scans, as he worried that something had moved in the ones he wasn’t looking at.
The Satansclaw had been decommissioned from the Panarchy’s service more than four hundred years before the Karroo Syndicate had finally restored its weapons, but there still was too much information on the screen for Tallis to follow comfortably. He knew the logos was dealing easily with it, but he couldn’t stop trying to make sense of the display. He could feel a titanic headache building from the strain.
The screen shimmered again as the computer adjusted the view, and this time Tallis started as some of the light blotches shifted slightly. He glanced quickly around the bridge; only one of his crew had noticed his reaction. Anderic’s eyes met his, and the communications tech raised an eyebrow and nodded faintly toward the screen. He knew what that quickcode portended, even if the rest of the monitors hadn’t guessed.
Tallis lifted his chin and fixed Anderic with his coldest and most forbidding frown. You ugly, long-nosed maggot! You’d better keep your mouth shut.
The tech dropped his gaze and turned back to his console, his shoulders tight with tension.
Tallis permitted himself a small moue of triumph. I wish Luri had seen that... Tallis indulged himself for a few moments with planning a little dramatic interaction designed to remind Luri, Anderic, and the crew just who was master of the Satansclaw. Then, remembering what had occasioned the recent exchange, he turned his attention back to his screen and resolved to watch Anderic more closely.
Tallis noted the large faint spot of light that represented the Node and congratulated himself on having stationed the Satansclaw quite near that central synchronous community— too near, as he had hoped, for the battlecruiser to risk targeting him with a ruptor. His mind glossed over the fact that the logos had made the recommendation, with the thought that he had bought the logos, so the credit was his anyway.
Hreem thinks he’s so smart—but I saw what his bridge looked like afterward. Tallis sniffed in disgust and reached with a leisurely, nicely judged gesture to tap in a close-up of the Node on one of the auxiliary screens. Once the cruiser had been zapped he had been glad to take up station away from that looming mass. Not that any synchronous community was armed—they were too large and fragile to be defendable. Nonetheless, there were too many hiding places that might shelter a nasty surprise among the Node’s branching array of cylinders, like a huge crystal of some exotic chemical...
A crystal... That’s good! he thought, arrested by the simile that had just bubbled up. Tallis leaned his head sideways, into the focus of the pinmike, and started to repeat it into his journal. He was so taken with his flash of poesy despite the trying circumstances, and was so enjoying the sensuous flow of his words, that he failed to hear and recognize the faint rattle of bracelets and the unsteady tick-tick of heels, and to notice the near-simultaneous head-swiveling of everyone on the bridge that announced the arrival of Luri. Then a soft-pointed satin-restrained mass of warm flesh tried to squirm its way into his ear, accompanied by a wave of the perfume that Tallis thought of as Jungle Luststench.
He grimaced. She would pick now to get kewpy. He turned to find himself staring at close range at a fleshy expanse with a notable resemblance to the Canyon on Alta Magnum. His eyes crossed and he pushed her gently away.
“Tal-lis,” she sighed his name on two separate notes, the sigh a sweet inhalation and exhalation that seemed to fixate everyone’s attention on her artfully half-draped attributes.
Tallis was torn between annoyance at her disregard of his orders and gloating awareness of the palpable desire she engendered in just about the entire crew.
“What is it, Luri?” he asked crisply.
Her widely curved, slightly petulant lower lip pouted a little, then Luri slowly shaped her mouth to form a loose and soft kiss. “Mmmm,” she crooned, “don’t be angry with Luri, I just thought you might like a little shakrian, you’ve been up here sooo... long.” She ended with another of those fleshy tsunamis that accompanied her sighs, and shifted her weight in a series of eye-transfixing rounded movements until she was standing behind him. “You must be sooooo tense...” Her fingers drifted over the back of his neck above his stiffly embroidered collar, and pressed with delicate urgency into the muscles at the base of his skull.
Everyone on the bridge except Anderic had swiveled around to stare at Luri; Anderic was watching her, too, all right, but only he was self-possessed enough to position himself so that any change on his board would catch the edge of his vision. They’re all fools, and Anderic’s the worst because he’s a clever fool, Tallis thought grimly.
Ordinarily he would have sent Luri from the bridge, thoughtful gesture notwithstanding, but he felt a distinct urge to enact that little reminder now, in full view of Anderic’s damned ferret eyes, and so he lounged further on his chair, stretching his glossy boots out a little, as he watched the reactions of the crew through half-shut eyes. Ninn, the balding polliwog at Fire Control, swallowed visibly, and Lennart at Damage Control stared, her mouth hanging open. Tallis transferred his gaze back to the screen with no small amount of pleasure.
“Tal-lis,” Luri sang softly.
“Yes,” he responded with just a hint of impatience for the crew’s benefit.
“You’ve been here so lo-ong.” Those two notes again, wistful and sulky. “When are you coming to Luri’s ca-bin?”
Tallis had to fight to keep from smirking in triumph at the blatant invitation in her voice. “Soon, soon,” he answered carelessly. “And remember to turn the gravs back up!” he added in a much lower tone.
“Ohhh,” she made a pouting little noise, “but there’s so... much... one can do in quarter-gee.”
Including stand up straight. She insisted on keeping her cabin in low-gee, which lent a rather startling enhancement to her figure. “There’s nothing if one’s gravsick,” he muttered.
Her fingers continued their sensuous pressures on his neck and jaw as she went on, meaning exuding from her soft voice, “Luri’s been sooooooo bored, she has thought of many... new... games... All she wants is company...”
The length of this intimate conversation was beginning to make him a little uncomfortable. Sitting up slightly, he said with unfeigned impatience, “We can’t do anything until something happens, or that greasebag Hreem gives us the sign, and he’s apparently taking his time out there.”
At Hreem’s name Luri gave a soft sound of disgust. Tallis reached back to pat her hand, and he said in a deep, protective baritone, “Don’t give that bloated slub another thought. I promised you he won’t get near you.”
There was a slight diminution in the airiness of her reply, but a note of truth withal. “As long as he thinks Luri’s willing he won’t try. He likes the chase, that one.”
She gave a great sigh then, which he felt as well as heard, and resumed her hypnotic pressing on all the tension points of his neck and skull. After a long pause she also resumed her litany of loneliness, in that same sweet, longing moan. Tallis’
s replies became more sporadic until, all at once, it occurred to him she was still embroidering her theme with no encouragement from him. Then the astonishing thought hit him that she might not be talking to him at all!
He jerked his head up—and caught sight of Anderic turned completely around, hot gaze locked on a point over Tallis’s head, his mouth stretched in a loose grin that made Tallis leap out of his chair.
“Tal-lis!” Luri jumped back, her purple-lidded eyes round and reproachful, as if she hadn’t just been seducing every one of these slubs with her eyes while supposedly talking to him—especially, from the lust on his damned face, that Anderic!
Stung into honest outrage, Tallis glared silently back at her, at a loss for words. None of the artistic Dol’jharian curses he’d carefully memorized to roll out so sonorously would suit. “Cheat!” he yelped, red with rage, completely forgetting to keep his eyes half-shut so they assumed something less than their natural prominent state. “Damn you! Get off the chatzing—”
A flare of ghostly red light from one of the tactical windows gave him an instant’s warning before a flickering glare ripped at everyone from the screens, followed by a shock as though a giant hand had swatted the ship. The screens filled with streaks of garbage as the computer overloaded, unable to cope with the flood of data the missile’s lasers had painted the ship with before it exploded.
“Tallis!” Luri shrieked. “I can’t see—”
“Sneak-missile!” Tallis roared. “Oolger! Get the sensors back on-line! Everybody on visual!” He jumped back into the command pod and poised his hand over his jump pad, ready to skip out at the slightest sign that the Panarchists were following up the missile with something more deadly. Only his fear of Eusabian, and of Hreem, kept him from jumping immediately.
“Report. Tactical.” He was so shaken that he almost spoke aloud.
“FREEJ-NEESH WALLA ZOO-OPOSH NREE FAZEMPT,” replied the logos in a squeaky falsetto. Its voice dropped three octaves. “REPAIR ALGORITHMS ENGAGED. PLEASE STAND BY.” Then it began singing lugubriously and far too loudly in a language Tallis didn’t recognize, “MAZOO, MAZOO, MEE VRAMESH BOLGOYATNEE. . .” rattling Tallis’s sinus cavities and making his eyes water.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 22
