He slapped at the code pads until he succeeded in making it somewhat quieter.
The screens cleared partially to reveal the Shield curdled into a whirlpool of spinning light. Well above its center, a dazzling point of light hurtled up at tremendous speed. “Cap’n, the Shield’s irised!”
“VRAMESH NEENOR PUNGLI PUNGLA...”
Tallis shook his head to dislodge the manic voice of the logos. “Ninn! They’re boosting! Target them and charge up a missile!”
The squat Rifter keyed in a command, then banged a fist on his console in frustration, yelling back, “Charging! But I can’t do a chatzing thing more if that stupid pinch-face doesn’t give the computer its eyes back.”
Oolger stabbed angrily at his console and was rewarded by a violently flickering moiré pattern overlaid on the direct visual that blotted out the view of their escaping quarry. The scantech gave a blurred shout as his angular body arched back sharply, and his heels drummed against the base of his chair in the senseless rhythm of a seizure.
Anderic pushed him brutally to the floor and slid into his seat. Tallis opened his mouth to bellow a reprimand, then paused as the screens began to clear.
“Come on...” coaxed Ninn, hunched over caressing his controls, gaze fixed on his screen. “Come on... my lovely... open your eyes now,” he crooned. It almost looked as if he was bent in devotion to the little Gorgon’s head he had affixed above his station. It glittered coldly above its apparent worshiper, its dead eyes disapproving as the seconds slipped by, accompanied by harsh snoring noises from Oolger.
The sounds reminded Tallis of a ritual strangling his sponsor at Karroo had shown him once, with the demented burblings of the logos furnishing an idiotic counterpoint.
“BOOZHA LARRIM NIESHH TI-CHRAMEN—”
Tallis watched the screen anxiously as the booster climbed steadily toward freedom, still obscured by overlaid patches of random data. Luri pushed close against him and with one shaking hand straightened out her filmy gown. “Is this an attack?” she asked in a subdued voice.
Tallis shot her a glance of annoyance. He didn’t need additional distractions; he could barely think straight with the idiot machine maundering away inside his head. “No.” He aimed the word over one shoulder. “It was a trick, a trap laid by those karra-cursed Panarchists.”
He gave the Dol’jharian word karra a harshly theatrical twist, but noticed Anderic’s face pruned in scorn at the scan console. Tallis remembered that the tech had watched the same vid where he’d heard Eusabian say the word, and he knew Anderic recalled the hint of distant thunder carried by the Dol’jharian accent, which he couldn’t reproduce.
Luri had never heard Eusabian speak and had freely expressed her wish that she never would. She stroked the back of Tallis’s head. Tallis remembered overhearing her saying that he was never more interesting than when he was angry—at someone else. He felt a tingle of renewed lust at the touch of her hand, despite his anger and anxiety, and he wondered, not for the first time, if she had been gennated for pheromonal production, or something similar. How else to explain her overwhelming sexuality?
“Get off the bridge,” Tallis muttered, and then raised and harshened his voice. “Anderic...”
“It’s coming, Captain.”
Tallis felt the quiet precision of his voice as a veiled insult and threat, and he turned his attention to Ninn, whose pleadings had degenerated into a sickening melange of baby-talk and curses, accompanied by a weird little bobbing dance in his chair. Tallis had never seen him with a partner, and at times like this he could see why.
“Ninn, what’s taking that blunge-suck of a fire console long?”
He was answered by a rapid series of chirps from Ninn’s console. The tech turned to glare at him in triumph and crow, “Got ’em locked!”
“Well, fire, maggot-brain!” Tallis’s voice broke on a scream—the escaping booster was practically at radius. Then he remembered he had the override on and, face crimson with rage and embarrassment, slammed his fist down on his fire pad.
o0o
“Eyes on, Bikara!” the Archon stabbed a finger at the main screen.
Omilov peered past his shoulder , watching as targeting darts appeared around a faint point of light in its upper left corner. A blue line darted from the point to the enhanced image of the Esteel at the center of the screen. The view shrank as three more windows swelled onto the screen. Now both remaining Rifter destroyers could be seen, along with a view of the planet’s surface.
“Closing at point-one, along with a lovely trash-reef from BahnUtulo.”
Omilov smiled at the pride in Bikara’s voice. He suspected from occasional remarks that Bikara had let fall at private dinners hosted by the Archon that the BahnUtulo Highdwelling was still home to her, for all that she’d been downside for twenty years now. Her loyalty, and the backing of the Utuloa Family, had been an early and welcome gift to a too-young Archon, Tanri had once confided to Omilov. He had said, laughing, “Sixteen years ago, at my accession, a journalist had said rather pompously, ‘The fealty of a Highdweller to a Downsider Archon’... but I’m not, anymore.”
This was a subject that Omilov had often canvassed with Tanri in private conversation. How far Tanri had changed from the decidedly geocentric Archon of his teens was underscored yet again by Omilov’s bewilderment. Omilov knew that he saw the universe from the perspective of a Downsider. Highdweller slang was still incomprehensible to him.
The Archon must have perceived his lack of understanding, because he said, “A surprise for that Rifter frigate. It’s hiding in a cloud of debris released by the sync.”
“The last of the surprises you mentioned earlier, prepared by a not-so-trusting ancestor? Humor and paranoia would appear an unlikely combination.”
“True!” The Archon chuckled. “That’s probably why he’s known to this day as Glefin the Sour—the only Faseult Archon who lacked a sense of humor. He was quite proud of that particular weapon.”
Another soundless impact shook the defense room, accompanied by a wave of visual distortion. A surge of nausea boiled through Omilov, who saw the same discomfort reflected by the others, Highdweller and Downsider alike. .
A flicker from the screen announced a screen update. The data lag was almost six seconds—the interference from the Shield was making heavy demands on the computers.
“Too bad we can’t give the Satansclaw more than just a poke in the eye,” the Archon continued, “but there isn’t as much debris near it. Still, we should be able to blind him long enough for your son and the Krysarch to get away.” He pointed at the other window, where the Flower of Lith hung menacingly. “That’s where the main action will take place.”
Even as he spoke, a brilliant point of light flared near the Lith and darted toward it. Its apparent impact, and the excited shout from the monitors on the floor below, followed almost simultaneously, so fast did it move.
“Lance impact on the Flower of Lith.” Bikara’s voice held controlled excitement as her hands moved with unhurried precision across her console. “Com relays report negative so far.”
“They’re no doubt far too busy to worry about warning the other Rifters,” the Archon commented.
For a time there was silence, broken only by Bikara’s occasional status reports, but no word came from the Marines. If the lance attack failed, Omilov wondered, how would they know? Then he remembered the Rifter’s face and knew. He’ll no doubt inform us—with an ultimatum.
“Laggam Field reports ready to boost,” reported Bikara finally.
“Commence,” the Archon said.
A faint sparkle of light glimmered quite near the other destroyer that the Archon had identified as the Satansclaw, but before Omilov could ask the Archon about it, the window relaying a view of the frigate was swallowed by a fierce blast of light and went black for some time. The Esteel. When that view came back, the frigate was gone, replaced by a misshapen cloud of light.
“Glefin the Sour laughs last!” ex
claimed Omilov. “Whatever was that?”
The Archon grinned. “That, my friend, was a four-hundred-fifty-year-old gigaton fusion bomb—and an old promise come true. Old Glefin was bitterly disappointed that he never got a chance to use any of his clever traps, so he ordered that he be embalmed and sealed up in that weapon when he died, declaring that he’d put a lot of work into it and he intended to be around when it was finally used. That’s why my third greatfather left it up there when he cleaned up inner space back under Burgess II.”
Omilov laughed aloud, in more relief than humor. The Archon beamed, then laughed, too, as a message scrolled up the now-empty window: Glefin 1 Rifter 0, accompanied by whooping cheers and catcalls from the floor.
Bikara’s thin face lightened briefly, then she nodded at the screen. “Shield dilating.”
In the window displaying the vast curve of Charvann they could see a vast whirl of light, with the booster the bright head of a brilliant green pin piercing its center. Then the green thread winked out. The hole in the Shield dwindled and was gone, just before another impact shook the room. The room became silent as the booster climbed steadily toward freedom.
“Twenty seconds to radius. No response from Satansclaw. No word from the Marines.”
“Why don’t they fire?” asked Omilov, staring at the destroyer lying quietly in space.
“They’re blind—no targeting data.”
Omilov sensed that his questions were distracting the Archon, and he suppressed his next question.
The next fifteen seconds passed with glacial slowness, the little point of light that the Archon was risking all for climbing too slowly, the destroyer hanging apparently unmoving, unseeing, but still deadly.
A great groan rose from the monitors as the chain-of-pearls wake of a skipmissile finally streaked toward the booster from the Satansclaw, ending in a flash of light at the base of another, more diffuse and intermittent chain of light spheres. The groan cut off, was replaced by murmurs, and at last a ragged cheer rising in volume as they realized what had happened, but Omilov stood still in shock, his left hand tingling again as he contemplated his son’s death, and Brandon’s.
The Archon saw his expression. “Sebastian, it’s not what you think! That’s them, they’re away now, with some damage, I’d guess, but unless that Rifter captain is very good, they’ve got an excellent chance.” He turned to Bikara. “What can you see?”
“Cerenkovs are out, so they can be tracked, and I’d guess their high end is gone.” She grimaced. “It’ll be a long trip to Ares.”
The Archon gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sebastian. Those couriers are equipped for trouble. They may not enjoy the flight, but they’ll get there.”
SEVEN
Dyarch Tepple swallowed painfully and triggered another dose of nonauz with his chin console, not taking his eyes from the little screen that displayed his lance’s prey. The destroyer was almost close enough—only a few seconds more until he triggered the overload that would take them through their target’s shields.
With sixteen effectives out of thirty, and no backup. The explosion of the Korion, whatever the cause, had destroyed the other lances and inflicted severe damage on the Diggerwasp and a withering blast of radiation on its thirty Marines. Almost half were dead now, baked alive in their gee-tanks, and the rest knew they had only hours left before collapse. If that, he thought, as an agonizing cramp gripped him. He tried to double up to ease the pain, but his heavy battle armor wouldn’t budge. Good thing the servos weren’t engaged... I’d have ripped the tank right out of the deck.
An overlay flashed on the screen to warn him that the garbage drift they were using for cover would take them out of optimum range if he delayed any longer. Well, they’d made their plans as best they could. Even as sick as they were, he figured they had about an even chance against a five-hundred-year-old destroyer manned by Rifters. He tried out his voice—hoarse but serviceable—and triggered the intercom. “Time to shut your face or suck vacuum, Mary. Prepare for gees.” The ancient insult which had prefaced boarding sallies for a thousand years brought a spate of equally traditional replies, which died away when several Marines began to retch and hurriedly shut off their comms.
The dyarch closed his own faceplate and engaged the attack sequence. He was stirred yet again by the pealing trumpets of the Phoenix Fanfare, the theme of every Arkads’ ship going into battle across the Thousand Suns since Jaspar I imposed his peace on human space. Then the computer triggered the engines, and there was no more time to think or hear or speak.
o0o
Despite his watchfulness, Hreem almost didn’t see the boarding lance that took the Lith just under the base of the bridge, cutting it off from the missile and power rooms. An especially thick drift of battle debris had afforded it the cover it needed to get close enough for its final lunge. He caught barely a glimpse of a long, dark needle, its deadly symmetry marred by a melted streak along its back, before its nose burst into a flare of light and the screen window blacked out.
The Lith juddered. The floor slapped up at his feet as the shaped nuclear charge ripped through the destroyer’s shield, followed by the lance, its contingent of Marines protected by a destructive overload of its geeplane. Hreem fell back into his pod. His ears popped as the hatch slammed shut, sealing the bridge, followed by the chilling cyclic whoop of the pressure alarm. A muffled bang rattled up through the deck, bringing a vivid image to his mind’s eye, from the serial chips of his youth, of the front of the lance blowing off to disgorge a wave of heavily armed and armored Marines.
“Dyasil—gimme windows on the jac crews,” bellowed Hreem, “and track those chatzing Marys! Pili, status!”
“No problems, missile charging... discharge.”
The screen rolled up four windows at the bottom. Three showed the firejac crews outside the power and missile rooms and the bridge; the fourth grabbed the attention of all on the bridge. It showed a file of bulky figures in iridescent-blue armor emerging from a gaping hole in a bulkhead, the corridor around them warped and melted, and littered with fragments of metal. Then the scene flared and blanked.
“Lost ’em, the logos-chatzing blunge-eaters,” swore Dyasil. “Firejac!” He tapped at his console while Hreem yelled commands at the firejac crews, who were already struggling into light armor. It wouldn’t save them from a direct hit from a jac, like the Marines’ servo-armor, but it would keep them from being fried by energy reflected from the corridor walls.
“There they are!” Dyasil yelped, and an image of the Marines popped up on the screen again. Now there were only four: one of them was kneeling in front of an open inspection plate, probing at something inside with a delicate feeler extended from a gauntlet. “Wait a minute!” screeched Dyasil. “No, you chatzer, get out of there!”
He slapped frantically at his console but was too late. A jeering chatter swelled from the com, followed by a flood of gibberish on all screens. All the data overlays and windows vanished, as well as all internal views, leaving only the main view of the flaring limb of Charvann. The Marine had crashed the bridge computers.
“Pimma morushka hai datsenda nafar!” Hreem’s voice cracked with fear and rage. They were pulling the Lith apart around his ears. If he got out of this he’d feed that Barrodagh slug his own tongue for promising him an easy target.
The sight of another hypermissile impacting the Shield mollified him only a little; the backup fire-control had taken over without a hiccup, but precious little good did that do him, isolated on the bridge with no way of knowing what was going on. The only comfort, and bare comfort at that, was that there was only one lance. And it was damaged, too.
“Dyasil, you stinking blit, get me through to the jac crews now! Erbee, get the computers back up!” Hreem was too worried to add a threat to the commands. His hand paused over the com keys, then he remembered he could not check on Norio’s safety. Cursing on a rising note, he ran over to the weapons locker and tossed two-hand firejacs to
those of the bridge crew that could be spared from their consoles, taking one for himself.
Erbee hunched close over his screen, the knobs of his backbone showing through his thin shirt, his fingers almost blurring. A moment later he turned to the communications tech, who was swearing helplessly at his console as the screen remained obstinately empty of windows. “Got you some ears back, Dyasil. Comm’ up on one, two, and three.”
Hreem fingered his weapon, eyeing the door of the bridge nervously as the comm crackled to life with the sizzling roar of blaster fire and a medley of screams and shouts. “Power deck,” said Dyasil.
Everyone on the bridge listened without moving—even the monitors still at their consoles half turned, as if by that they could untangle the confusion of battle heard and not seen.
Hreem realized that not all the sound was coming from the com. With a savage slash of his arm, he motioned Dyasil to cut it off—and now the sound continued through the sealed hatch. The door pinged and crackled as jac-fire seared its other side. Hreem crouched behind his command pod as the rest of the crew found what shelter they could, jacs trained on the door.
The sound died away. Now there was only a muffled tapping at the hatch. Hreem tried to swallow as fear rose in his throat like a tide of sickness. This was too real, this was the fate he’d known was inevitable even when denying it, in those too-quiet hours of sleepless darkness that no one save Norio knew of.
Then, with a blast of sound so loud that it gripped his head in a ringing vise of abrupt silence, twin jets of blue-white flame punched through the hatch, spraying gouts of melted metal into the bridge. Hreem yelped as a splash of clinging flame sank into his forehead. Someone screamed shrilly.
Stout hooks snaked through each of the holes and sank into the metal of the hatch. With a grinding screech of protest the hatch crumpled outward and vanished, clattering off the walls and deck of the corridor as the two Marines threw it behind them, the servos of their armor whining loudly.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 23
