Ganwold's Child

by Diann Read

  “Our call for its surrender was answered with a statement to the effect of, ‘We will not surrender. We will have our revenge.’ The response was made in audio only and the speaker refused to identify either himself or his ship despite our repeated order that he do so.

  “Whereupon, we again ordered the Isselan fleet to surrender, this time with a warning that failure to do so would force us to continue the engagement. The refusal was repeated. At that point, I ordered the Eighth Fleet to reengage the enemy.

  “Within two standard hours the remaining Isselan ships began to withdraw, still returning fire. Our forces continued pursuit to the limit of Yan’s planetary defense zone.

  “Most of my ship captains and command staff share my suspicion that the Isselan fleet is under masuk command. However, if that is the case, we are puzzled by the fleet’s retreat from the Yan system, as that seems an unlikely course of action for a masuk commander. Therefore, we are holding our defensive positions in Yan’s planetary space and maintaining our alert status until further notice. End of entry. Admiral Ne Chong-Son out.”

  Everyone exchanged looks, and Captain Horsch shook his head. “I’ve never heard of masuki retreating before either, but the rest of the encounter sounds like what you’d expect from them.” He glanced sideways at the intelligence chief. “What do you think, Marcus?”

  “It sounds like masuki to me,” Ullen said. “Above all else, they’re unpredictable.”

  “How do you interpret their statement about getting revenge?” Horsch asked.

  Ullen turned their attention to the holotable they sat around, which displayed a map of the Saede, Issel, and Yan star systems. “The most likely scenario,” he said, “is that they’ll return to Issel to reinforce other fleets for a second strike against Yan and Saede. As the lieutenant said in her briefing this morning, they appear to be heading for the Yan-Issel lightskip point.

  “But—and this is where masuk unpredictability comes in—” he glanced around the circle, “—we have no way of confirming right now whether or not they actually made the ‘skip. Once outside the Yan system they could have changed course. They could be regrouping for another attack on Yan,” he traced a flight path across the holotable with a blunt finger, “or they could be heading toward Saede.”

  “What?” said Horsch.

  Ullen tapped the holotable with his finger. “By the time they began their retreat from Yan, the Isselan fleet would have known the outcome of the battle at Buhlig. Admiral Ne did, after all. Knowing that, they could have projected our final destination. For all we know, the masuki may intend to get revenge for their Buhlig fleet.”

  “That’d be just like a bunch of those hairballs,” Merrel said. “What’s their strength?”

  “According to intelligence reports from Yan,” said Ullen, “it’s estimated between twenty-five and thirty ships, including three carriers.”

  “They’re crazy enough to try it with only ten ships!” Merrel pointed out.

  An unlikely scenario, Lujan thought, except that the masuki had long ago proven themselves capable of irrational actions. They seemed to be driven only by emotion and the convoluted expectations of their culture, disregarding even the loss of their own lives. A masuk attack against Saede could not be discounted entirely.

  “If that’s what they’re doing,” said Horsch, “how soon should we expect the attack?”

  “In less than seventy-two hours, sir,” said Ullen.

 

  Three

  Blood still stained the deck in the center of the Adamaman’s bridge where the human captain had died. s’Agat Id Du’ul gave no thought to having it cleaned up, though it had been there for several days and had begun to smell. The scent did not offend masuk noses.

  Several locations aboard the spacecraft carrier besides the bridge had been bloodied. Id Du’ul had given the word and humans had died, the ones most likely to oppose him, whose potential for trouble outweighed their worth. The rest, having been made to witness the example of their officers, he’d herded into the spacers’ open berthing areas like the livestock he considered them, and posted masuk guards.

  Only three humans remained on the bridge, the ones Id Du’ul needed to operate the navigation computers, lightskip drives, and communications console. Their faces, hairless as an infant’s, betrayed their youth, and their fear caused their bodies to give off an odor stronger than that of the blood on the deck.

  They had value to him, he’d told them. They should feel honored that he, a prince of Mi’ika, had selected them to serve him. He expected they would be wise enough to recognize that and perform their duties well, for he could honor them further by presenting them as gifts to the Pasha of Mi’ika.

  They should also remember, he’d said, that on Mi’ika worthless slaves were neither given nor sold, and he’d toyed with the handle of the knife in his sash, the knife he had used to dispose of their captain.

  They all sat at their posts now, their faces white and their bodies sweating under their uniforms. Id Du’ul paced the bridge, watching them. They would obey him, he knew. He’d often been told how much humans feared death and would do anything to postpone it.

  “Sire,” said the one at the nav station, “we are now sixteen minutes from the lightskip window.”

  Id Du’ul acknowledged with a small gesture and addressed the human at the engineering station. “Begin acceleration to lightskip speed,” he said in their language; they didn’t speak his.

  He didn’t return to the command chair until the warning horns sounded, and even then he didn’t secure its acceleration straps. They wouldn’t have reached around his torso in any case. “Begin countdown to lightskip,” he ordered.

  An artificial human voice intoned human numbers over the intercom. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise with anticipation. The sensation of ‘skip felt like being torn apart in battle, as exhilarating as rutting. He heard the roar of his pulse in his ears and answered with a roar of his own. Space ripped open all around him. He emerged from lightskip sweating and aroused.

  He looked around the bridge, still panting.

  The humans sagged, unconscious at their consoles.

  It didn’t matter. They had served him well; they had given him their world. He would keep his promise to them.

  Issel’s star burned before him on the bridge viewscreen, only a little more prominent than the constellations beyond it in this view from the outskirts of its system. The blue planet that followed the second orbit out from that star wouldn’t become visible for another day and a half, but he knew it bore enough human wealth to satiate half the worlds of the Bacal Belt. He ran his tongue over his upper canines.

  “Sire.”

  The human at the communications console had lifted his pale head. Sweat beaded around his mouth and nose. He swallowed once, twice, and his hand shook as he touched his headset. “Sire,” he said again, “we’re receiving a signal. It’s from the command post on Issel II.”

  Id Du’ul considered that for a moment. His masuk subordinates studied him, silent, until he sat back in the command chair and smiled. “Answer their signal,” he said. “Tell them, in your language, that we have battle damage and must enter the system at once for repairs.”

  “Yes, sire,” said the young man.

  Id Du’ul saw the way he set his jaw, the tremor of his hands as they moved over the console, selecting frequency and mode. He didn’t see the moment’s hesitation, or the sudden resolve in the young man’s eyes despite the sweat that welled on his forehead as he entered the message.

  He had encrypted the silent signal, but everyone would understand it clearly when it burst through Issel II’s command post receiver.

  * *

  General Manua Ochakas glanced around the command post, a compact amphitheater hewn from stone two miles beneath the surface of one of Issel’s two moons. The secure commsets placed at intervals along each tier of desks and the three huge viewscreens facing them
still didn’t function despite numerous efforts to find and fix the problems.

  “Are you sending on all hailing frequencies?” Ochakas asked the NCO at the comms console.

  “Yes, sir,” the tech sergeant said. “All channels are open.” He adjusted his headset and bent over the panel again.

  An antiquated piece of equipment, pulled out of some storage room and dusted off, the console provided the only back-up system available and Ochakas felt grateful to have it. He furrowed his brow. “Carry on, then,” he told the sergeant. “Request acknowledgement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A stocky native Isselan in his late fifties, Ochakas had a receding hairline and a paunch that tested the clasps of his uniform jacket. He’d never wanted to fight the war he now found himself involved in, had never wanted the position he now held. Both had fallen to him a few hours after the scan screens blanked out, when an aide found Sector General Mordan Renier sprawled on the floor of his study, an energy pistol lying near his cold hand. Ochakas grimaced, remembering the scene.

  Mordan Renier had not been Isselan but Sostish—the hereditary World Governor of Sostis, in fact—until the enemy Dominion appointed him Sector General over several star systems in exchange for his homeworld’s allegiance during the Great War.

  Already devastated by the war, Issel had benefited under his rule as Sector General. In the twenty-six years since the Dominion’s defeat by the Unified Worlds, Renier had taken on the task of rebuilding Issel’s razed cities, industries, and agricultural areas. The effort had demanded patience and discipline and sacrifice from the people, but it put roofs over heads and food on tables. As Issel reclaimed its lost glory, the success of their efforts had united the people in support of their Sector General. Until he became obsessed with regaining the homeworld he’d lost.

  The costs of building an arsenal came from the civilian economy. Over the last two years Ochakas had watched the standard of living sag as industries shifted from consumer goods to heavy machinery. He’d seen universities close as students were conscripted to fill industrial shock forces, and he’d seen those students marching and shouting through city streets until the Sector General’s secret police arrested, tried, and sentenced them to hard labor in Issel II’s carmite mines.

  Ochakas had never approved of either the student arrests or the effort to reclaim Sostis.

  Turning away from the empty screens, he began to pace the width of the command post. He resisted a shudder at the sensation of narrowed eyes following him. Forced himself not to glance back at the masuki, who lounged against the command post’s rear wall.

  Renier had signed a pact with the rulers of several masuk worlds despite all advice against it. Ochakas still didn’t trust them, though Renier had granted the masuk officers billets in his attack fleets, had assigned them to his bridge crews, had even given one command of his base on Saede.

  Two days ago Renier’s bid to seize Sostis had failed. The Unified Worlds had broken both prongs of the attack, at Buhlig and Yan, and moved on to Saede.

  No masuki had survived Buhlig; the masuki preferred death to capture. Ochakas suspected that, being slavers themselves, they expected to be enslaved by their conquerors. He could understand that. He didn’t understand why they had slain the human captain as well. To prevent him from being captured? He doubted it. Masuki lacked a reputation for compassion.

  Half of Issel’s Second Fleet had survived the battle at Yan; Ochakas had received its admiral’s reports in this command post before the communications systems collapsed. That fleet had been heavily manned with masuki as well.

  The Yan fleet was under way, limping home now; it had just cleared the Issel-Yan lightskip point. But with no response to the command post’s hails, Ochakas didn’t know how many ships had made it through and how many had survived.

  He needed those ships, those survivors, despite his dislike for masuki. His distrust of the Unified Worlds in general and Sostis in particular ran twenty-six years deeper. He scowled at the floor. With both Yan and Saede now under their control, nothing remained to prevent the Unified Worlds from making a retaliatory attack against Issel.

  At the moment, he knew, a third fleet departed the docking arms of Issel’s main space stations. Its original orders, to strengthen the forces launched against Sostis days before, had been cancelled; its battle groups now scattered on early warning system defense patrols. The Yan fleet would be needed to reinforce them.

  Ochakas turned back to the knot of men standing around the communications console. “What’s our Yan fleet’s ETA here from the ‘skip point?” he asked.

  “Based on the time they were picked up by our early warning systems, a little over seventy-six hours, sir,” said his Operations officer.

  Ochakas frowned. “They should be receiving our hails by now,” he said, mostly to himself. “They should be responding.”

  “Maybe they can’t, sir,” said one of the younger men, a lieutenant named Siador. “Maybe they’ve got damage.”

  “To every ship’s long-range communications systems?” Ochakas shook his head. “That’s highly unlikely.”

  “They may be running silent intentionally,” said someone else. “They probably have good reason to out there.”

  Ochakas didn’t want to imagine what that reason might be; his first few thoughts on it sent chills up his spine. “Keep trying to hail them,” he said.

  * *

  After straining for so long to pick up anything, the crackle through his headset came like a thunder clap. Tech Sergeant Tradoc stiffened and shot a glance at his console. One amber panel in a column of twenty had begun to glow; the sender had encrypted the message. Tradoc toggled a couple of switches.

  Words emerged from the static, crackling in his earphones: “. . . masuk control! This is an attack! Issel II, this is Adamaman. Our ships are under masuk control! This is . . .”

  As the message repeated itself he slipped a surreptitious look over his shoulder and located the masuki, muttering to each other at the far side of the room. He caught his commander’s eye with a slight motion of one hand.

  “Sergeant?” said General Ochakas.

  He scribbled the message on a notepad, as casually as if he were doodling, in case the masuki noticed.

  The general arched an eyebrow. His mouth pursed almost imperceptibly as he met Tradoc’s vision but he said nothing. He simply clasped his hands behind his back and moved away from the comms console.

  He paced the command post for several minutes, his posture and stride as patient as those of a man willing to wait through eternity. Only his eyes, had anyone glimpsed them up close, would have betrayed him with their sudden intensity.

  When he returned to the comms console at last, he beckoned, and Tradoc pushed his headset back, letting it hang around his neck while he rubbed at raw spots developing on his ears.

  “Have we got two-way communications with the main Comms Center yet?” Ochakas asked.

  “Should by now, sir,” Tradoc said, “but I can’t make any promises.” He picked up the headset and placed its ‘phones gingerly over his ears again.

  He opened the direct line and hit SEND. Got nothing back but the hiss of static.

  He shook his head. “Still dead, sir. Guess I’ll have to try the patch again.”

  Though archaic, the long way around, only the patch-in still worked. He punched in the number to Operations Planning and said to the voice that answered, “This is Tradoc in the CP. Do you have your line to Communications back yet?”

  A pause. “Sorry, still down,” came the response.

  Tradoc fidgeted, thinking hard. “How about to the Advanced Warning folks?”

  “Don’t know. Lemme try.”

  Another wait. A long one this time. Then: “You’re in luck, Trad. I’ve got Warnings on, and they’re back on line to Comms.”

  “Good,” said Tradoc. He flashed a positive hand sign at the general, still standing behind him, and said to t
he voice, “I need you to patch me through. General’s orders.”

  “Right away.”

  He heard a crackle, then several seconds of static, and the general reached over his shoulder to lay a message on his console. He scanned it. Drummed the panel with his fingertips while he waited.

  He’d nearly given up on getting through at all when a very faint voice, nearly lost in static, said, “This is Comms. Go ahead, CP.”

  Tradoc glanced across the room at the masuki. The muttering had stopped; one guard, arms folded over his chest, stood there watching him.

  “It’s coming encrypted,” he said quietly.

  “Say again, CP? I didn’t copy.” The voice seemed to be fading, breaking up in the static.

  He didn’t dare repeat himself. He switched over to encrypt mode, grabbed the general’s note, and placed his hands on the keyboard. His fingers moved swiftly, tapping it out:

  URGENT URGENT URGENT

  172254L 2 3308SY

  TO ALPHA STATION CMDR

  DELTA STATION CMDR

  3RD FLEET CMDR

  FM CP ISSEL II

  FOURTH FLEET ON APPROACH TO ISSEL UNDER MASUK CONTROL, THREATENING ATTACK. THIRD FLEET VECTOR TO INTERCEPT. MAY ATTEMPT TO SEIZE ALPHA AND DELTA STATIONS. BEGIN EVACUATION TO PRIMARY AT ONCE. REPEAT, BEGIN EVACUATION AT ONCE AND PREPARE TO DESTROY STATIONS, BY ORDER GEN MANUA OCHAKAS.

  Tradoc entered SEND, cleared his display, and erased the memory record. He hoped and prayed the message had made it through. Hoped even harder that the faint voice on the other end had been a human’s.

 

  Four

  Darcie looked up with a start at the sound of Lujan’s step at the doorway. She’d been sitting so still, staring with such concentration at the bedcovers over her legs, that he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Y-yes,” she said at once. “I was—thinking about Tristan.”

  He waited in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she said again.