"And if it isn't a breach of discipline, vou could call me Nola."
"N-no. Not a breach, Ria— Nola ..."
Lord! Now who was babbling? Tusk sought refuge in plugging his helmet into the TRUC's crude, antiquated communications system.
"Twenty-six minutes to rendezvous," Nola reported. "No, the other channel. That one's mine to my ground crew and later to the freighter. This one links us—you and me—that's what we're talking over now. Just leave it alone. This one is yours to the fighters and it's clear. I made sure of that. You've got to flick the switch every time from sending to receiving. I know. It's a damn nuisance but the bastards running the company wouldn't spend the money to upgrade. Marek would have. Whatever we said we needed, he bought. No questions asked. Trusted us to know our end of the business best."
"So now you're up here, risking your life for him."
Tusk experimentally flipped switches, hoping he wouldn't forget in the tenseness of battle and end up talking to himself.
"Not just for him, for all of us workers," Nola corrected. "You picking anything up from your friends yet?"
"No. We won't until we reach the point."
Nola nodded, but didn't answer him. She was conferring with her crew below, and making adjustments to her instruments. It was amazing, Tusk thought, how fast they were actually moving. He could see the curvature of the planet's surface and one of its small moons peeping over the edge.
"Rendezvous . . . now," Nola said, peering out through the windscreen.
And there they were, all three. Tusk breathed a small sigh. One fear down. A couple hundred more to go.
"Hey, Tusk." The voice crackled in his ear.
"Yeah, Link, I'm here," Tusk answered without enthusiasm.
"Oh, Tusk, where are you? The flamin' speed of that thing hasn't caused you to black out, has it?"
"Flip the switch!" shot Nola out of the corner of her mouth, her hand motioning.
Swearing roundly, having forgotten as he'd known he would, Tusk switched from receiving to sending.
"I'm here. Everything okay from our end. What about yours?"
"Picking up company, old buddy. You see 'em?"
"Just on my radar. Yeah, that's what I said—radar. We're talking dark ages. And this damn windshield's so thick I won't be able to see them until they're on my—" He glanced at Nola and stuttered, "uh . . . right in front of me. And I'm not your 'old buddy.' What have we got?"
Looking at the radar screen, he could see four blips, one considerably larger than the rest, and he guessed the answer.
"Visual sighting," Mirna reported. "Three needle-nose fighters. No modifications. One torpedo boat. Whewww!" she whistled in awe. "New model. Got those new hypermissiles."
Nola, who was apparently monitoring Tusk's transmissions as well as her own, glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.
Tusk hesitated, then decided, what the hell. Might as well let her know the worst.
"They move faster than light," Tusk said, staring out the screen, trying to get a fix on his enemies, trying to keep from looking directly at Nola. "You never see what hits you."
Nola's tongue flicked twice over her lips, before she could ask casually, "Where the devil did they get something like that?"
"Beats me. Dixter'd like to know, too, from the looks of it. But don't worry. They're not about to blow their prize up."
"Maybe the Warlord sent it."
"Naw! The Congress wouldn't bother outfitting a small-time government like this one with prototype torpedo boats. Lots cheaper to step in and take over. Look, Nola"—he wanted to pat her hand reassuringly, but the hand was busy—"don't think about the missiles. Let me take care of that boat. You just keep this thing moving, no matter what. From what I've heard, you can do that better than anyone around."
He was rewarded with a smile that rearranged all the freckles on her cheeks and nose and did a little minor rearranging with his heart. Reminding himself sternly that he didn't like short, stockily built brunettes, Tusk turned his attention back to the job at hand. The fighters had taken up their positions—one behind the TRUC and one on either side.
They were well above the planet by now, surrounded by the eternal starry night of space. The torpedo boat hove into view. Spotlights shone on its bristling weapons and illuminated the myriad whirling, flashing, revolving, and oscillating instruments sticking out from it in all directions. It was small, built for the speed and maneuverability that would give it the advantage over a larger opponent. The torpedo boat floated in front of them, well out of range of most weapons the TRUC might be likely to have, but not the lascannon. Good. That was gonna be a nice little surprise.
"Tusk," Nola said, "I've shut off the anti-grav. If I don't fire my rockets soon we'll drift off course."
A streak of flame zipped past them. Nola started; her hands on the instrument shook.
"Warning shot across the bows," Tusk said. "They want our attention."
"They got it!" the woman muttered.
"TRUC 4," an official-sounding voice came over the radio.
"By orders of the—" there was a slight hesitation on the part of the voice, "Mectopian Council, you are under arrest. You and the mercenary pilots with you will surrender yourselves to our jurisdiction. The mercenary pilots will be escorted back to our base. We will see that you reach the Republic freighter safely. If you cooperate, this will be taken into consideration in your sentencing."
"This bastard wants a fight," Tusk commented.
"That's an off-world accent," Nola said in a low voice, "and he mispronounced the name of the government."
Tusk nodded, frowning. "Stall," was all he could think of to say.
"Hello, out there. I'm experiencing instrument malfunction," Nola said into her mike. "Would you repeat your instructions?"
"You heard me, TRUC 4," was the cold response. "You have thirty seconds to surrender or we open fire."
"Two fighters closing on me, Commander," Nigol reported.
"Get into position but remember orders—let them shoot first. Nola, put up the deflector shields everywhere except the front so that I can fire." Tusk rose to his feet and positioned himself behind the lascannon—an extremely tight fit.
"I only have front deflector shields!" Nola snapped. "To protect the cab."
"Damn!" Tusk swore. Dixter'd told him that during his briefing on the TRUC. "Keep talking, then. Link, Mirna, you handle the freighters, and throw what you can at that torpedo boat."
"Righto," sang out Link.
"Yes, sir," returned Mirna.
"Are you from the Republic?" Nola was shouting.
A flash of light and bone-jarring jolt was their answer.
"Ordinary missiles." Tusk held onto the grips of the lascannon for support. "Hit us somewhere in front and below. Any damage?"
"No." Nola was white-faced but steady and calm. She even managed a weak grin. "It takes a lot to damage a TRUC."
"Thank you, Creator!" Tusk murmured.
Flares and flashes outside the windscreen indicated the Scimitars were attacking. Tusk crouched behind his gun, lining up the computerized sights that were being fed readings from the radar.
"Hold tight, Nola. Don't pay attention to what I'm doing or to those birds out there. Do you have to warm up your engines or anything like that to start this tub moving?"
"No. When I fire, we go. Real simple."
The beginnings of a plan were lurking about in Tusk's mind. It was desperate and not to be thought of until things were . . . well, desperate.
Another shot slammed into them, knocking them around a little but no damage. That captain must realize he isn't accomplishing anything except making a nuisance of himself, Tusk thought. Off-world, is he? Probably answering to a couple of government flunkies aboard his ship. He'd do what they said to a point. Then he'd take matters into his own hands—or at least that was how Tusk read that cold, impersonal voice. He could almost hear it saying, "I regret very much the action I was forced to take which led to
the total destruction of the TRUC but as you see we were unable to impress upon them our determination not to let rebel-held shipments through—"
"Hey, Tusk," came Link's voice, "get this S.O.B. off my tail, will you, ol' buddy?"
Tusk, shaking his head, opened fire.
Flaming bolts shot from the usually inoffensive TRUC. The needle-nose chasing Link caught one and went spinning out of control. Its partner, realizing suddenly he was facing a lascannon, pulled up so sharply he did a roll over and flew out of range to consider the matter.
Another shot slammed into the TRUC. The captain must not have known about the lascannon. He did now, which was unfortunate but couldn't be helped. Tusk would have liked to have him come in a little closer.
"I'm going in for a hit," Mirna reported.
"I'll cover you." Tusk opened a steady barrage of fire at the torpedo boat. Its deflector shields were up. He was doing little damage but hoped at least to make them keep their heads down, perhaps even score a lucky hit. Did they have to lower their shields to fire the torpedoes? He—
A bright orange flash, and Mirna was gone.
There was nothing left of her Scimitar. It had been vaporized. All over in less than a second. Tusk hadn't seen a thing. He couldn't even tell the part of the ship from which the torpedo had been launched.
"Sweet, holy mother. Did you see that?" Link sounded awed.
"I saw it."
In anger and frustration, Tusk fired another ineffectual burst at the torpedo boat.
"TRUC 4." The captain was back on the air. "You have seen a demonstration of our weapon's superiority over your own. I ask you once again to surrender."
"Do it, Nola," Tusk ordered,.
"What?" She turned to stare at him, her face strained and incredulous. "You can't be serious! I'm not going to!"
"Do it!" Tusk growled. "Link, Nigol? You two clear out. Run like you're scared as hell. You can't do anything against that torpedo boat."
"I wouldn't say that," Link protested.
"I smell one of the famous Tusk scams," Nigol struck in. The alien added something in its own language that Tusk assumed was good luck but which sounded as if someone had dumped a bucket of frogs into a pond.
"Okay, we're outta here." Link was disgruntled. "Make sure you get Nola home on time tonight. We got a date."
The two fighters peeled away, spiraling out of the skies and drawing off three of the needle-noses after them.
"A plan? What plan?" Nola was glaring at him suspiciously.
"A date? With Link?" Tusk glared back at her. "What do you see in that two-timing hotshot?"
The woman's face flushed to the roots of her brown hair. The green eyes flashed. Before she could reply, Tusk added, "I thought I gave you an order, Rian."
"You could at least tell me what's going on!" Another shot thudded into the hull.
"No time," Tusk said, which was a lie. He didn't want her having to think about what she was going to have to do any longer than necessary. "Go ahead. Surrender. Make it sound convincing."
Nola, shooting him a frustrated, helpless glance, spoke into the mike. "This is TRUC 4. Don't fire anymore. I—I surrender. "
"Good," Tusk whispered. "Now, more panic. Tell them we've been hit and that I'm dead."
Her anger faded, replaced by astonishment. Completely mystified, Nola spoke into the mike, her eyes on Tusk. "We've been hit. My gunner's dead. I've—I've got his blood all over me!" Her voice rose shrilly. "Don't hurt me, please!"
Tusk held his breath. Everything hung on the torpedo boat captain's next command. The mercenary was counting on the fact that this man was a professional, as tough and experienced as he'd already shown himself.
"TRUC 4, raise your deflector shields."
"Hot damn!" Tusk crowed.
"But that means we can't use the cannon!" Nola hissed.
"Do it!" Tusk commanded tersely.
Returning to his seat, he strapped himself in securely, taking extra precautions. Nola, sighing, yanked on a lever. A scraping and rumbling sound and the deflector shields lurched into place. Tusk was happy to see that they were every bit as old-fashioned and massive as he had hoped. No invisible force fields for the TRUC. Reinforced steel plate that they couldn't even see through, leaving the driver to steer by instrument readings.
Good, Tusk thought. That'll make it easier for her.
"My shields are up," Nola reported unnecessarily, knowing that the torpedo ship could see them.
"I'm going to send an armed party aboard, TRUC 4," returned the captain of the torpedo boat. This guy was taking no chances.
"What's he doing?"
From where he sat, Tusk couldn't see Nola's radar screen, and he fidgeted nervously.
"He's moving toward us, closing fast," Nola reported.
"That's good. Now, Nola," Tusk said, keeping his voice even and calm, "when he gets closer still, right in front of us, I want you to start this baby up."
Nola sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. The freckles on her face were vivid brown against her pale skin.
"But that will mean—"
Tusk nodded. "Ramming them—an old and honored tradition in the history of naval warfare."
"Tusk!" Nola gasped. "It won't work! We'll all end up dead."
"I thought you said this thing could fly through a mountain."
Nola, looking sick, shook her head.
Tusk considered taking over, but he didn't know anything about flying one of these contraptions. Nola's hair clung in loose, damp ringlets to her sweating forehead. Her eyes shimmered with tears that she had too much pride to shed. Her full hps trembled.
Date with Link!
Reaching out, Tusk took hold of the woman's chilled hand. "You can do it, Nola! You have to do it! There's no other way now. You don't want to let Marek down? Or all the rest who re depending on you? Think of them, Nola. Don't think of anyone or anything else. Where's the torpedo ship now?"
Nola looked unwillingly at the screen. "Almost— Going around to the portside."
"He must not have a launch vehicle. That or he wants to lock onto us. When he's in range, head this mother straight at him."
For a tiny moment, Tusk thought she was going to fail him. Then her head lifted, her lips tightened. Nola drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and put her hand on the ignition button. The hand made some minute adjustments to the instruments, changing the direction the rockets would fire to take the TRUC straight into the path of the torpedo boat.
Nola knew her vehicle. She alone could best gauge how near the torpedo boat would have to be so that it wouldn't have time to react and get out of the slow-moving TRUC's path. There was nothing for Tusk to do but sit back, brace himself, and wait.
Those were the worst few moments of his life.
Now that he had convinced the woman to take this drastic action, he was having second thoughts. She was right. It didn't matter that the torpedo boat was about thirty times smaller. It would blow up and take them with it. The TRUC, after all, wasn't indestructible. Even with the deflector shield protecting them, the cab was vulnerable. He was an idiot. A damn fool. He'd let down everyone. Dixter. Marek. The kid. He'd get himself killed and—worse—he'd kill this woman who trusted him, who was depending on him. She'd know, in those last few horrifying moments, that he'd been wrong . . .
Nola's finger jerked spasmodically. A roaring blast from the rear told him the rockets had fired. The TRUC lurched forward.
An indrawn breath, holding it, holding it—
A jarring thud, blinding light, a concussive blast—
A constant beeping was making his head hurt.
"Shut up!" Tusk told XJ, flapping about with his hand to give the computer an extra little reminder.
He couldn't find it.
"XJ?" Sitting up, he opened his eyes. "What the—?"
Where was he? Whoever was playing this joke better cut it out. He turned his head to locate the sound of the beeping and end its days forever when he saw a figu
re slumped over the control panel. Memory returned in an aching torrent.
"Nola!"
Shoving aside the broken lascannon, which had toppled to the deck, Tusk leaned over the woman's comatose body. Gently removing the helmet, he felt her neck and found a pulse—strong and even. Exhaling a deep sigh, he eased her back into the chair. There were no holes in the flight suit, no signs of blood except for a cut on her lip where the mike had driven into her mouth when she fell forward. Like him, she must have been knocked unconscious by the explosion.
Glancing out the windscreen, Tusk saw the wrecked and mangled deflector shield. The screen itself was cracked, but its seal held. Tusk recalled guiltily all his uncharitable thoughts about that thick windscreen.
"Bless you!" He reached out and patted it. He could have kissed it. No, on second thought he'd rather kiss something else.
"Nola." He brushed back the damp brown hair. "Nola!"
Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinked, and looked up at him with a hesitant smile that set freckles dancing over her face.
"Nola Rian," Tusk said, "you're beautiful!"
"Not only that," she said, grinning up at him shakily, "I'm the best goddam TRUC driver you'll ever meet!"
Chapter Seventeen
When the stars threw down their spears . . .
William Blake, "The Tyger"
Dion hung around outside the communications van, fidgeting, jittery. The hot early morning sun blazed down on the tarmac, evidently warming it up for the truly hot afternoon sun. Sweating, his clothes sticking to his body, the young man crouched in a scrap of shade cast by the GHQ building and waited for word of Tusk. Gadgets and devices on top of the van revolved swiftly or slowly rotated or just pointed straight into the air. Dion watched them until he was half-mesmerized by the movement. Odd, disjointed thoughts flashed in and out of his mind in time with the rotations.
A month ago, I wouldn't have been able to believe I was doing this . . . Tusk left me his spaceplane. If he doesn't come back, I'll . . . He'll come back. I shouldn't be thinking things like that, the bad luck word. At least I didn't say it aloud. Platus would laugh. Our joke, the bad luck word. Dear God! What was it I said that killed him? No, stop it. Don't think about it. ... I could fly the plane, I know I could. I did for a while that time back when we first came out of the Jump. Tusk said I handled it like a pro, too. Maybe Dixter'd let me fly with the others. I could avenge Tusk . . . That's stupid. Nothing's happened to Tusk, nothing's going to. And they wouldn't be likely to let a kid with no training up there. Shoot yourself in the foot and we're all dead, that's what Tusk would say. I— Someone's coming out. Running. Something's happened. Something's wrong.
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