Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  “Are we seeing a diversion, Corporal?” he asked finally. “Or are they waiting for friends?”

  “Hard to say, sir.” Dustin was moving, inching his rifle into position. Shan looked, saw the target, looked again and chose his own mark.

  The argument continued, and all at once the Yxtrang began to move, pushing their line grimly forward. Behind them, deeper into the opposite wood, Shan’s sharpened hearing registered the sound of heavy equipment, distinct even in the fury of the firefight. He flicked a look at Dustin.

  “There’s something big moving in the woods.”

  The corporal nodded, face pale except for the thread of blood down one cheek, where a chip off the boulder had cut him.

  “I feel it,” he said, mouth tightening. “Get ready to fall back, sir. They were waiting for the armor to catch up with them.”

  Around him, then, he felt a—withdrawing—as, one squad at a time, the mercenaries melted back from their positions. Across, the Yxtrang pushed forward, and the sound of the armor moving was thunder in the ground, rattling through his chest and into his head.

  “Now,” Dustin said. “Fall back.” Shan nodded and heard the other man leave, even as he tried to recall if he had seen anything like anti-armor, in his brief and all-too-incomplete tour of the mercenary encampment.

  Where, he wondered, are they withdrawing to that will stand safe against a tank?

  A pellet struck his boulder, spraying his face with gravel. Shan ducked, found the range and fired. An Yxtrang soldier crumpled out from behind a bush that was too meager to shelter him and didn’t move again.

  He was alone on what had been the mercenary line, Shan realized, and about to be overrun by Yxtrang. Yet, why should he fall back, when the means to kill the oncoming tank was right here?

  The lifeboat’s coils still functioned, after all. It was but the work of a moment to set them to overload.

  Decision taken, Shan began at last to move from cover to carefully chosen cover, angling toward the lifeboat.

  ***

  Beautiful was two steps behind her, armed like an officer, and almost totally silent, which was more than she could say for the rest of the unit.

  There’d been a kind of constant crunch as the Irregulars moved through the woods—nothing to be done about it at this point—and then a single distant boom, as if something really big had blown up.

  That one was a puzzle. It wasn’t the sound a shell made being fired, or the sound it made hitting something, usually. And it sure couldn’t have been an ammo-dump because Miri knew Kritoulkas had been running mostly with carry-it-yourselves.

  Her people did pretty good at not stopping when the guns started chattering.

  There was a lot of gun noise she didn’t recognize right off and that made her nervous, because if she didn’t know the sound it was likely to be Yxtrang caliber stuff.

  The battle-flag was about twenty steps ahead of her, wrapped tight around its staff. The squad that had it was moving out. Likely they thought they’d show up, unroll the flag, and scare Yxtrang back into space without a ship.

  Not bloody likely.

  The key here was going to be showing up at all. The Yxtrang, even if there were a lot of them, probably had their hands pretty full because Kritoulkas was bossing a near-pure Gyrfalks crew.

  The communit in her pocket hadn’t buzzed, which was good news—it meant Jase and the house guard were still holding a quiet fort. Be bad if the Irregulars didn’t have a place to go home to, once the party was over.

  She signaled a stop, waved her three lieutenants in. One of them hunted out this way, regular.

  Beautiful was there, back to her. He was carrying his field pack and two extra ammo boxes for the automatic weapon carried by the flag-bearing unit, no complaint, no slowdown. At halt he’d dropped the boxes and instantly gone on alert.

  Miri saw how he watched: lower level of trees, mid-level on rock-piles and such, eyes long enough on each spot to catch color or movement. The greenies either stared hard at one spot and waited for it to grow wings or swiveled their heads around so fast they’d get themselves whiplash.

  She took her time deciding on the next phase of the march. The sounds were heavier to the west, which the local looie thought meant they were centered on an old quarry on the south side of the merc camp. That could be good if it meant Kritoulkas had the Yxtrang pinned down. The firing was getting pretty heavy . . .

  She nodded, reluctantly broke the squads into two groups. The smaller group, four squads under the local, would take the uphill side. As they closed into the quarry they’d follow some path he knew.

  Her main group of six squads would waltz right on down the main trail, trusting that the sub-commander was still holding up her end of the bargain with the mercs.

  She felt eyes on her, turned to see Beautiful looking at her.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing is up, Captain. No air cover. No sign of ambush in the trees. No listening devices.”

  Inwardly, Miri sighed. “I meant, what’s bugging you? What should I know?”

  “Captain, only the single large explosion. By now if there was artillery it would be in use. We have here one hundred. Probably the unit we will face has more.”

  “Great. Even odds.”

  She wasn’t sure if he got the sarcasm; he simply nodded and asked permission for a drink from his canteen, since action might come upon them anytime.

  The distant shooting went almost quiet for a moment or two and then became insistent and rushed.

  She knew the sound of that—one side had managed to mass a bit of a charge. The heavy, nearly steady beat of a Paradis 88 made her suppose the Yxtrang were on the move against a well defended spot.

  She waited while the lieutenants carried her news to the sergeants, and then they moved on, the crunch of boots not nearly as loud as the growing noise of battle.

  ***

  The four squads under the local lieutenant melted away as best they could. The main body continued ahead, with the sound of firing heavy and the acrid smell of battle permeating the air. Forward motion halted abruptly. Soldiers dropped, taking cover. Ahead, the woods were noisy, like whoever was there didn’t care if they were heard.

  Miri dropped, felt the presence that was Nelirikk, positioned like a bodyguard, protecting her back, while his height still allowed him to see beyond her.

  The noise stopped as suddenly as it started, and then there was a more distant sound, as of confident marching. Miri began moving toward one of her lieutenants when the woods near her lead troops exploded with the sound of a Paradis 88.

  The targets were up on the hill, and Miri could suddenly see the movement and hear the return fire of dozens of alien weapons. There was a whoosh, an explosion and scream—but by now it was clear which side was which and her lead troops opened live fire on an enemy for the first time.

  It was obvious they’d stumbled into a flanking movement by the Yxtrang, one that the Paradis had been supposed to foil.

  Now it was their turn, and she signaled her squads into a battle line, tried to straighten out a kink that could be dangerous. The folks on the hill hadn’t been expecting quite so many people, apparently, but they were still willing to fight.

  It was hard to tell, but it looked like there were more and more of the Yxtrang up on the hill, as if the whole damned bunch of them had tried an end around.

  The Irregulars were returning fire, but the lead squad was in big trouble and likely to get cut off. The Yxtrang were concentrating fire there, and there were more of them on the hill, so many that it looked like a charge forming.

  Miri pulled the whistle from her pocket, sounded the attention blast and the double-pulse of short pullback. The Irregular’s firing dropped decidedly then as they all tried to worm backward five meters like they’d been taught.

  “Beautiful, up there. A charge forming?” Miri yelled.

  “Yes, Captain. I believe it likely.”

  “Tell that crew there to
open up with their toy. Now!”

  Nelirikk crawled to the crew with flag still wrapped tight, carrying the boxes of extra ammo to them, taking time to point out the most likely route down the hill . . .

  There was something quite satisfying in the chatter of the Sternbach. True, it wasn’t a Paradis 88, but it should do. She glanced back at the smoke-wreathed gun crew.

  Shit. Now they were for it.

  The gun crew sat behind their almost-shield of a downed log, the Irregular’s battle-standard waving insults at the enemy.

  Unexpectedly, up on the hillside, a spot of color showed, flapped—snapped to blood red.

  Nelirikk was suddenly beside her, low to the ground, a very real grin on his face.

  “Captain, we face Tactical Assault Twenty-Two. They are very famous for their attacks!”

  She cussed but he didn’t hear, for at that moment the woods screamed with Yxtrang rage and the charge began.

  ***

  There wasn’t time for finesse. Miri blew the command that released squads to sergeants. And when she turned to repeat the call in the other direction, she saw the Yxtrang behind them.

  This charge was really aimed at the Sternbach—in fact both of them were. The unit was falling back on its own accord toward the flag; the Yxtrang were heading there, too.

  A young trooper—one of the refugee volunteers—fell half a yard away, the side of his face gone. Miri dove, snatched up his rifle and fired into the oncoming mass while the Sternbach kept up its end of the conversation, and the Paradis—

  An Yxtrang fell at her feet, dead, and the short sharp sound of a pistol going off behind her warned her to turn.

  The pistol spoke again and there was a wounded Yxtrang flung by her. He started to rise, and she took him out, spinning into a forest of blades as the Yxtrang wave and the 1st Irregulars crashed together and merged.

  Miri fired, dropped her man, found another target, and heard Nelirikk scream, “Yadak!”

  She saw the blade flashing downward, killing-bright in a huge hand, swung the rifle up to catch it—

  From behind and above, Nelirikk’s arm swept out, into the blade, smashing it out of the Yxtrang’s hand and Nelirikk’s hands were around a throat, crushing, and he roared out, “Irregulars! Irregulars!”

  The Sternbach chattered on and other voices took up the yell, “Irregulars!” and the flag stood over it all.

  ***

  Nelirikk’s arm was bandaged, but his care was for the flagstaff, whereon he hung—upside down—the flag of Tactical Assault Twenty-two.

  Miri waited for yet more casualty reports, watching as the crew of the Sternbach fieldstripped it lovingly.

  “Beautiful,” she said finally. “What’s yadak?”

  “Captain.” He was carefully looking more at the flag-project than at her. “Yadak was the field name of a dead man. It means nothing.”

  Miri nodded. She’d been afraid of that. “So you knew that guy. I’m sorry—”

  He shrugged, discomforted by more than the wound, Miri thought.

  “Yadak made many errors, Captain. He joined the 14th Conquest Corps. He came with them to this planet. He volunteered for Tactical Assault Twenty-two. And he attacked my captain with a machete while she stood command over a unit with Jela’s insignia on its flag.”

  “You mean he shoulda known better?”

  He took his time answering.

  “Captain, Yadak and I both learned at Jela’s feet. He left the home unit before I did, seeking action.” He looked at her, blue eyes bleak.

  “Yadak did not believe much in tradition. But, yes, Captain. He should have known better.”

  ***

  The position of lifeboat number four had been stable for some time. Ren Zel touched a switch on the main board.

  “Tower.” Rusty Morgenstern’s voice was scratchy with fatigue.

  “This is the command helm, Radio Tech,” Ren Zel said, as gently as one might in the sometimes bewildering modelessness of Terran. “Please do the grace of directing a laser-packet beam to these coordinates—” The transfer was made from his screen to Rustywith a keystroke. “Alert this station when a dialog has been established.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thank you,” Ren Zel murmured, and hesitated a moment over the proper phrasing. “Do honor your rest-shift, Radio Tech. The ship depends upon your acuity.”

  There was a slight pause, followed by a sound that might have been a grudging chuckle. “Caught me, did you? I’ll hit the sack as soon as we get Shan on the line. Tower out.”

  “Command helm out.”

  He returned to his duty. The watch-points reported nothing untoward. Apparently they had won a measure of respect from the Yxtrang in their first encounter.

  Or the Yxtrang were biding their time.

  Regardless, the Passage continued its spiral orbit toward Lytaxin. Ren Zel pulled up an auxiliary screen and began to calculate approach vectors, measuring this orbit against that, in terms of best defense of the world below. . .

  At some point he became aware of a presence beside him and looked up to find Priscilla Mendoza standing quietly at his shoulder, her eyes on the watch screens.

  “A quiet shift, First Mate?”

  “A quiet shift, Captain. Lifeboat four has come to rest. The Tower is attempting to establish contact. The Yxtrang have been—circumspect.”

  “Well for the Yxtrang,” she said, moving her eyes at last from the screens and smiling at him.

  Ren Zel went cold, and in that instant she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder—a sister’s touch, warming, yet inexpressibly painful to one who was dead to three sisters of his blood.

  “It’s Weapons Hall,” the woman before him was saying, her deep voice resonant; her black eyes brilliant and fierce. “I told you I had preparations to make. For the good of the ship.”

  “So you had.” He cleared his throat. “One had not anticipated . . .”

  She laughed, rich and full, drawing the eyes of the duty pilot in a quick flick over a shoulder before he returned to his board.

  “No, how could you? I barely anticipated it myself, and I’ve been to Weapons Hall more times than I can count.” Her eyes strayed again to the watch-screens, touched the corner that elucidated the position of lifeboat four, and moved on to the work screen.

  “You’re calculating defensive orbits. Good. We’ll also want to bracket that battleship. Have you found anything like a defense system?”

  “Debris,” Ren Zel said, reaching to the board and bringing up the charts. “Ship’s records indicate satellite defenses in orbits correlating to the orbits of clustered wreckage.” He looked up into those brilliant black eyes. “The Yxtrang were thorough.”

  She nodded.

  On the main board, the channel light glowed to life.

  “Tower here.”

  Captain Mendoza leaned over his shoulder, extending a long arm for the switch.

  “Hi, Rusty.”

  “Captain,” the Radio Tech said seriously. “Wanted to let you know—there’s no answer on that punchbeam.”

  Ren Zel held still, watching the side of her face, refusing to allow himself despair. For after all, there were many reasons why the laser-packet to lifeboat four might have gone unanswered, and not . . . all . . . of them were dire.

  “I see,” the captain said quietly. “Keep trying, in quarter-shift rotation. When the reply comes through, notify me immediately.”

  “Yes’m. Will do.”

  “Good,” she said. “And, Rusty . . .”

  “Ren Zel already read me the riot act,” he interrupted. “I’m turning the Tower over to Tonee and Lina and getting me some shut-eye.”

  “Lina?” the captain repeated, blankly.

  “Yes, Lina.” The voice of the ship’s librarian came briskly out of the speaker. “I speak Yxtrang, Priscilla.”

  “You do?”

  “Certainly,” Lina said, as if it were the most commonplace of talents. “Why not? The scouts gave the
tapes. It would have been a poor use of the gift, to allow them to languish.”

  “Of course,” the captain said seriously, but Ren Zel thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “Carry on. Captain out.”

  “Tower out,” Lina said. The line-light dimmed and the captain turned her brilliant eyes back to himself.

  “Speaking of off-shifts—First Mate, I believe the shift passes.”

  He made to rise from the command chair, his eyes touching the screens once more. “Captain—” he began, and froze.

  In watch-screen three—a blot of nothing where moments before the instruments had reported clean space.

  “Fleas,” he said, hand sweeping out for the all-ship. “All crew, attend! Fleas at three o’clock! Battle stations. Level red.”

  Beside him, he heard—no, he felt—a gasp, and his eyes leapt in some fey instinct to the corner where the coordinates for lifeboat four should be displayed—

  And read instead the stark message from the tracking computer:

  CONTACT LOST. LIFE POD UNIT FOUR OFF-GRID.

  The explosion was—beyond his expectation.

  When the ground stopped bucking, and after prudently giving it another few minutes to re-acquaint itself with a less volatile state of being, Shan sat up, sticks and gravel raining off his shoulders.

  He had expected a . . . significant . . . result from overloading the lifeboat’s coil circuits, and had taken care to put what he believed to be a sensible distance between himself and ground zero, dashing like a long-legged hare through the forest, stasis box under one arm, bulky Yxtrang rifle in the opposite hand, to drop at last behind a solid-looking boulder and bury his face in the mold.

  He had not expected a force that would uproot trees around him, shattering boulders less stalwart than his chosen cover, and throwing cargo-holds of dirt and gravel high into the air.

  In the aftermath of the shock came a silence so profound Shan wondered if he had been deafened. He stood, shaky, but keeping a good grip on the rifle, and wiped his face on the leather sleeve of his combat jacket. The silence was terrifying. The wreckage of downed limbs and exposed roots, bewildering. If the lifeboat’s last duty had caused such damage here, what must the site of the blast be like?