by Sharon Lee
The stick was hard to move. She tried to shift her weight to the left, to bring more push into play—and would have fallen if the strap hadn’t held her.
Still, she managed to inch it down until the dial finally displayed a clear horizontal bisection, the blue-white of sky on the top, the black that meant ground on the bottom.
Now, from side to side out the window, there was a horizon, distant and level. It rotated slowly. . .
And that wasn’t wrong or right, just a fact, until she knew where—and the compass heading showed that. She found the sun and realized she was flying in the wrong direction, bent to work the stick again, and below her was a boiling cauldron of gray and white and she jumped, the leg went, but the strap held her up and his voice was murmuring, distant and almost too soft to hear . . .
“Storm. Below.”
She reached out to touch his pattern, but it wasn’t there—no, it was there, but around her and, fading, somehow, its colors attenuating into mist, the interlockings beginning, slowly, to untwine.
She bit her lip. “You’re dying. Val Con—”
“Fly. The. Plane.”
***
The lifemate bridge swirled with energy and Shan could see Val Con’s essence, very faint, and Miri’s, much stronger—and an incomplete third that drew threads from each, spindle-dancing above, or below, or within the bridgework.
And he dared not touch any of it.
So he did what he could and sat guard over her body in the shell of what had been a hangar and eventually Nelirikk joined him there.
“The captain, I saw her fall.” The blue eyes moved, registered the soft rise and fall of her breast and flicked up. “Not dead.”
“Not dead,” Shan agreed.
“The scout has not returned from his mission.”
Shan nodded, his attention on the flow of the lifemate bridge. It had taken his father a full year to die of his lifemate’s passing. But the connection between his parent’s souls had been as slender as a thread of spider silk, compared to the conflagration that linked Val Con and Miri. If Val Con was dying . . .
“What ails the captain?” Nelirikk asked. Shan looked up.
“She’s with the scout.”
The blue eyes blinked, then Nelirikk nodded. “More armor comes. And soldiers.”
Soldier Lore bestirred itself. “What’s our situation?”
“We can prevail,” stated another voice from the doorway, in rusty Trade. “With boldness.”
A man strode forward—a Liaden male cradling an Yxtrang rifle in his arms like a child. A hatchet hung in a loop on his belt, stained red from edge to blunt.
Nelirikk rose to his towering height. The Liaden ignored him, walked past him and then stopped, looking down at Miri. After a moment, he turned and addressed himself to the Yxtrang.
“You fly for the captain? Eh? Kill enemy at her word?”
Nelirikk inclined his head. “Sir, I do.”
“She allowed me and mine with her, on condition we obey the sergeants. The sergeant of my squad is dead and there are many others, who joined at the last, with no sergeant to order them, but who will fight with ferocity.”
“You tell me this for a reason?” Nelirikk inquired and the man pulled his lips back from his teeth—a death’s head grin.
“I tell you this because I desire you to lead us, Yxtrang-of-the-Captain.”
“I do not—”
“My entire line is gone, damn you!” the Liaden shouted. “Will you take what I offer and use it well, or must my Balance fall short of my dead?”
A heartbeat of silence, no more. Nelirikk bowed.
“Soldier, I will lead you. For the glory of Troop and captain. Show me to your fighters.”
***
She flew the plane, dropped the nose and brought it down into the clouds ruthlessly, remembering ships she’d never flown and emergencies she’d never experienced.
The sky was a long time gray; the buffeting and noise of the winds amazed her. The ship went subsonic with an odd fluttering and she had to fight the controls, stretching too far to reach—and then she was below the clouds.
There was green all around, and a river to her left. The clouds sweeping by obscured her vision momentarily and then tore away.
In the distance she could see the airfield, the Irregular’s flag flying high.
Lightning flashed off the left wing and the plane lurched as thunder boomed through the metal walls.
She was closing on the airfield fast and the winds were making it difficult, tossing the plane like it was no more substantial than a butterfly. It was hard to see properly, to understand direction from this perspective.
Down and ahead—Yxtrang armor in the trees.
She looked to the board, saw she had bombs to spend. She checked on the situation through the windscreen.
And saw the Yxtrang fighter, closing fast from the right and behind.
She veered the plane, brought it right down on the deck, and saw Val Con’s pattern all around her, overlaying everything in tired, fading color.
She knew what to do, stretched to the board and did it, bringing the plane down, down, wingtips brushing the treetops, and the Yxtrang fighter was on her, but that wasn’t important yet.
The Yxtrang on the ground had noticed her. She saw the turret on the anti-aircraft move, tracking, and she kept the speed steady, sweeping in low and insanely fast, waiting for it, waiting for it and the turret was on her and the plane behind had fired, but missed. She was directly over Yxtrang now, opened her belly and dropped the bombs, dumped what was left of her fuel and she was past and the other plane was still on her tail. The armor found its range and fired. Miri smacked the switch and the landing gear came down.
The fighter behind them blew up.
***
They were not soldiers, but they were fierce and willing, in their hatred, to take orders.
Accordingly, Nelirikk had them wait, in the cover at the near edge of the airfield. Wait, until the first plane flashed over, dumping fuel and the last of its bombs onto the heads of the enemy. Wait, until the anti-aircraft fired and destroyed the pursuer.
Then, with the enemy disordered and dismayed, he rose up, roared the battle cry—“Revenge!”—and led the rabble to war as the wind rose and thunder out-sounded the cannons.
***
The beam leapt up from the planet’s surface, threaded the Yxtrang Eye and touched the battleship.
There was a flare, which would be the outer shields, Priscilla thought, and a second, which would be the inner.
She sighed and shook her head, for it had been a valiant effort, if ill-favored and—
That quickly the Yxtrang battleship broke and ran, accelerating, and rising—
“Position report, Captain.”
Ren Zel’s voice was level, betraying nothing. “Tactical report, Captain.”
“Tactical?” Priscilla demanded and reached for her board, banishing the Eye and the battleship to a quarter screen, and saw the break-in noise of a dozen ships, IDs blossoming—Terran IDs. Terran troopships.
“Affiliation?”
“Tree-and-Dragon,” Ren Zel said, as more ships phased in-system. “Gyrfalk.” He paused. “Juntavas.”
“Juntavas,” she repeated and looked over to him. He met her eyes, blandly.
“Perhaps they consider the Yxtrang bad for commerce.”
“I suppose that’s possible.” She looked back to her screen. Something strange was happening close in by the Yxtrang battleship. Space was behaving in a most unusual manner—pulsing—and there seemed to be something phasing in, phasing out—in, out, in, out—
In.
Priscilla drew a breath, staring at the big asteroid, that was behaving as no asteroid could.
“Priscilla!” Ren Zel said sharply and she put out a hand to touch his sleeve.
“Clutch,” she said, projecting calmness into his agitation. “It’s only a Clutch ship, friend. Captain yos’Galan’s brother is—adopted—of a
Turtle.”
“Yes,” he said, taking a breath. “Of course.”
***
Right rudder and some left aileron. Crab into the wind, but not too much, and down two-thirds flaps to slow it. Keep the nose down and almost level and pop those leading slats right now to cut lift hard. Down flaps the rest of the way, don’t bounce. Main wheels down. Crush thrust reverse, slight bounce, nose wheel down and guiding. The wind’s up now and we’re getting off center, didn’t correct the crabbing enough and the rudder’s fighting the wind hard and slam the brakes now with that wounded leg—
The pain shot through her like jellyfish fire. She convulsed where she lay, back arching, and Shan swung over, holding her shoulders flat, reaching with Healer sense and then pulling back because their patterns were united in a beautiful alien arabesque, and Miri opened her eyes as the plane rolled by them, too fast, even if—
“Val Con!”
She screamed herself back into the plane, and fell onto the stick, pushing it forward with the last of her strength. The leather tether cut into her and she should be sure, but she knew she couldn’t move, no more, never again. . .
***
“Uncle,” Alys said from the depth of the intercom. “Planetary Defense Unit says it’s taking down the meteor shield, following a successful strike at the enemy’s targeting computer.”
tel’Vosti stared. Sighed.
“Thank you, niece.”
“Yes. It also says that reinforcements have arrived.”
LIAD:
Department of Interior
Command Headquarters
Of the four assigned to the detail at Jelaza Kazone, two were undergoing retraining. The report on the Commander’s screen indicated that one of those would quite possibly re-attain his pre-catastrophe condition. The other would not, in the informed opinion of the departmental senior overseeing the process, re-achieve his former level of expertise. However, the senior remained sanguine concerning that one’s eventual effectiveness as a first-line operative.
Not so, Agent yo’Zeamin, whom the Commander’s second had been obliged to dispatch in the antechamber of the Commander’s own office, nor Agent pel’Iso, fatally shot by a Solcintra Port security guard during an ill-conceived attempt to steal a Jumpship.
From the two presently undergoing retraining came a tale of horrific—nightmarish—event, alike in nothing save the overmastering sense of personal doom. One reported a disconnection with the physical world coinciding with an overriding need to flee.
The second stated that his head had begun to pain him and he had closed his eyes to ease the strain. When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing on the outside of Jelaza Kazone’s perimeter, near the place where he and the others had crossed over the evening before. Disbelieving, he closed his eyes once more. And opened them to discover himself on the ridge that marked the boundary to Korval’s Valley, with no memory of having walked there. He continued to function in this on-again, off-again manner until he was apprehended in Solcintra itself by a first-line operative, who took the precaution of locking him into a storeroom before placing the call to her cell-leader.
The most disturbing part of this unlikely occurrence, to the Commander’s eye, was that the expert’s report indicated the force in operation during the agent’s lapses of perceptual sense was the raw will of the subordinated native personality.
It was this Agent whom the expert felt might be adequately retrained to basic operative. The Commander frowned, touched the button to activate the line to his second’s desk.
“Commander?”
“Agent ven’Egut.”
“Undergoing retraining, Commander.”
“Yes. See to his termination. Unacceptable risk.”
“Yes, Commander.”
He cut the connection and swept the screen clear. Three Agents, lost to Korval. He would meditate upon the best answer to that. In the meanwhile, there was Agent yos’Phelium’s pet Terran to consider.
A match program placing the gene-set known as Miri Robertson against the Book of Clans had yielded an—interesting—piece of data.
The genes of Miri Robertson closely matched the genes of Clan Erob, Korval’s oldest ally.
This significantly altered the face of event—transforming an apparently chance meeting between yos’Phelium and a “Terran mercenary” into a bit of well-planned and long-standing subterfuge.
It also invested one place in all the wide galaxy with a reason for Val Con yos’Phelium’s presence.
Commander of Agents touched the speaker-button once more. “I will have four full Agents of Change in the mid-level meeting room in twelve hours precisely. Commander’s Priority.
“I will also have the history, decision point records, and current clan and strength particulars on the planet Lytaxin. I need full loyalty-compliance reports on any Agent ever on Lytaxin.”
“Immediately, Commander,” said his second. “Is there more?”
The Commander hesitated, considering three Agents wasted and likely a Korval dramliza responsible. Especial study was required there, with one mistake already laid to his account.
“Yes. I will have an overview of the current strengths of the various dramliz on planet, and a comparison of reputed powers. Also . . .” Here he hesitated. It would not do to disturb the balances quite yet. But, if Anthora yos’Galan were to call due a debt from another dramliza. . .
“Also please refer to me, for tomorrow’s morning briefing, our contingency plans for dealing with the guilds and halls.
“That will be all for this moment,” he concluded, and closed the line.
LYTAXIN:
Erob’s Clan House
The orders had come from the captain’s own lips, and so, on the morning of the sixth day following the battle of the airfield, Nelirikk left the bunker-like infirmary beneath Erob’s house and went out into the open air.
He marched with a steady step, eating one of the wonderful pastries the house cooks had brought to the captain’s room. He wore a lieutenant’s bar and captain’s aide insignia, as well as the green scarf at his left shoulder—the troop-sign of The Irregulars—and a Tree-and-Dragon which the captain had very nearly been able to pin on him without assistance.
The orders. Orders. He was so pleased that she was able to give orders that he would have marched to every mountaintop on the planet for her.
“Get outta here,” she’d rasped, pale against the pale pillows that supported her. “That’s an order. Eat an extra dessert or two. That’s an order. If you need something to do, go down the airfield and see what’s cookin’. I don’t want you back in this room before tomorrow unless you got a real good reason.”
Her wounds were like unto a pilot’s wounds. During those long hours of grief and waiting, when it was thought both would pass on to duty’s reward, the Healer who was a star captain and a soldier had explained to him about wizards and the bond of lifemates. Yet, had not he seen the very real burns from the tie belts, the black eyes and pulled skin of high acceleration . . . Strange indeed were the lives of those who guarded Jela’s Tree.
The world was strange now: Troops in good order patrolled, and while some looked on him warily, none barred his way. The air was good, the sun a pleasure, and he had elected to walk, as the captain’s purpose had clearly been to insure his value to the troop and to preserve his health while she slowly regained her own.
The way he had chosen brought him to a ridge, and a view reminiscent of his not-so-long-ago vantage in the 14th Conquest Corps command shack when the courageous, silly plane had struck back with honorable intent against the Corps, and the scout’s vessel had flung Jela’s own challenge at the sky.
The valley was full of planes and ships of various sorts, for the mercenaries were taking no chance that the 15th would come to finish the campaign the 14th had started. There were missile units and fighters, and one odd small ship which he guessed to be the courier or personal vessel of a commander.
The blast crater wher
e the scout’s ship had been was already, and wisely, being recycled into a foundation for some new structure.
Was it a trick of his mind or was that not a scout ship dropping quickly into the valley?
His heart nearly crawled into his throat in admiration of those lines. One day, perhaps the captain would permit him inside such a vessel.
He finished the pastry in a gulp, watching as the scout ship set neatly down on the near edge of the field. In a moment he began to run.
***
There were three of them standing by the ship in casual uniform when he arrived: a woman and two men, all Liaden, all pilots by their stance and alertness, speaking with a soft Erob official. The official was pointing to a spot of trees and Nelirikk heard, “Fighters . . . only defense left . . .” as he slowly approached the group.
The two men were surely of the elder pilots. One carried a cane, the other grew a mustache on his face, as if he were Terran. Both showed gray in their hair. Both were weeping openly, as the woman stood sober-faced and watchful.
Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she moved a hand, gently and with purpose. The men turned to face him, instantly alert to threat.
Nelirikk saluted.
The Liaden with the mustache—surely the first Nelirikk had seen—stood as if under great strain, face wet with his recent tears. The other man was both more at ease and more dangerous: his eyes quickly touched lieutenant’s bar, scarf, Tree-and-Dragon, then lifted to Nelirikk’s face.
Momentarily Nelirikk felt as he had when the captain had first walked round him. This one could take his life in a moment if need be. This one, by Jela—
“Nelirikk Explorer, Lieutenant First Lytaxin Irregulars,” he stated in the Liaden High Tongue. “May I be of service, scouts?”
The three looked between themselves, and as one, they bowed, equal to equal as he had learned it. The Erob official took this as a good sign and removed herself quickly from the scene.
“Shadia Ne’Zame, Scout Lieutenant, First-In,” the woman said, laying her hand over her heart. “Clonak ter’Meulen, Scout Commander,” said the man with the most tears. “Forgive my display, Lieutenant. I have heard just now that my daughter died here.”
