Five by Five

by Aaron Allston

  A voice broke through on TacOne. Nick recognized it as Sun Lee’s voice. “Lead, six Dulls inbound. We can’t reach them before they launch.”

  “I’ve got them, Seven. Hurry in as fast as you can. There will be plenty to kill.”

  “Roger, Lead.”

  The first Dull flight had launched from long range as a bit of a gamble. The tactic should have actually worked to kill the shuttle. Why it hadn’t, Nick couldn’t tell. If the half-dozen incoming Dulls launched from closer range, better gunners than the Haxadissi had aboard would be powerless to prevent the shuttle’s destruction.

  Nick punched up TacTwo. “The shuttle is still your primary responsibility. I’ll take the next wave.”

  “Roger, Lead.”

  Taine. Nick shivered. He’d not have guessed Greg Allen would be the 301st’s first casualty. Never thought I’d outlive him. I guess, now, I’ll find out for exactly how long.

  * * *

  Greg returned to consciousness—or what he assumed to be consciousness—adrift in space. It had to be a delusion; clearly the product of head trauma, because he floated there in his flight suit, with no helmet, no ship, no breathing apparatus. Moreover, he was himself, at least, not physically. He had grown to incredible proportions, such that the Dulls and Shrikes diving and weaving in front of him were small enough that he could have held one in the palm of his hand. The Shan-chey could have been an overstuffed duffel-bag.

  Greg blinked and as his eyes opened again symbols and lines, circles and numbers underscored and connected all of the ships. It was as if he was adrift in some bizarre simulator, where the Shrike’s Combat HUD surrounded him. He knew that couldn’t be true since he was in a Shrike. Then reality began to seep into his mind, so he accepted the externalization. His other choice, that instead of being trapped in a cockpit he was really trapped inside his mind, just wasn’t a concept he wanted to deal with.

  So, here I am. What can I do?

  Three icons burned to life in front of him. The gold lightning bolt represented a Meson Cannon. The blue missile clearly was a Baryon Missile—and it had the number two as a subscript by it. That left the sunburst in a circle to represent lasers. The letters S, D and Q hung beneath it, with the D circled and flashing.

  Greg stabbed his left finger on the lightning bolt, then dragged it onto the blue egg representing a Dull. A dotted line connected the two symbols. The dots stretched and linked into a single solid line which flashed, then it, and the Dull, vanished.

  Greg had no idea what had just happened, if anything had, in fact, happened. He wanted to believe something had happened, something good; but it all had to be a delusion. Yet even if he were dying, even if this was a cruel game being played by capricious gods to torment him in his last moments, it was a game he’d play to win.

  You wanted to know what you could do? Let’s see if you can do more.

  He tapped the lasers and drew a line from them to another of the Dulls. The dots again solidified, this time into a scarlet line. It pulsed and the target vanished. He tried to link another Dull with the lasers, but the line wouldn’t reach, so he willed himself closer, striding among the stars. He connected the two points and the Dull winked out.

  The Dulls shifted. A pair broke off and headed in his direction. He watched as lines of dots reached out toward him. Greg dove forward and rolled, as if playing in the ocean. The lines stabbed past him, then he kicked, bringing himself up and over. He dove down again, linked one Dull with the lasers. The red line pulsed, then Greg broke off and rolled to the right, allowing more laser light to flash by.

  The sensation of swimming evaporated. Greg imagined himself a bird, a raptor, a peregrine falcon. He came up on a wing-tip, holding there for a second, before a quick beat dropped him a Dull’s tail. He gave that Dull a taste of the Meson Cannon, then came up again.

  There. A half-dozen Dulls split into pairs as a lone Shrike streaked in to face them. The Shrike fired all eight of its Baryon Missiles, killing two Dulls and scattering the others into evasive maneuvers. The missiles, while fast, did have a limited amount of fuel. If a pilot could evade long enough—and a good pilot in a Dull could break quickly, forcing the missile to shoot past before acquiring a target lock again—the missile would flame out.

  The Shrike boiled into the mix and pursued the Dulls aggressively. Has to be Colonel Clark. Greg willed himself forward, pressing ahead with all speed. As he approached, the lines and curves became mathematical formulae describing flight paths and velocity. He recognized them for what they were, but his knowledge pushed past that. They were probability equations, pulling together all the data about the Dulls’ known performance, what the sensors had gathered concerning their real performance, and adding in the tendencies and biases exhibited by the pilots. Ultra-violet sheets curled out, then contracted into ribbons which wove together, finally resolving themselves into solid blue threads as the fighters and pilots pursued Colonel Clark.

  Greg spoke, knowing his voice was going out over TacOne. “Tiger Lead, heading 235 point 337, throttle to 57.3 on my mark, then turn to 191 point 024 at full. Do you copy?”

  * * *

  Hearing Greg Allen’s voice, distant and dreamy, completely devoid of emotion, sent a shiver through Nick Clark. He’d have ignored Greg, save for a confident note of sincerity coming through the words, and the fact that four Dulls had decided to vape him.

  “I copy.” Nick brought the Shrike up on its left wing and nosed down, on a course heading toward the Shan-chey. Angry red bolts shot past and hissed against his rear shields. “On your mark, Nine.”

  “Mark.”

  Nick chopped the throttle back and nosed up while still turning hard to port. Once he hit the new course, he punched the throttle forward. He caught the golden flash of an explosion and two of the Dulls disappeared from his combat HUD.

  Had to have been Baryon Missiles, but hitting them that way isn’t possible. Still, he couldn’t deny what must have happened. Nor can I dwell on it.

  Nick rolled up and over, then came around and vectored in on one of the last two rocket-packing Dulls. He came in hot, then hit rudder, tracking his nose back along the Dull’s flight path. The Dull pilot, feeling pursuit, had reversed his throttle. For a heartbeat—which was all Nick needed—the Dull hung in space.

  Nick’s quad blast punched through shields and armor, spraying hot metal slag back through the cockpit. Whatever it was flying the thing died fast, then the burning liquid remains got sucked out into space.

  Nick located the last Dull on his HUD, but before he could come around, three Shrikes shot past him. One pounced eagerly—he took that to be the Russian in Tiger Eleven; and Sun Lan maintained her position as his wing. The other Shrike headed down toward the Haxadissi shuttle, helping Major Taine drive off the last of the ambushers.

  Nick studied his HUD for signs of Greg Allen’s Shrike, but sensors picked up nothing matching the power or performance profile of a fighter. “Nomad, backtrack the Baryon Missile trajectory to point of origin. Paint it in gold.”

  Two parallel lines traced down toward Haxad Four. Nick brought himself around on a course intersecting their starting point. As his Shrike streaked toward it, his sensors picked up an unidentifiable mass with no discernible power reading, but that didn’t kill his hope. Survival equipment functioned on its own power supply, heavily shielded to avoid detection, so until he got close enough to be sure, he’d believe Greg Allen still lived.

  No dying on me, Allen. It would make your father happy, and that’s not on my to-do list. What Greg done to make the shot was, to the best of Nick’s knowledge, beyond the ability of any pilot in the 301st—and quite probably any pilot flying. The Baryon Missile had been launched from the outer edge of their range. Greg had launched them in passive mode, using no targeting computers. To avoid warning the targets, the missiles had been programmed to reach a point in space and detonate. No course correction in flight, no pursuit. Hitting the Dulls was the equivalent of a man throwing a pebble to
hit another pebble ten kilometers down range.

  And he had me lead them right to where they needed to be—but figuring all that out would take hours and need a lot more data than he had available. Wouldn’t it.

  Before Nick could even begin to consider the implications of what Greg had done, his HUD identified Greg’s battered Shrike. He swooped down, flying close enough to identify what was left of the Shrike. Most of the tail had been shot off and the right wing badly mangled, but the cockpit looked intact. On his comms monitor, however, Tiger Nine had greyed out as unresponsive.

  Still, as he brought his Shrike up beside Tiger Nine, Nick smiled. His sensors picked up a trace of the survival gear’s energy signature. He couldn’t see inside because the canopy had darkened as a means of keeping it cool and limiting solar radiation exposure.

  Yes. Nick touched the black and white image on his auxiliary monitor. We’re bringing boys back, and that’s what’s important.

  Nick tapped the Unity’s comms tab. “Unity, we need a medical recovery for Tiger Nine. On my position. As fast as you can.”

  “Confirmed, Tiger Lead. Estimated time of arrival five minutes.”

  “Understood, Unity.” Nick nodded, glancing over at the Shrike’s cockpit. “Vych’s right, you served well. I think I’m going to need you to serve even better in the future.”

  –8–

  Exactly how he managed to contain his fury with the Haxadissi Ambassador’s spokesnake Nick wasn’t exactly certain. The Shan-chey had suffered minor damage during the ambush, and then had grafted itself onto the Unity’s hull. The Haxadis ship could have opened a portal between the vessels to allow for a face-to-face meeting, but claimed the damage they’d suffered impaired their ability to do so.

  Instead the spokesnake had projected a golden hologram of himself into Nick’s office. The image had been bright enough to half-blind Nick, and yet transparent enough to let him look through it at the ruins of Greg Allen’s Shrike. Nick focused on the ruined spacefighter and let Vych carry the conversation. They conducted it throughly in political speak which wandered close to the Haxadissi asking for an apology for allowing any damage at all to be done to the Shan-chey and yet steering well clear of anything that might be construed as being even vaguely grateful.

  Vych handled it all deftly and ended the conversation before Nick’s brains geysered up through his skull. He forced himself to smile as the golden serpentine ghost evaporated.

  Nick glanced at Vych. “I gotta ask, what did he look like to you? To me he was just a fat guy in a snake suit, sitting on a steaming pile of …”

  “Nicholas!” The Qian shook her head. “I understand your dissatisfaction, but this is a delicate situation.”

  “Oh, I get that, and I’m still expecting blowback.” Nick raked fingers through his hair. “Just tell me one thing, okay? Did they fail to obey the order to return to Haxad Four because they truly didn’t understand it, or because the Ambassador was feeling stubborn, or because they just didn’t want to take orders from primates like the ones they hunt for sport?”

  “I believe, Nicholas, you have drawn a conclusion which will not be shaken no matter what I say to you.” Vych strode slowly and effortlessly into the space the hologram had just vacated. Lights played solemnly beneath her flesh and across her face. “The facts really do not matter, as this incident will not exist in any official archive.”

  Nick stood, frowning. “I don’t like that either. I get the reasons, but I don’t like it.” That the attack had come so deep in Qian Commonwealth space—and at the time where the Shan-chey would be most vulnerable—exposed a host of problems. The timing suggested that the Ambassador’s political rivals had informed the assassins about the journey. Or political allies decided to sacrifice her to prove the worthlessness of humans. And while everyone knew enemy strikes deep within the Commonwealth were possible, they much preferred potential problems to ugly reality.

  He looked up at Vych. “I need the sensor data and reconstruction of the battle so I can figure out what we did wrong and right.”

  “My superiors will allow me to scrub the data and use it for the basis of a theoretical exercise. Unless we find the remains of Tiger Two’s Shrike, we will only be able to infer what he did from long range data. Likewise, of course, we lost the data from Tiger Nine, as his Nomad was unrecoverable.”

  Nick came around the desk and stared out the window at the battered hulk of Allen’s Shrike. “What happened to him?”

  Blue and green pinpoints swirled over the forehead of her reflection in the glass. “Shin reports that Captain Allen is in no immediate danger and will recover fully.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “I know there are things you won’t tell me, and things you’re not supposed to tell me. But you have to remember, I flew with the recovery ship. I landed right beside it, and I was the first one there when Shin cracked the cockpit. I saw his right hand …”

  Nick shivered involuntarily. Allen’s forearm had turned an icy blue. It looked as if water had burst all the seams of his glove and had frozen solid over the stick. Only when flighttechs had connected auxiliary power cables to the Shrike, and Shin had attached several sensor patches to Allen’s neck, head and chest, did the ice melt and flow back into flaccid simulacrum of an arm and hand.

  Vych rested her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I tell you truthfully that I do not know what happened. I know of no other situation with a similar manifestation. We have technicians pouring over what data we have, trying to make sense of it. I will give you answers as soon as I have them.”

  He turned his back to the flight deck, letting her hand trail down until it rested over his heart. “I’ve looked at his records. No way could he have made the calculations to deadhead those missiles into the Dulls. And what he did to shield the Shan-chey … I mean, it was pure Gregory Allen to order Major Taine to stay with the shuttle while he went off to engage a dozen Dulls all by himself….”

  “Much as you did.”

  “I knew what I was doing.” Nick shook his head. “For Gregory Allen to put himself where he was, when he was, and to do the things he did to deal with that first salvo; that wasn’t right. I don’t think he was suicidal. I don’t get that in him at all, but need to know what was going on. I have to know who I’m dealing with.”

  Vych smiled broadly, which took an effort since the Qian tended to be closed with their emotions. “Perhaps the accident changed him.”

  “Maybe. I’ll have to keep an eye on him. It’s not that I mind what he did; I just want to know who I have flying with me, and what I can trust him to do.”

  * * *

  The first thing Greg Allen noticed upon waking was that his fingers burned as if they’d been frostbitten. He tried to shut the sensation off, but couldn’t. He glanced at where his right arm lay hidden under a sheet and commanded his fingers to move. They did, but sluggishly, and the burning increased.

  Jiro Yamashita, seated in an uncomfortable chair over by the wall, shifted and stretched. “I wanted to get to you before any of them did.”

  “Them?”

  Jiro looked side to side. “I don’t know much of anything about what happened, and I’ve been told I’ll never be able to write up what I do know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know. I need you to tell me what happened out there.”

  “I haven’t been debriefed yet. I don’t know what I can and cannot say.” Greg eased himself back and up so he could sit against the headboard. “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you at all.”

  “You honestly think that if you knew something they didn’t want me to know that they’d have allowed me to be here when you woke up?”

  That’s an interesting point. Greg shrugged. “I guess they don’t think I know anything they don’t know.”

  “So, what happened out there?”

  “I really don’t think discussing operational details with you is something I should be doing.”

  Jiro held up his hands. “Okay, let’s do it this way. S
even of you go out to guide a shuttle in here. The shuttle gets surprised. One Shrike doesn’t come back. The rest are shot up. Word has it that the colonel killed seven, you got six. You’re both aces in a day. Major Taine had four. The remaining seven got split amongst the other four.”

  Greg’s stomach tightened. “Who didn’t come back?”

  “Lieutenant Fields. She got two, but one unloaded two H-rocks into her.”

  Maddie Fields’ smiling face floated before Greg’s mind’s-eye. Blonde with brown eyes, resident of London, she’d seemed the most enthused about heading out to the stars. Now she’ll be among them forever. Something in the back of his mind told him that Haxad Four was so far from Earth, that the light that had shined on her Shrike wouldn’t reach her home for another three centuries. Will anyone still remember her when it does?

  Greg ran his good hand over his jaw. “I wonder if they will let us record condolence messages to her family?” Jiro’s expression soured, so Greg quickly amended his comment. “I wonder if they’ll actually send on the messages they let us record.”

  “So, what happened out there, Captain?”

  “I think you have the story, Mr. Yamashita.” Greg shrugged, his mouth sour. “We got jumped and fought our way out of the ambush.”

  “Yeah, I got that much. And I’ve seen what’s left of your Shrike. How in hell did you get six kills in that thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  Greg met his gaze. “I don’t know. I was tasked with protecting the shuttle. That’s what I did. I don’t remember …”

  Jiro stood. “No, you don’t get away with that.”

  “With what?”

  “Fog of war. Amnesia. ‘It all happened so fast.’ Not you.” Jiro folded his arms over his chest. “You’ve always been good for a war story or two, and data backs you up. What happened?”

  Greg shook his head. What he remembered of the battle seemed like a dream, and one he was content forgetting. He remembered dropping in front of the Shan-chey to shield it, but after he blacked out, or when he came to, that couldn’t have been real. He wasn’t in his Shrike. He wasn’t firing lasers or piloting his fighter. He wasn’t capable of doing it.