The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack

by David Drake (ed)

  At dawn she woke, ate quickly, and moved her sore body on up the slope, making the next path and carrying her supplies up. Her stiffness eased as she got into it, but another thing developed: itching eyes, blurring sight, and frequent sneezing. She was allergic to something growing here!

  No, it was probably worse. All this hard exercise and complete exposure to the planetary atmosphere was causing her shot to wear off sooner than otherwise. She was losing her adaptation to this environment. It struck first in the breathing system and the eyes, the areas most exposed to it, but it would progress inevitably into her system and do more damage there. If she rested, that might slow its progress—but she couldn’t rest, because she had to complete her mission.

  So she gritted her teeth, this time for real, and plowed on. The implacable slope continued, never ending, always draining her diminishing energy-—and she hadn’t even started carrying the plasma tube yet on this stretch. The very thought of it increased her fatigue; why couldn’t they have made it weigh five kilos instead of twenty-five!

  She spared her eyes by looking ahead, noting the situation, and climbing through it with her eyes closed. But she couldn’t do the same with her breathing, She had less trouble when she breathed exclusively through her mouth—but what was she doing to her lungs? She didn’t know, but decided to operate the best way she could for now, and damn the consequence. If she got—when she got the tube in place and completed her mission, then she could relax into terminal asthma. Not now.

  Tomorrow was her last scheduled day to haul up the tube. Today she had to find a suitable site. If she couldn’t get the tube there tomorrow, then she would use her reserve day, If that wasn’t enough . . .

  The afternoon was progressing, and there was no sign of the top. She was climbing pretty slowly now, conserving her strength, trying to take the very best route. But the mountain loomed monstrously before her; she could not possibly reach the top today!

  But maybe she didn’t have to. If she circled to the other side and looked, she could ascertain that minimum elevation required to sight the battery over the mountains between them. That would prevent her from wearing herself out trying to climb higher than she needed. She should have realized that before; evidently her thinking was suffering, too.

  Yet her thinking had not been all that great before. Why had she stood idiotically frozen while Henry lasered down her companions? If she had only acted properly then!

  But further thought absolved her somewhat. She had reacted as any person would have, stunned by the suddenness and awfulness of it. The men had thought Henry was joking; had they realized the truth, all three could have gone for their weapons together, and one of them surely would have gotten him. She had done no worse than they. The difference was that they had been immediate targets, because they were competent males, while she had not, because she was an incompetent female. Had Henry respected her ability, he would have whipped his laser around and sliced her throat too. So it was contempt that had saved her—and perhaps her sex appeal. Soft like a woman. A justified epithet, it seemed.

  She found an almost level ledge and followed it around. What a relief to stop climbing!

  She had made progress. The mountain was smaller here, so that she circled it much faster than she would have at the base. Soon she was looking from the other side.

  The way to the battery was blocked by an adjacent mountain. Its peak rose high enough to cost her another two days of climbing. That was hopeless.

  But this mountain was not only taller, but broader than that one. Maybe she could see around it, if she continued to the side. She went on—and realized that a third mountain was overlapping the second, its slope rising as the slope of the second descended, blocking off the necessary line of sight. Damn! The two might be many kilometers apart, but the effect was solid.

  But she kept on. When her compass indicated that the bottom of the effective cleft between the two other mountains was in line with the battery, she resumed her climb. Every few feet she blinked the allergetic tears out of her eyes and made another sighting. How much farther did she have to go?

  On the third such sighting, she spied a glint. With wild hope she climbed just a few more meters, squinted desperately, and verified it. She had sighted the barrel of the huge laser cannon! How nice of the Khalia to keep it polished! The slanting sunlight highlighted it; otherwise she could have missed it.

  Her tiredness receded. She set down her laser pistol to mark the exact spot, and started back down. She wanted no extra weight at all on the morrow! She would barely make it to the tube before dark, but now she knew she could do it. She could take out that battery!

  When she slipped and started to fall, and barely caught herself, she realized that she was pushing too hard. Her vision was blurry, and her nose was running so persistently that she had simply stopped wiping it and was letting it drip on the ground. But she had to pay attention to where she was going, and not assume that what she didn’t see couldn’t hurt her. She had to make sure of every grip, for this was no cakewalk.

  She slowed, and darkness did indeed catch her before she reached the tube, but it hardly mattered because her vision was so bad. She pounced on the pack and gulped water and gobbled hardtack and dropped almost instantly into sleep.

  All too soon dawn intruded. Quiti consumed most of the rest of her supplies, and slapped on more repellant. This preparation would have to do; she would not be back here unless she completed her mission.

  The last day’s tube haul had started with a mass half her weight that had seemed to grow to double her weight. This time it started at double. She staggered, and doubt assailed her like the forming swarm of gnats. It was as though each tiny fly was a formulation of doubt: could she make it? “Yes I can! I will!” she exclaimed, making a small snort of determination—and mucous dribbled from her nose. She would have laughed, had she had the energy, had it been funny.

  The harness settled into the accustomed sores on her back and sides, and she plodded on. She was proceeding on hands and feet, like a pack animal; the angle of the slope facilitated this, and so did the weight and balance of the burden. So did her dripping eyes and nose; the drops fell cleanly to the ground now, instead of down her chin. She was making progress; that was all that mattered.

  But her strength was fading. She knew that she wasn’t going to make it to the necessary site; the seeming heaviness of the tube was crushing her steadily down.

  She would have to do what she had hoped not to do: draw on her last remaining reserves by hypnotizing herself. In her weakened state it wasn’t safe; her body might function, but her mind could start going, perhaps hallucinating. But it was that or failure.

  She did it, and in a moment slipped into a semitrance. Now the weight of the tube diminished to its proper amount, and she picked up speed. She felt better, but she knew it was illusory. She dared not squander any of this energy; when it was gone, she would be done for.

  She reached the ledge and started the horizontal trek. This should have been easier, but it wasn’t; her muscles were reaching toward the point of absolute fatigue that even the trance could not overcome.

  Then she heard voices, and knew that her mind was starting, to go. It was as if the protein required for her physical system were being drawn from her brain, depleting its sanity. She listened; there was no way not to.

  “So you fell for our little charade, eh, Cutie? Too bad for you!” It was the voice of her superior officer, the one who had assigned her to this outfit and this mission. “I never did have much faith in you, sweet thing, but the regs say I had to give you a chance, so I did. I sent you out on what we call a sheep-and-goat mission, wherein we ascertain which is which, if you see what I mean.”

  The trouble was, the voices would seem increasingly real as her strength diminished, until finally she believed them. Then she would do what they told her to do, and that might be anything. For the sake of
her mission, she had to hang on to the single shred of reality that guided her to the completion of her mission.

  “So here’s this soft li’l thing, all dulcet and rounded, and they made book on how and when she’d catch on. They were all in on it, of course; only one can be proven at a time, for obvious reasons.”

  She didn’t believe the voice yet. That was a good sign.

  “So when they land, they go into the act. The designated Spy draws his mock laser pistol and makes his move. Will she react in competent military fashion, or will she go to pieces, woman fashion? Alas, she does neither; she merely stares. So he shoots them, and they twitch their chins and open up the catsup vents. Does she act now? She does not. She Just stares.”

  She was rounding the mountain. She still knew reality from illusion, but her certainty was diminishing. The mission—a mere test?

  “So he gives her one more chance,” the voice continued. “He goes into the Rape Sequence. This is so phony she has to catch on. A real spy would immediately radio his cohorts, of course . . .”

  Quiti grimaced. She was starting to believe. What was she doing here, hauling the tube up the mountain, when she had failed her examination at the outset?

  No! That blood had been real! That attempted rape had been real! She had to believe that; otherwise . . .

  “The radio, Cutie,” the voice said. “How do you explain that? Why didn’t he call?”

  She didn’t answer. Once she started answering, she would be locked into the phantom reality, unable to extricate herself. That was another trap of a deteriorating mind.

  Then she reached the apparent cleft between the other peaks. It was late afternoon; the day had passed in a seeming instant, but she was close, very close. The voice had tried to distract her from reality; it had succeeded to the extent of distracting her from the horrendous struggle of the climb.

  Now came the hard part: climbing the last short distance. Her arms and legs were leaden, and the voices were yammering at her. Was it worth it to continue? Why hadn’t he radioed? Obviously the other agent in the other ship had; at least one Khalian had joined him. He should have radioed; that way he would have had the other ship there before he raped her, and—

  There it was! He had said he would not see her again, after he turned her in. So he had waited to, make his report, so as to give himself time to have his business with her. The Khalia would not have cared one whit for his illicit passion; he had to take it first. And that had cost him his life. Then, when she had blithely radioed, they had realized what had happened, and tried to catch her anyway. The Khalia would have used a translator to speak, not knowing her nickname. So he, too, had lost the gambit.

  And now she was there; she saw her laser pistol marking the spot. She eased herself down, so tired despite the hypnosis that she had to do it slowly lest she collapse and not be able to recover. She removed the harness and propped up the tube. The last glinting of the sunlight reflected from the laser cannon in the distance; she knew her target.

  “Of course you realize you are stranded,” the voice said. “We aren’t going to waste a good ship trying to pick you up. Everyone thinks you’re dead, anyway.”

  Maybe she would be, soon. Certainly she lacked the strength to climb back to her pack, halfway down the mountain slope. She had no supplies, no water, and sweat had dehydrated her. She had taken a calculated risk, and she had won: she would complete her mission. She would also lose her life, but she had known that. Better to sacrifice it this way, than by having to blow up her ship and herself with it!

  She oriented the tube, blinked her eyes madly to clear them for just this moment, and caught the cannon in the cross hairs. “Let them explain this, spook!” she exclaimed. And pressed the firing stud.

  She remained conscious long enough to see the fireball form. It was a direct hit! Then she faded out.

  * * *

  “Suck on this, Cutie,” the officer said, putting a free-fall drink-tube to her mouth. “Slowly; don’t choke on it.” Then, after a moment, “Uh-oh, I shouldn’t call you that, should I? My apology, Quiti.”

  “Call me what you want, spook,” she muttered. “I may be dying, but l completed my mission. You can’t hurt me or it, now.”

  “She’s delirious, sir,” another voice said. “But we got to her in time; her vitals are good. She’s one tough lady.”

  The restorative fluid was acting on her. She opened her eyes. She was in a ship, on a bunk, and her superior officer was holding the squeeze bottle for her. Therefore she knew it was a terminal fantasy. But she liked it; phantoms weren’t all bad.

  “I don’t expect you to assimilate this right now, Quiti,” he said. “But I feel obliged to tell you myself, before I go, because I have some culpability in the matter.”

  She sucked on the bottle, content to listen to the spook as the strength of the phantom elixir flowed through her. Her dream would have it that she had slept a day or so and recovered somewhat, and that now she was recovering faster. Anything was possible, in illusion.

  “It was a setup, but not the way you may have supposed,” he continued. “You see, the Khalia were able to convert some of our personnel to work for them. We don’t know what inducement they used; that’s part of what we wanted to discover. We didn’t even know who the agents were. But we had narrowed it down to a few units, and this was one of them. So we put all our suspects on this mission, and—”

  Even for a vision, this was getting outrageous. “I was a suspect?” she demanded.

  He nodded. “Not too many from your planet in the Fleet; we weren’t absolutely sure of your fundamental loyalty, or of the pressures or temptations you might have. Also, the matter of being an attractive young woman in an all-male complement—there are those who might get resentful.”

  He had scored there! She shut up.

  “Every one of you was bugged. Even Ivan, the only one on your ship who was in on this. When the spy revealed himself—or herself—Ivan was to activate the stun box in his pocket and render all of you unconscious until he disarmed and confined the spy. But as it happened—”

  “He never had the chance,” she finished. “Henry fired too soon. Ivan was holding the plasma pipe when—” She stopped. Now she was believing the vision!

  “None of you had a chance,” the officer agreed. “On either ship. Except that one of them did wound the spy, there, so that he had to be put away by the Khalia when they arrived; they have no use for spies whose work is finished and who are likely to be a burden.”

  “Bugged?” she asked, catching up to an earlier reference. “You heard it all?”

  “We heard it all—up to your broadcast,” he agreed. “The bugs fed into the radio unit, and it was programmed to emit a coded ball at the same time as it was used for any other purpose. So we got your whole story up until that time.” He smiled. “Once the second battery blew, we extrapolated the rest, and came for you in a hurry. It was safe after that, you see; they had no battery to hit us with. Had we tried before—” He shook his head.

  “You mean—this is real?” she asked, amazed.

  “And I’ll tell you something else, Quiti,” he said. “Off the record, until it’s official. You did a man’s job, no affront, and restored the viability of the whole plan. You’ll be getting a double promotion, and next time there’s a mission like this, you’ll be in command. They already have a code name for it: ‘Soft Like a Woman.’ Others won’t know exactly what that means, which is part of the point. There’s a new respect for your planet spreading through the higher echelons, and for the capacities of women in the service. No one will call you ‘Cutie’ any more.”

  She lay back dazedly. “Oh, I think I’ll keep it. I don’t mind it now.”

  He stood. “I have other business; got to go. But you know, you are awful cute. I never saw a prettier recovery of a lost mission; it will go down in the textbooks.”

 
; “Oh, I thought you meant—”

  He winked. “That too. Now get some sleep.”

  “Soft like a woman,” she repeated, liking it. Then she did sleep.

  Meier was in his office reviewing terrain of the Alliance’s landing zones on Bethesda’s north continent when Smythe burst in.

  “Something’s just come in. It either destroys our theories or will amount to nothing.” The normally calm investigator seemed upset. “The Khalia have agreed to a peace conference.”

  “How was it worded?” Meier had his own theories.

  “The translation is rough, but basically it says that the house of the Bent Fang will meet with representatives of the Fleet at a neutral location.”

  “Has it been arranged?” Meier considered requisitioning a gig and attending himself. He had never seen a Khalian, not even one of the rare prisoners.

  Smythe passed him the report. The affair had been arranged on the sector level. Two lines later Meier read that Admiral Esplendador was heading the Fleet delegation. His only impression of the man had come from being subjected to an intensive bout of lobbying designed to get the former hero assigned command on Klaxon. Esplendador hadn’t seemed much of a diplomat then.

  The date at the bottom of the report was the worst news of all.

  Vacuum blast couriers and bureaucracy, the meeting had already started! It would be over long before anyone with any knowledge or authority could arrive from Port.

  Idly Admiral Meier wondered if Esplendador had delayed the news to ensure just that.

  Then, again, if the theory he and Smythe had arrived at was true, this would come to nothing . . . particularly with Esplendador in charge.

  LIZARD O’NEAL LEANED back on his straw chair, folded his dirty hands across his grubby shirt, and surveyed his empire.