by Weber, David
"We have tentative classifications on Group Two, sir," Hinarou said tensely. "Coming up on your display."
Khardanish looked back down and tightened internally. At least seven of those ships were capital units; three were superdreadnoughts.
"Maneuvering, come about one-eight-oh degrees. Maximum power." Znamae swerved in a course change so radical it could be felt even through the drive field and Khardanish turned to Johansen. "Observations, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, they may claim to be Terran, but they don't match anything in my records. I don't know what they are."
"Could they be survivors of the colony fleet of 2206?"
Johansen blinked, then frowned. "I suppose it's possible, sir, but if they are, where have they been all this time?"
"I do not know, but if that is the case, they cannot know what has transpired since. They may even believe we are still at war."
"Sir," Observer Hinarou broke in, "we are picking up additional sensor emissions. Battle Comp estimates they are targeting systems."
"Acknowledged, Observation."
Their pursuers were far outside weapon range, but that would change. The capital ships were gaining only slowly as they cut the angle on the squadron's course, but their escorts were twenty percent faster than his ships. They would reach missile range in little over two hours, and the first group was far closer. They would have the range in less than eighty minutes, and it was thirty hours to the nearest warp point.
Khardanish beckoned, and Johansen crossed to his side. He leaned close to her, speaking softly.
"Either those ships truly are Terran, however and wherever they have come from, or they are not. In either case, we cannot outrun them. If they attack, we will undoubtedly be destroyed, and the consequences to the Alliance may prove disastrous."
"I understand, sir," the lieutenant said when he paused.
"But perhaps we can avoid that eventuality. So far we have used only our own com techs, and they are Zheeerükou'valkhannaieee. You are Human. You must speak for us and convince them of the true state of affairs."
"I'll try, sir."
"I know you will, Saahmaantha." He waved her back to her console, then turned to his com officer. "Patch the lieutenant into your link."
"At once, sir." The communications officer touched a key, then flicked his ears to Johansen, and she drew a deep breath.
"Kepler," she said slowly and distinctly, "this is Lieutenant Samantha Johansen, Terran Federation Navy, aboard the Orion destroyer Znamae. You are not in Terran space. This system was ceded to the Khanate under the Treaty of Tycho. The Federation is not--I repeat, not--at war with the Khanate. We are allies. I say again, the Terran Federation and the Khanate of Orion are allies. Please acknowledge my transmission."
Lieutenant Johansen's words winged across space to the cruiser Kepler, and a stunned com officer relayed them to the superdreadnought Saint-Just.
"What did she say?!" The admiral commanding Task Force One stared at his flag captain in disbelief.
"That the Federation and the Orions are allies," the captain repeated shakenly.
'Holy Terra!" the admiral murmured. "It's worse than we feared possible!"
The captain nodded silently, trying to grapple with the blasphemous possibility, then shook himself.
"Shall we reply, sir"
"Wait," his admiral commanded, rubbing his prominent nose as he thought. He was silent for several seconds, then looked back up with cold eyes. "Instruct Kepler to reply, Captain. Emphasize that we've been out of contact for many years. Tell this Lieutenant Jo-hansen"--the name was an epithet in his mouth--"we must investigate her claims. Request, politely, that the Orion ships halt and permit the screen to close with them."
"Aye, sir." The captain's voice was flat with disapproval, and his admiral's eyes flickered with cold amusement.
"If the infidel agrees, we'll halt the remainder of the task force while the screen closes, and then..."
The long delay between Johansen's transmission and the response was agonizing, but it finally came, and all eyes on Znamae's bridge turned unobtrusively to the least claw.
"Comments, Saahmaantha?" he asked quietly.
"I don't like it, Captain," she said flatly. "They don't feel right, but they've got the speed to catch us if we run."
"I share the lieutenant's suspicion, sir, and I must point out that if they close to such a short range, their weapons would--"
"I know, Yahaamow," Khardanish said, "but we have small choice, and the Alliance serves both our Khan and the Federation well. If we risk our lives to preserve it, we do no more than our duty." He held the exec's eyes until his ears twitched agreement, then looked at Johansen.
"Very well, Lieutenant, inform them we will comply." He turned back to the exec. "Maintain Status One, but I want no active targeting systems."
The Orion Tenth Destroyer Squadron hung motionless, watching a handful of scanner dots close with it. The remainder of the "Terran" fleet had halted well beyond attack range, and Khardanish hoped that was a good sign, yet uneasiness simmered in his blood, and it was hard to keep his claws from twitching. The faceless com link had refused further communication until rendezvous was made, and its silence bit at his nerves.
He watched Kepter's light dot. The heavy cruiser was now at eight light-seconds and closing at a leisurely two percent of light-speed with two light cruisers and three of her brood of destroyers. The other six destroyers had halted at ten light-seconds, just within standard missile range. It looked as if the other side was doing exactly as agreed.
"Range six light-seconds, sir," Observer Hinarou reported.
"Lieutenant, request that they come no closer until we have established visual communications."
"Aye, sir." Johansen activated her com once more. "Kepler, this is Lieutenant Johansen. Our commander requests that you come no closer until visual communications have b--"
"Incoming fire!" Yahaarnow snapped, and the display was suddenly alive with missile traces.
"Return fire!" Khardanish slammed his clawed fist against his armrest. "Enemy flagship is primary target!"
"Aye, sir, opening fire now!"
The Tenth Squadron belched homing missiles, but the reply was pitiful beside the holocaust racing for it, and the enemy drive fields peaked as they charged in for the kill.
"Evasive action!" Khardanish commanded, and his ships, too, leapt to full power. They swerved in frantic evasion maneuvers, and Znamae lurched as the first warhead burst against her shields. The energy gunners had required a moment to activate their targeting systems, but now the force beams opened up, slamming at the enemy with electromagnetic fists.
"Launch courier drones," Khardanish said softly, and his bridge crew knew their commander had already written off his entire squadron.
"There," Kepler's captain said coldly. "That one's done all the talking. That's the one we want."
Courier drones spilled from the embattled destroyers, racing for the warp point beacons as nuclear flame boiled on their mother ships' shields. The squadron's overloaded point defense stations could stop only a handful of the incoming missiles, but Khardanish's own missiles were striking home, and he watched explosions crawl over the heavy cruiser's shields. The invisible blows of his force beams savaged them as well, and they were going down.
But so were his, and the light code of the destroyer Tramad flickered as her last shield died and the first missile impacted on her drive field.
"Target's shields are weakening," Yahaamow reported. "One enemy destroyer streaming atmosphere. We--"
His voice broke off as a savage burst of energy swept past Znamae's shields and slashed into her bows, and Khardanish's eyes went wide in shock.
"Forward armor destroyed. Life Support Three inactive. Shield Compartment Two no longer responds. Heavy casualties in Missile One."
Khardanish slewed around towards Hinarou, and the observer first's ears were flat to her skull in disbelief.
"That was an x-ray laser, Ca
ptain!"
The least claw turned back to his display, but his brain raced. That surpassed anything the Khanate or Federation could do. It took a bomb-pumped laser to produce a weapon-grade beam of x-rays at such a range, and though independently deployed bomb-pumped lasers were feasible for static defenses, they were far too cumbersome for deep-space use against targets capable of radical maneuvers at ten percent of light-speed. And how could anyone use a bomb-pumped laser on board a ship, anyway?! Carbon lasers were retained there because their neutrally-charged photons could pierce a ship's electromagnetic shields, but none of them could do damage like that at this range!
His display wrenched his mind from its thoughts as Tramad's light code suddenly vanished. Now he commanded only three destroyers--and then Honarhae followed Tramad into destruction.
"Shields down!" Yahaarnow reported as Znamae's defenses crumbled under the enemy's pounding, but no fresh missiles darted in to take advantage of her nakedness. They were tearing his ships to pieces, but aside from that single laser hit, Znamae had taken no damage at all! Why?
"Enemy cruisers launching capital missiles!" Hinarou snapped, and Khardanish gripped his chair's armrests in fingers of steel. Capital missiles from cruisers? Ridiculous! And why wait this long and then launch extended range weapons at such close quarters?
"Sonasha is gone, sir," Yahaarnow said flatly. The least claw merely nodded. Znamae was alone, but there was no time even for grief; she would be joining her sisters soon enough.
The bridge lighting flickered as fresh energy stabbed his ship. Her shields were down, baring her to the enemy's needle beams, and the close-range precision weapons struck viciously. They ripped through her weapon bays, mangling her force beams and crippling her point defense, and the capital missiles screamed in to complete her destruction.
But they never struck. An explosion trembled through the hull, then another and another, but they were too weak for warheads. They were--
"Captain!" Yahaarnow whirled from his useless weapon console. "Those missiles were some sort of vehicles! Their crews are blowing holes in the hull and boarding us!"
Khardanish stared at his exec. Board a starship under way? How could they even penetrate the drive field?!
'Intruders on deck eight!' a voice shouted over the intercom. "Deck seven!"
"Deck five!" Pressure loss telltales burned crimson, and a sick wave of understanding swept the least claw. He had no idea how it had been done, but he knew why. They wanted his ship...and her data base.
More explosions bit breaches in the hull, and vac-suited boarders swarmed through them like demons, armed with automatic weapons and grenades. Destroyers carried no Marines, and Znamae's pitiful stock of small arms was locked in the armory. Her officers were armed, but only with the edged steel of their defargaie, the honor dirks of the Khanate.
Yet Znamae's crew were Orions, and they turned on their enemies with clawed fists and feet ana improvised bludgeons. They were cut down by bullets, slaughtered as grenades burst in the confines of steel passages, but they did not die quite alone. A few captured enemy weapons, turning them upon their foes before they, too, went down on the blood-slick decks and the tide of combat swept over them.
A tractor beam dragged Znamae toward Kepler, and Least Claw Khardanisn rose, reaching for his own defargo as a thunderous explosion blew the sealed bridge hatch open and hurled Yanaarnow and two of his ratings to the deck in bloody gruel. Chattering gunfire cut down still more of his bridge crew, and then the first invader leapt through the hatch.
Khardanish's eyes were slits of fury, but even through his rage he realized it had all been a lie. Whatever their attackers were, they were not Terrans! The squat-bodied invader was too stocky, his arms too long and his legs too short. The least claw's mind recorded it all as the alien's thundering autorifle swept the bridge.
Observer First Hinarou vaulted her console, defargo drawn, but the invader cut her down and swung his weapon towards Khardanish. The entire bridge lay between them, and even as the least claw charged, he knew he would never reach his killer.
The rifle spoke, and Khardanish went to his knees in agony, dropping his defargo, as slugs mangled his right shoulder and side.
The invader took fresh aim, but before he could fire, Samantha Johansen was upon him with a zeget's scream, and the fallen observer's defargo flashed in her hand. She drove it deep, twisting her wrist savagely, and the alien went down. The lieutenant kicked the body aside, snatched up the fallen rifle, and threw herself on her belly in her enemy's blood. The weapon's function was easy enough to grasp, and she emptied its extended magazine down the passage in a single, endless burst that piled the rest of the assault team on the deck.
The silence was deafening as she stopped firing, and Khardanish heard a click of metal as she jerked a fresh magazine from the alien's body and reloaded. Blood pumped from his wounds, and he felt Death's claws grope for him, yet his mind was cold and clear as he dragged himself across the deck. Only he and Samantha remained, and more boarders would be here soon. She could never stand them off alone, and she did not know the proper codes. He must reach the engineering station before he died.
He heaved to his feet with a kitten's mewl of pain and clung drunkenly to the console. His strength was going fast, out the visual display showed what he had hoped for. Kepler's tractor had drawn Znamae close aboard!
Fresh thunder bellowed as Samantha fired down the passage yet again. Return fire whined off the bulkheads, but she was protected by the ruins of the hatch. She could hold a moment longer.
He flipped up the plastic shield and entered the code slowly and carefully. The single red-tabbed switch was cool under his claws, and he looked at Samantha one last time. Her round-pupilled, Human eyes met his, and he saw her agreement.
"Together, clan sister!" he gasped, and pressed it home.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO A Decision of State
Contents - Prev / Next
The Honorable Francis Mulrooney, Terran Ambassador to the Khanate of Orion, leaned against one side of the deep window and watched the light of a sun very like Sol stream across an oddly blue lawn of "grass' whose like Terra had never imagined. The "trees' beyond the courtyard wall were feathery spires, caparisoned in the orange and yellow and fire-red blossoms of spring, and wispy creatures flapped lacy wings above them.
To Mulrooney, Valkha'zeeranda had always seemed a fairy wonderland. On the surface, it was hardly the proper capital world for a warrior race, yet there was a subtle undercurrent of lightness to it. He'd often wondered what "New Valkhas" first colonists had thought and felt as they left the ships which had borne them here from the world their Wars of Unification had reduced to ruin. How must they have felt to leave their breath masks and chemical detectors and radiation counters behind forever?
He stroked the deeply incised shield and crossed swords of the Khanate, graven a centimeter deep in the windowsill, then swept his gaze over the magnificent white spires and minarets of the imperial compound and knew he saw the answer. Mulrooney was one of the very few Terrans who had visited Old Valkha and seen the cyclopean fortresses which dominated pre-stellar Orion architecture like expressions of a warrior ethos in stone and mortar. New Valkha did not boast their like. As a fortress, the imperial compound equaled any planetary defense center in the Federation, yet it hid its teeth like an Orion smile. An almost tangible sense of peace hovered over its elfin beauty, perfected by the background of the Khanate's mailed fist.
And that, he told himself, was how the Zheeerlikou'val-khannaieee saw their imperial capital. It was flowers and cold steel, the jewel in the Khan's iron crown, an eye of tranquility in a hurricane's heart.
He sighed and turned from the window, pacing slowly back and forth. The summons had come from the kholo-khanzir, the grand vizier, himself, and it was unusual to be kept waiting so long. Mulrooney had many contacts in the Orion bureaucracy, and he knew some major crisis had blown up with absolutely no warning. He could uncover no clue
as to what it was, but the whispers of rumored disaster made an ominous counterpoint to this unprecedented delay.
The sharp rap of wood on stone interrupted his thoughts, and he turned, reminding himself just in time to avoid any quick movement which might suggest impatience. The knolokhanzir's personal herald met his eyes, gripping the elaborately carved haft of his gemmed pike of office. There was more than a little white in the Orion's tawny felinoid pelt, but his spine was straight and he bowed with limber dignity. Then he straightened and beckoned politely for Mulrooney to follow.
The herald led him down a sunny hall fringed by balconies with balustrades entwined in nodding tendrils of ornamental vines. It wasn't a long walk, but Mulrooney's heart was beating fast when the herald knocked at the door at its end. Two statue-still guards flanked it, armed not with ornamental, palace-duty weapons but with businesslike needle rifles and side arms. Then the herald opened the door and bowed him through.
Mulrooney entered with a crisp stride, then stopped dead. He'd expected the kholokhanzir, but it seemed he'd been summoned to meet another.
He recovered and moved forward once more towards the ancient Orion seated on the cushion-strewn dais in the center of the room. He was bent with age, but his silvered pelt still showed the midnight black of the noblest Orion bloodlines.
Mulrooney stopped a precise three meters from the dais and pressed his clenched right hand to his chest as he performed his most graceful DOW. Then he straightened and stood silently, giving no sign of his racing thoughts, as he met the old, knowing eyes of Lihar-nowmrtalkin, Khan'a'khanaaeee of all the Orions.
"Greetings, Ambassador," the Khan said, and Mulrooney swallowed. Orions guarded their khan's person fanatically, yet he and Liharnow were alone. It was unheard of for any person not sworn to hirikolus or hirik-rinzi--much less an alien--to be allowed into the Khan's presence unguarded, and there was no protocol to guide him in modes of address, for the Khan never spoke directly to a foreign envoy.
