by Sharon
"All tested according to spec, General, and was rechecked. It wasn't until we set down that I discovered that Corporal Dikl had utilized reserve circuits which required pilot intervention to operate in atmosphere."
Corporal Dikl broke into a fresh sweat, her eyes showing a bit of white around the edges.
Nelirikk, hearing as the General no doubt heard, could have advised her not to worry, but a no-troop speaks when a no-troop is spoken to, and at no other time. Nelirikk turned his attention to the proliferation of information about him.
The air power charts showed the largest aircraft concentrations on the coast. The nearest to Field Headquarters was a small base, doubtless related to the—yes; a town and a large holding were equidistant from the field. Which meant it most likely held civilian craft—easy pickings. Another screen showed the numbers of the dropjets sent to secure it, and the transport bringing in a hundred of the deadly Spraghentz—the infantry—support aircraft—that would occupy it.
Other screens—uplinks and downlinks—were coming on line now: locations of ships in orbit, radar and other scans, visual searches, live transmissions from the front.
"No, sir, " said Corporal Dikl, with unsoldierly fervor, "I was working from training manuals. I'd never done the procedure before."
Nelirikk squinted his eyes slightly, focusing on a screen across the room showing the view from the combat camera of an interceptor. He found the cue number, checked the screens.
Bomb and strafing run. That same small airfield, on automatic target. The plane lifted and—Nelirikk's heart climbed into his throat. He blinked, checked the vision screen against the radar scans, but it had moved to the next scan—looked back at the radar screen.
It wasn't there.
He sighed. His once-exemplary eyesight was failing and had played him a shabby trick. As if such a ship would be found among a small field of backward civilian craft.
"On Akrant's orders?" the General demanded of the corporal. Nelirikk sniffed. Now, there was a dead career. Called without rank twice by the General during Inquiry? Might as well begin tearing off the stripes and swallowing the badges.
Again the camera-screen showed the tiny airfield, this time from the vantage of a low-level run. And there, among the tall trees and with a slight hill behind it, was a thing of awful beauty.
The beauty lay in the deadly, competent lines.
The awfulness—was it that such a ship should die—if die it must—fighting, rather than destroyed ignominiously upon the ground? Or was it that he was reminded all at once of his own ship—the Command's ship. Always the Command's ship, for a troop owns nothing but his rank and his booty.
Duty turned him toward the Captain.
Thought stopped him.
He was Nelirikk No-Troop, permitted to speak when spoken to. He had been given leave by his assigned commander to speak to the Inquiry. Speaking without permission would cost—
The missiles were launched: they struck and crumbled a building. The view in the screen slipped as the plane turned and set up for the next run. The radar cross-scans showed no sign, the computer listeners heard no slightest whisper, the metallics—
And what would it cost him? He'd had ten Cycles of shame.
Decisively, he sought the Captain's eyes; signed for permission to speak.
The Captain's face clouded. He deliberately looked away. Nelirikk glanced back at the screen. Someone—an air controller—had finally sighted the beautiful ship. It sat in a visual freeze-frame as the computer made analysis, the null-image of the comparative radar etched over it.
The view from the field showed an aircraft rising in opposition. An antique by its look and in the air only by the grace of the Gods of Irony. Impossibly, it wavered into the horizontal—fired, by Jela! on the rushing dropjet—and was lost to view.
And there, in the corner screen, the spire of that—other-ship!
The screen froze again, as if someone lacking proper information was trying to figure out—
Nelirikk broke position, took three hasty strides toward the Controller.
"Hit that ship! Do it now!" he demanded.
There was instant silence in the room. The General turned to stare. Captain Kagan's weapon was in hand.
The screen showed the ship again, and the silly, greathearted antique, as well, rushing headlong against the cream of Yxtrang fighters. The camera showed it circling slightly as if to protect that ship—and the closing fighters lost one of their number as the antique apparently unleashed all of its weapons at once before it was shredded into smoke. But its mission had been accomplished: the attack was diverted away from the beautiful ship.
"Hit that ship now!"
"No-Troop. Explain yourself!" Kagan's voice was grim.
On the screen, the first pair of Yxtrang fighters leveled out before the camera plane, began a sweeping turn—
Glare! Glare!
TRANSMISSION LOST
Freeze-screen came back up, picture telescoping in on the deadly ship sitting there beneath the trees, the shielding hill behind it.
Nelirikk looked at the gun, looked back at the screen.
"Scout ship," he said, calmly. "That's a Liaden Scout ship, Captain. If it's not destroyed immediately it could take out a battleship!"
"Control! ID that ship!" The General at least had ears.
"Sir. No ID on record. We've never captured or seen one—"
"I've seen one," Nelirikk spoke before the General, against best health. "Take it now, before it's fully activated!"
"Control!" ordered the General. "Get another flight in there. Take it out."
"You'll need something bigger. Call the transports back before they get in range—" Nelirikk heard his traitor voice correcting, apparently determined to have him shot. "It's space-based—coil-fields, power magnetics—"
"Silence!"
Nelirikk fell silent; heard the mistaken order relayed.
"No-Troop will remain silent!" snarled the General. "You, Controller, will keep me informed."
Nelirikk watched the camera screen, heard as if from another galaxy the demotions behind him: the corporals busted a level each, retaining rank but losing pay and time in grade. The over-tech was now a life private in grocery supply, proper punishment for a stupid error. To trust to training-manual performance for a thing of such importance!
The camera screen came up, showing four planes ahead of the camera plane. Munitions tumbled away, heading for the pretty ship—
Glare! Glare! GLARE! And a wildly swinging picture, smoke on the fringes—TRANSMISSION LOST
"General, Flight 15 is not transmitting and does not show on scans." The controller's voice was level, soldierly, merely imparting the facts.
The General's voice bordered on frenzied. "I want the Barakhan. Now. No one will mention No-Troop's insolence or this occurrence outside of this room."
For several moments there was nothing to see, and then a new camera—from quite a distance—hazarded a looksee and then was gone: the flash of an energy weapon was unmistakable.
"Sir, Barakhan is in position and has acquired the target."
The camera screen came up once more and Nelirikk watched as the horrific fires of proud Barakhan, dimmed only slightly by atmosphere, punched through to the scout ship, leaving bright, dancing shadows behind his eyelids. He saw, incredibly, the small ship fire back, the first wave of the battleship's energy deflected up and away by some tremendous effort of shielding.
Now the small ship could be seen from a more distant camera, firing in several directions as the General raised his voice.
"Bring all available batteries to bear, transports. . ."
And that quickly it was both too late and all over, for the Liaden ship had launched missiles and beam hard on target in the moments before it exploded, leaving a smoking crater in its stead.
He had no doubt of it even before the stunned com tech relayed the word. "General—the Spraghentz—the transport is gone!"
Nelirikk blinked�
�once, twice. "Honored foe," he thought treasonously, for Liadens were never such, "we salute you."
The General turned from the screen and folded his hands upon the table. "No-Troop will report to Security with Captain Kagan," he stated. "Now."
Stars like fists of ice above the rocks and trees.
Nelirikk sat with his back against a boulder, rifle and pack to hand, and stared at the stars until his eyes teared, ringing each bright dot with rainbows.
Ah, Jela, to be once more upon a world!
This, this was what they'd trained him for, from the time they'd plucked him from among his fellows in boot camp. They'd trained him for exploration, made him something other than a mere troop, that the Troop and the Command might be served more fully. Training. . .
He closed his eyes, abandoning himself, here, under the free stars, to memories he had not dared recall in ten full Cycles.
Training, yes: piloting, scouting, weapons—not only the soldier's carbine and grace blade, but also other, more subtle things. They'd trained him to operate—to make judgment and form appropriate response—without recourse to superiors, regulations, subordinates, or comrades. Trained him to make decisions. Trained him to impart information. Trained him, even, to command.
They'd made him a misfit, that they had. A troop with a voice of command. A commander with imagination. They'd made him a misfit and sent him alone to the stars, to find out—to report back. And when he returned from his most important mission with urgent information? Why, then they'd made him a no-troop, and buried his report so thoroughly that not even a description of the ship had survived.
Nelirikk sighed.
His mess orders had last—and quite recently—changed hands in an all-night betting game of the officers. Rumor was that Captain Kagan had lost one of the bouts of small-skills, and thus won the housing of the no-troop. Nelirikk had not been assigned to Captain Kagan's command, nor had he been given duties within the Troop. He had merely been relieved of the chit entitling him to eat from Captain Bestu's supplies and given another with Kagan's account number on it. To have that same no-troop call a General's attention upon himself had done Captain Kagan's credit no good at all.
Nelirikk opened his eyes and stared wearily up at the stars. In a moment, he straightened, ran through a mind-clearing exercise he'd learned with the rest of his age-mates in the creche.
The General, now. . .
Security had taken him to a room that held no sign of the devices most usually employed to punish the recalcitrant. Neck-hairs prickling, Nelirikk glanced around him, locating at least three grills and two lights that most likely held microphones and cameras. Three chairs, two computer terminals, a table upon which sat a carafe of water and three glasses—unthinkable courtesies for a rogue no-troop. Nelirikk was suddenly very tired.
Without orders he should not sit.
He sat.
No voice from a hidden loudspeaker ordered him up.
Security would have his records and files, Nelirikk considered, and would know his training and abilities—
Would know that he was not to be trusted, though some chance cruelty of the High Command dictated that he should be made to continue living, rather than receive the simple back-of-the-head execution Security itself had recommended. Security would have the file that said Nelirikk Explorer was hereinafter and forever Nelirikk No-Troop, shamed and shunned—the only living Yxtrang to have been captured by a Liaden.
Caught in a trap—tricked, as Liaden scouts had been tricking Yxtrang for untold years—and then let go, to return to his commander and report, half-dazzled by the possibilities he glimpsed within the information the scout had—knowingly?—given. He'd described the ship. . .
So they'd taken his report, ignored it, isolated him from the small cadre of Yxtrang explorers, made him a no-troop and forgot him.
And now he was here, a rogue no-troop, apparently so weary of his dutiless life that he interfered with command level action in the General's own war room! An explorer might possibly have done so, without punishment.
If there were any explorers left. He'd searched for traces of the unit, using stolen computer time and unauthorized glimpses of ship movements through distant portholes—to no purpose. His terror was that they had disbanded the explorers, and made him no-troop in a far different way.
"Hup!"
He came to his feet, at attention. The General stood before him, comrade close, eyes full of calculation, the tattoos of rank and achievement not quite disguising the unnatural ruddiness of his face.
"You retain your alertness, No-Troop."
"A soldier survives through alertness, sir."
The eyes narrowed.
"I have reviewed your records," the General said, "and I understand how you might have been able to identify a ship unknown to our scanning program. I understand how you might react without permission and assume compliance. I understand, also, that you have disturbed the organization of my war room."
A statement of facts required no reply. Nelirikk continued to look eye-to-eye with the planetary commander.
"What do you say of your insolence, Nelirikk No-Troop?" the General demanded. Nelirikk avoided the sigh.
"Sir. I sought to serve the Troop, and gave warning of clear danger. Pilots are not to be wasted—"
"Silence!" roared the General. "Do not consider yourself a pilot, No-Troop. That honor was long-ago forbidden you."
He turned abruptly, jabbing a finger toward the table and the computers. "Sit."
The General took the second chair, tapped in a request and leaned back as the battle-site filled the screen.
"Now, No-Troop, why do you think such a ship would be on this planet? Why did it remain grounded rather than rising to the fight? Mere Liaden cowardice?"
The urge to look wonderingly at the General was strong; Nelirikk instead stared at the screen, restructuring the logic chain he had formed in the war room.
"I have given this matter thought, sir. However, I have little information about the current military situation—"
"You need none. Speak to this case!"
Nelirikk did sigh, very quietly.
"Yes, sir. In this case several possibilities exist." Unconsciously, he moved into the lecture technique he'd learned for briefing fellow explorers.
"One possibility is that the ship was under repair and unable to lift. Supporting information is sparse—no repair machinery was observed about the craft. Another possibility is that a junior officer during the commander's absence manned the ship. We then have a reason for the delay in firing, and also for the failure to lift and engage."
The General gave a mildly approving click.
"Another possibility," Nelirikk continued, "is that the ship was unmanned and computerized self-defense functions were in force. Or that the crew was aboard and deliberately sought to escape notice so that a later strike at a capital ship might be launched. My assumption is that Barakhan took damage from that last bolt—"
"An invalid assumption, No-Troop. So small a ship, and firing through atmosphere, to touch Barakhan?" The General waved a hand in negation.
"I saw the ship fire when the particle-beams began the attack. A charged beam could well use the same path to—"
"I am not interested in traitorous assumptions!" the General snarled. "I asked you for whys."
Nelirikk stared at the screen—at the crater where the pretty ship had been—until the view changed to a map of the surrounding area.
"Sir. It is possible that the ship was ordered to remain grounded in order to defend an important center or person." He pointed.
"I propose that the town, the nearby command base, or the remaining mercenary troops are of special importance. That small plane, trying so bravely to hinder our jets—it may be that by luck we were attacking the escape ship of an important person."
Nelirikk paused, staring at the screen.
"Recall that by drawing fire the ship has taken out a number of our drop fighters and has forced a
demonstration of our overhead strength. A scout might trade his ship for such information. For this possibility, I assume standard invasion policy has been followed and the planetary satellite net has been destroyed."
The General was eyeing him, displeasure apparent. "You insist on this scout, do you?"
"If all Liaden ships of that size were as powerful, sir, I believe Liadens would even now be pursuing us across the galaxy."
"Fool!" The General's fist rose, but, remarkably, no blow landed. He twisted in his chair, frowning heavily at the screen. "Hear yourself—naming Liadens—Liadens!—brave, assigning soldierly virtue to a race long known to be weak and honorless—animals, No-Troop. You entertain the possibility that the 14th Conquest Corps might be routed by animals."
Nelirikk said nothing.
The General shut down the display. "We have discovered maps and a short-range radio transceiver in a captured enemy vehicle. I understand from your records that you are fluent in the language of Liaden animals and can read their scratchings as well."
The General rose, walked to the brown-gray wall and back.
"You will be outfitted for a special mission. You are to infiltrate the area bounded by a triangle of this airfield, this town, and this command center. You will be given the transceiver and the maps I spoke of, as well as a recall signaler. I will issue a weapon from my office. Security will issue a kit and a blade."
He came to Nelirikk's chair.
"We make use of your training and inclinations, No-Troop," he commented; "and allow you to avoid fighting."
Nelirikk sat quietly, refusing to show any reaction to an insult that would have demanded blood to balance—ten Cycles ago.
The General's lips pursed, as if he would spit; then:
"Let me be clear: You are to gather information—which you will note on the map. You are to return to the pick-up point no later than the tenth planetary dawn after you are released. This is a combat order."
Nelirikk straightened, unable to control the quickening of his heartbeat. A combat order! Was he reinstated, then—once more a part of the Troop?
"Be sure you understand your orders entirely, No-Troop," the General advised him. "Deviate from them and you will be shot. Not even a Heroic Explorer's Starburst certificate in your file can protect you from proper punishment if you fail a combat command!"
