by John M. Ford
“Well, I—” Kotkhe’s hand stopped on the way to his pocket. Merzhan’s smile was thin as the edge of a knife, and the other Ensign looked nervous. Vrenn dumped his tray down the disposal slot, started for the door. He had seen the souvenirs you could buy in a leave port, knew how easily the green dye rubbed off. And he had heard, easily thirty times in his first Academy term, the tale of exotic delights that Kotkhe was now clumsily telling again. He’d have done better, Vrenn thought, to just quote some text from a volume of Tales of the Privateers; every other book in the series had the same scene in it.
“But there’s a thing they never tell you in the books,” Kotkhe said. “And that’s the place, the only one place, where an Orion female’s not green.”
Vrenn paused. He wondered where it would be, this time.
Merzhan’s eyes flickered over. “Well,” he said, “you’ve got something convinced.”
“I was just leaving,” Vrenn said, and knew at once it was the wrong response: he should have just gone out the door. Ensigns love Cadets, he had been warned at the Academy, like you love jelly pastry. They won’t talk to the crew and there’s nobody else they can damage.
“Don’t go yet,” the Security officer said. “You’ll miss the best part.”
Vrenn took a step toward the door.
“I said, don’t go, Cadet.”
Vrenn stopped. It was a legitimate order.
Merzhan said, “Well, ’Khe, we’ve got something here to educate. Finish the story.”
Kotkhe seemed pleased; baiting Cadets was much safer than whatever game Merzhan had been playing. He went on to detail exactly where Orion females were not green. It was the usual version. “Now, Pathfinder, have you learned something to help you walk?” The title and the phrase referred to the Path of Command: the statement was thoroughly insulting without containing any explicit insult.
Vrenn said suddenly, “No, Ensign.”
Kotkhe’s jaw opened, snapped shut. “Say that again, Pathfinder. For the record this time.”
“If I hadn’t wanted it heard I wouldn’t have said it.” Vrenn had not realized just how angry he was. They had, without realizing it, pushed him into an area of his mind he had very carefully walled off. Now Vrenn wondered how much his strategic blindness would cost him.
There was a coldness in the room, the Ensigns still not quite believing what they had heard. Sometimes to show teeth is enough, Vrenn thought, but if you bite, bite deep. “What was there to learn? The lesson’s wrong. There’s no place they don’t have a little green. No place at all.”
“Kahlesste kaase,” the surgeon’s aide said, “he’s right.”
It was no improvement, though Vrenn wondered if anything short of a Romulan attack could be. Now not only was Ensign Kotkhe made out a liar, his boast of conquest had been upstaged—by a Cadet.
“I guess it is true,” Kotkhe said, sounding almost desperate; “they will open to anything—”
Vrenn leaped, knocking Kotkhe from his chair, taking both of them to the deck. Kotkhe was unready, and Vrenn gave him no chance: Vrenn punched four times rapidly to nerve junctions. Kotkhe went rigid. Vrenn struck once crosswise, neatly dislocating the Ensign’s jaw. Then he stopped—and realized the medical Ensign was holding his arm in a wrestler’s pinch above the elbow, shaking his head no, no. There were more Klingons in the room now, Security enforcers in duty armor, shock clubs out and ready. Merzhan was tucking away his communicator with his left hand; his right held a pistol casually level.
The look on the Security officer’s face was that of one starving, suddenly offered a banquet.
Squadron Leader Kodon vestai-Karum sat behind his desk. Commander Kev sat a little distance to Kodon’s right. Vrenn Khemara stood, in the crossfire between them.
“And that was when you assaulted the Ensign?” Kodon said, in a completely disinterested tone.
“Just then, Squadron Leader.”
Kodon reached to the tape player in his desk, took out the cassette with the Ensigns’ and Vrenn’s testimony. “I know the epetai-Khemara somewhat,” he said, not quite offhand. “Is the one well?”
“At my last hearing, Squadron Leader.”
“And his consort?”
Vrenn hesitated, only an instant. “And the one, Squadron Leader.”
Kodon nodded. “The line Khemara is not to be insulted, even ignorantly by ignorant youth. Do you wish to enter a claim of line honor?”
“No, Squadron Leader.” Vrenn was suddenly thinking of Ensign Merzhan’s look, and his words, and wondering if complete ignorance had really been there.
“That seems best. As much as we need diversion, the duel circle does not seem right, just now. And I do not know Ensign Kotkhe’s father; there are so many Admirals….” Kodon sat back, turning thetape over in his hands. “The Ensign didn’t even scratch you, Cadet. How do you account for that?”
“I had the advantage of surprise, Squadron Leader.”
Kodon laughed. “Ah. Well, I can hardly assume that the other Ensigns held him down for you.” He leaned over his desk again, held up the cassette as if weighing it. “Brawling aboard a ship under cruise is a violation of regulations, as is striking a superior office…but injuries sustained during a lesson in personal combat are of course not actionable.”
“Combat lessons are usually given in the Officers’ Gym,” Kev said.
“It was occupied,” Kodon said. “I was using it.”
Kev said, “Of course, Captain.”
Kodon dropped the cassette. It struck a pair of doors on the desktop, which opened to swallow it, and closed on the flash of destroying light. “It simplifies matters enormously when honor claims are absent.”
Vrenn waited.
“Still, a disturbance was created, and Security was dispatched without cause. Commander Kev, I think you know what punishment is appropriate.” Kodon stood, and Kev. Salutes were exchanged, and the Squadron Leader disappeared into his inner cabin.
Kev, a portable terminal under his arm, walked to the desk. He brought the black panel up to working position, pressed keys. Green light flashed in his yellow eyes. “The Surgeon reports that Ensign Kotkhe will be unfit for duty for several days. Given your responsibility for this, your punishment detail will be to assume his duties aboard.”
“The Helm, Commander?”
“That is zan Kotkhe’s current duty.”
At times like this, Vrenn came close to denying the komerex zha: for the universe to be a game implied that it had knowable rules.
Kev looked at Vrenn. The look was very cool, very sharp. Vrenn had realized some time ago that Kev used his eyes as needles; he liked to watch others writhe, impaled on their points.
Finally the Executive said, “You seem to realize that you haven’t won anything. That’s good. It was necessary that the g’dayt-livered Kotkhe be replaced. You forced the Captain’s hand; don’t think he likes that. Just remember: he’s made you a Helmsman. He can make you raw protein if he wants.” Kev pushed more keys on his console. In a quieter but no less threatening voice, he said, “You’ll be breveted Ensign for the rest of the cruise…or as long as you last. Don’t go changing your name yet….”
“I understand, Commander.”
Kev looked up sharply. In a wholly changed tone he said, “Yes…it’s just possible that you do. But if you did plan this, Khemara, do not ever let anyone know it. Dismissed.”
Kodon’s Squadron hid, literally, behind a rock. The three cruisers, inSpearhead formation, hung behind a two-kilometer planetoid, shadowed from enemy sensing. A drone, too small to register at this range, orbited the rock, relaying image and data to the D-4s.
“Keep the guns cold until I call for them,” Kodon said, not for the first time but without audible annoyance. “Zan Vrenn, watch the shadow.”
Vrenn’s console display showed a yellow-gridded sphere, the planetoid, and a larger blue arc, the electronic penumbra. “Margin seventy meters, firm,” Vrenn said.
“That’s good,” said
the Captain. It was only acknowledgment, not approval. But it was good work, Vrenn knew: he was successfully holding the cruiser to a mark less than a third of its length away. Ensign Kotkhe had been out of Sickbay for ten days now, but this was the climax of the raid, and Ensign Vrenn had the helm.
The Communications Officer gestured. The drone operator touched a control, adjusting the satellite’s orbit: on the main display, a planet came into sharp focus, blue and brown and cloud-streaked. Keys were pressed, and data lines overlaid the visual, with a bright three-armed crosshair over the site of the Romulan groundport.
Tiny flecks appeared near the planet’s edge, and were annotated at once: “Cargo tugs,” the sensor operator announced. Then: “Shuttle launches confirmed.”
Kodon watched the main board, scanned the repeater displays near the foot of his chair. “Helm signal 0.2 Warp,” he said, in the short syllables of Battle Language.
“0.2 Warp read,” Vrenn said.
“Show mag 8,” said the Captain.
The picture on the screen swelled, sparkling as the sensors reached their limit of resolution. The image still clearly showed the Romulan shuttles rolling over, to dock with warpdrive tugs already in orbit above the port.
The schematic display drew in four yellow crescents: Warbirds moving into convoy positions.
Kodon said, “Helm, action. Affirm, action.”
“Acting,” Vrenn said, and pushed for thrust. The planetoid fell away, the target world dawning above it.
“Weapons preheat,” Kodon ordered. “Shields attack standard.” Each command was no longer than a single word, the acknowledgments just snaps of the tongue.
“Warp 0.2,” Vrenn said.
“Squadron—” Kodon said, on relay to all the ships, and his next word was the same in plain or Battle Language: “Kill!”
They fell on the Warbirds from ahead and above, out of the danger cone from their plasma guns. Rom lasers, warp-accelerated into the delta frequencies, stabbed up, to detune against shields. Triplet disruptors knifed down, blue light sweeping across the enemy ships’ wings. Two Fingers severed a Romulan warp engine neatly; its other fire missed by meters. Death Hand cut almost entirely through a Warbird’s wing, and tore its spine open, splashing fire and debris.
“Precision fire,” Kodon said. “Helm, coordinate.”
“Affirm,” the Weapons officer said. “Affirm,” Vrenn said, eyes on three different data displays at once. There was no vision to spare for the controls: now his hands had to know the task.
They did. Blue Fire scraped by a Warbird barely twice its length away, and cut both warp nacelles away in a stroke. The flat Rom hull, unable to maneuver or even self-destruct, wavered and began to tumble.
“Stern tractors,” said the Squadron Leader.
“Locked.” The beams pulled the crippled Rom away from the planet, slinging it on a slow curve toward deep space; the prize would still be there when they were ready to claim it.
“Five more coming, Squadron Leader,” the sensor operator said, then, in a tighter voice, “Correction, ten more.” He dropped out of Battle Language. “They must have been hiding in—”
“Show it,” Kodon said.
Finger-fives of Warbirds were swinging into high strike-fractionals above the planet’s east and west horizons. The Klingons were caught between.
Vrenn thought suddenly of white and black pieces on a square-gridded board: but this was no time for the image, and he shoved it away.
“Helm, Warp 0.3. Keep us well sublight, this close to the planet. Vector.” Kodon stroked a finger on his armrest controls, drawing the path he wanted on Vrenn’s display. It was not an escape vector. “Weapons, free fire,” the Squadron Leader said, then, “Zan Kandel, reopen the Captains’ Link.”
Blue Fire caught plasma to starboard, and shook as the harmonics leaked through; Vrenn drifted off Kodon’s line, by a hair, for a moment, then brought the ship back again. It was not responding normally: Vrenn scanned his readouts, found the power graphs dropping.
“Engineer—”
“You’ll have to share with the deflectors,” the Engineer said, as another bolt hit the cruiser. Power fell again. The Engineer turned. “Squadron Leader, commit?”
“Power to shields and weapons,” Kodon said, clipped and very calm. “We still fight.”
When Koth of the Vengeance said something like that, his Bridge crew usually raised a cheer. No one started one now.
Three Warbirds were in a precise, right-angled formation just below Blue Fire. Disruptors tore one open: trailing hot junk, it slid narrowly past another and dipped into air. There was a cometary flash. The remaining Romulans kept their formation.
“This Admiral is an idiot,” Kodon said. “He’s got the ships, and he must have had a warning, but he is still an idiot.”
On the screen ahead, Romulan ships were bracketing Death Hand, ahead, on the wings, behind. Death Hand fired back and did not miss—it was hardly possible at such ranges—but the number of Roms tipped the balance. A plasma bolt struck the Klingon cruiser’s hangar deck from the rear, and detonated inside: there was a jet of incandescent gas from the dorsal vent.
Kandel on Communications said, “Squadron Leader, the Force Leader wants to know if you intend to land his Marines.”
“Can’t he see we’re expected?” Kodon stared at Death Hand ahead, dying. “What shield shall I drop to transport him down?” Kodon’s teeth showed. “Just tell him we are engaged, and that he is to stand by.”
Death Hand killed one of her harriers. “Weapons, that one,” Kodon said, stabbing a finger, and Blue Fire poured its namesake into another Rom. “Flat-thinker!” Kodon snarled, and as the Rom blew up there was finally a cheer on the Bridge.
The word closed the circuit in Vrenn’s mind. It explained the lockstep formations, the flat-plane attacks, the way Death Hand had been surrounded. Now, if there was time to make any use of the knowledge—“Squadron Leader, a thought,” Vrenn said.
“Squadron Leader,” Ensign Kandel cut in, “Death Hand sends intent to abandon and destruct.”
There was a pause. A Captain did not abandon until the gravest extreme.
But not yet, Vrenn thought, not just yet—
“Affirmed,” Kodon said. “Only a fool fights in a burning house.” Then, with what seemed to Vrenn an infinite slowness, Kodon turned to him. “Proceed, zan Vrenn.”
“Squadron Leader, I know the rom zha, latrunculo—”
“He wants to play games,” the drone operator said.
Vrenn did not stop. “—which is played on squares, on a flat board. Pieces kill by pinning enemies between themselves—” Vrenn knew there was no time to explain the game, the thoughts behind it; Kodon must see. Vrenn pointed at the main display: the alignments of Warbirds and D-4s were as clear to him as the naked stars around them all. If there were some way to show square references upon the triangular grid of the display…perhaps Kandel could….
Kodon turned away. Vrenn felt eyes on him from all directions, felt the shame he had sworn under naked stars he would never know again, felt death in his liver.
“I know of the game,” Kodon said. “It is a fair observation…. So, if this is the sort of idiot the Rom Admiral is, Thought Ensign Vrenn, what shall we do to him?”
“There is a single piece in latrunculo,” Vrenn said, speaking almost faster than thought, “with the ability to leap over others, like a Flier of klin zha. Other pieces must be concentrated against the Centurion….”
Kodon laughed loudly. “Signal to Death Hand, priority! Drop shields and transport, and separate, I say once more separate; hold destruct.”
“Helmsman—” A line appeared on Vrenn’s display. Vrenn took Blue Fire to Warp 0.5 and skimmed the cruiser over Warbird, almost close enough to touch.
The Rom moved.
“Number 3 shield down.”
“Troop transporters energized to receive,” the Engineer said, and the power graphs dove as a wave of Death Hand’s Marines were be
amed aboard Blue Fire.
Blue Fire jumped two more Warbirds, taking only token shots at them. Then, as Warbirds turned in place, a shudder went through Death Hand at the center of the enemy cluster: there was a brilliant ring of light at the junction of the cruiser’s narrow forward boom with her broad main wing. The two structures parted, and the boom began to crawl forward on impulse drive.
The Roms hesitated, turned again inward.
“Number 4 shield down, 5 up.”
“Transients in the signal,” the Engineer said, his hands running over controls. Power curves spiked, and warnings flashed yellow. He said, “We’ve got some scramble cases.”
“Affirm,” Kodon said.
Marine no-ranks did not have personal transporter operators watching for them.
Blue Fire glided on toward Death Hand, directly toward it. Vrenn watched as his boards showed tighter and tighter tolerances, less maneuver power as the mass transports stole it from engines.
“Transport arc’s changing again,” the Weapons officer said. “5 shield down, 6 up.”
“Transients clearing from the signal,” the Engineer said, as the two ships closed.
“Signal to Death Hand,” Kodon said. “Invitation to Naval officers aboard.”
Moments later the main display lit with a picture of Death Hand’s Bridge. Smoke obscured the scene. The Captain’s left arm was tucked inside his sash. Behind him, someone was lying dead across a sparking console.
“Your invitation received,” the Captain said. “My Ensigns are transporting now. I hope they find much glory with you.”
“I am certain,” Kodon said.
For the first time since the battle began, Vrenn thought about the damage to Blue Fire: who might be dead on the lower decks. But he had less time for such thoughts by the second. The two cruisers were less than a thousand meters apart, on collision course. An alarm screamed; Vrenn snapped it off.
