by Paul Chafe
Hours ahead the scoutships were already at the planet, skimming down in provocative passes to identify the space defense positions for the oncoming cruisers. Voortman didn't go back to his dayroom, though they were still fourteen hours from attack position. Instead he waited and watched. The distant destroyer screen picked up a few laggard kzinti thrusting in from the edge of the system, too distant to influence the battle in time, too scattered to have any effect when they got there, but screaming and leaping nonetheless. There were no more serious threats; the human fleet could do what they wanted in Alpha Mensae system.
Four hours to attack position. He ordered his engineers to check the weapons systems one last time. The cruisers closed and targeted the ground based gamma ray lasers to clear the way for his attack. A-M II had no space based defenses except the ships that had been in orbit, and they had already come out to be destroyed by the in-falling humans. Oorwinnig needed to get close to bring her main armament into play. Next time she could fight her way in; this time her success was too important to risk an engagement.
Two hours to attack position. They'd lost another cruiser and a handful of scouts, and the planet lay open, its defenses stripped. Voortman paced the bridge impatiently while Kirsch took over navigation to make sure their attack orbit was set correctly. They'd have one pass, and the kzinti would learn a lesson they wouldn't forget. A few ships boosted from the planet's surface, couriers and cargo lighters pressed into service as last ditch defenses, but the orbiting cruisers swatted them down. Damn ratcats never give up.
And then it was time. A-M II had grown from a point to a disk to a recognizable blue and white sphere. The kzinti had a major base down there, and quite a few support facilities scattered about the planet. Oorwinnig would end that.
“Target on the horizon, sir.” Marxle had the firing solutions plotted, the main spinal mount weapon charged and ready.
“Fire.” Voortman spat the word.
The twin disintegrator beams lanced down to the planet's surface, one positive, one negative. At first the effects were invisible from orbit, though on the ground the rocks exploded as suddenly charged atoms repelled each other with violent force, fountaining monatomic dust hundreds of meters, and then kilometers high. Between the two touchdown points a potential field measured in teravolts developed, and a current began to flow. City-sized sheets of lightning arced between the twin columns of charged atmosphere that marked the beams passage to the ground from space. The ground between the impact points began to heat. The base the kzinti had called Warhead was gone.
“Target destroyed.” Marxle's voice was clipped.
“Keep the beams on it.”
“But sir…”
“Keep the beams on it!” Voortman's words were harsh.
“Yes, sir.”
On the ground the disintegrator beams stabbed remorselessly at the planet's surface, and between the impact points the rock began to melt and flow. The effect on the planet's surface was now visible through the bridge transpax, a glowing, boiling cloud already causing a visible bulge in the atmosphere. Subsurface water flash boiled, blowing cubic kilometers of rock into the sky. Anything that lived within a hundred kilometers of the base would be killed by blast and shock.
“Sir, the dust cloud is starting to interfere…” Voortman cut the weapon's officer's not-quite-complaint off with a gesture. Today I wield the fist of God. For you, Vati, I will not falter.
“Traverse the beams.”
“Sir…”
“You heard me.”
“Yes sir.” Marxle clicked keys, slid a finger. Oorwinnig's stabilization system had been set up to hold the impact points as steady as possible as the planet spun beneath them. Now that calibration was offset, and the relative motion of the ship and planet caused the beam impact points to slide clear of the roiling dust that had started to block them. They found new rock to chew at, exploding more of the planet's crust into the seething black mass. What had begun as a linear crater became a canyon, torn from the surface by twin pillars of fire from heaven.
“Sir, the superconductors are quenching…”
“All available power to cooling.” Voortman kept his eyes locked on the planet's image below as his weapon devoured everything it touched. The beams dragged a molten scar across A-M II's larger continent, ten kilometers, twenty, fifty, a hundred, and the boiling dust cloud left in their wake glowed red as it reached into the stratosphere.
“Sir…” Now Kirsch too was objecting. A series of shudders rocked the ship and the lights flickered, went down, came back. The tremendous power flux through the disintegrator had overheated the liquid hydrogen that kept it cool, the superconducting coils had quenched, and the tremendous back-current had surged the ship's generators.
“Cooling offline…” Marxle's voice held resignation.
“Cease fire. Damage report.” Voortman kept his voice under control. The beams had already stopped. His ship would need maintenance, that was certain. But what matters is that the kzinti will see what I have done and know that God will have no mercy for them.
The viscom blinked, and Admiral Mysolin was looking at him. “What was that, Captain?”
Voortman saluted. “Sir, I report the enemy base destroyed.”
“That and a lot more. Did you have a weapons malfunction?”
“No malfunction. We may have some damage to our superconductors. Our main weapon is offline for now. Repairs are underway.”
Mysolin's eyebrows went up. “Is there a reason you maintained fire for as long as you did?”
“With due respect, sir, you are responsible for fleet strategy. I am responsible for fighting my ship.”
“And as fleet commander I am now questioning your decision making. I expect an answer, Captain.”
Voortman looked at him in silence. He does not understand.
“I want to know why you kept firing when the military objective had already been achieved.” Mysolin would not be dissuaded from his question.
After a long pause Voortman answered. “Have you read Clausewitz, Admiral?”
“Don't change the subject, Captain.”
“I am not, sir. I am explaining my point. Clausewitz said, 'War is diplomacy continued with other means.' I continued firing because the diplomatic objective had not yet been achieved. To destroy a base from orbit, this is trivial. Had I stopped firing that is all we would have done. Instead we have sent the kzinti a message today. We have shown them we have the power to exterminate them. We have shown them that their Judgment is coming. They will fear us now.” Captain Voortman smiled a predatory smile. “They will feel our hands on their throats. This was my objective, Admiral. This was Wunderland's objective, regardless of how the UN feels about it. And this is what we have achieved today.”
“You have exceeded your orders and your authority and hazarded a major war vessel.” Mysolin's voice was cold.
“I have done what was necessary. Sir.”
Mysolin looked at him, features cold, but when he spoke it wasn't to Voortman.
“Commander Kirsch!”
“Sir.” Kirsch stepped forward.
“Captain Voortman is relieved of command. Oorwinnig is your ship. Take her back to Tiamat for repairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
The image in the viscom vanished, and Voortman wheeled to face his subordinate. “Kirsch! Don't you move a muscle. This is my ship. He isn't a Wunderlander. He has no authority here.”
Kirsch stepped closer, spoke in low tones. “Sir, perhaps it would be easiest if we went along with the admiral for now. The battle is over, and we do need to go back to Tiamat.”
“Don't be foolish, Kirsch.”
“Sir… Cornelius…” Kirsch didn't finish the sentence. He was clearly torn between orders and loyalty. Equally clearly he was going to follow his orders, no matter how unpleasant he found them. Voortman looked around the bridge, met the eyes of his weapons officer, his sensor team. All of them kept their expressions carefully blank. He would find no
support there.
Voortman raised his voice. “You have the bridge, Commander Kirsch. Make sure I'm called for the top watch.” He stalked off to his dayroom without waiting for an answer. He already knew he wouldn't be called. At Tiamat there would be a court-martial, perhaps. But I have done what I set out to do, and history will thank me for it.
Ten thousand kilometers below him the dust cloud left on A-M II's surface continued to rise and spread, blotting the sun from the skies. By the time the planet had gone around its star again it would be enveloped in a gray funeral shroud that would reflect enough light to bring perpetual winter even to its equator. Before enough dust settled to let the sunshine back in again the shallow seas would be frozen to the bottom. The fragile beginnings of life would be completely snuffed out, and the only sign that intelligence had ever visited the planet would be a canyon two hundred kilometers long and eighteen deep.
Blood is the strength of the Pride.
— Wisdom of the Conservers
The sun was high as Pouncer pulled his tuskvor to a halt and surveyed the ground. Mrrsel Pride's den was farther into the canyon lands than Ztrak Pride's, at the far end of a steep walled box canyon, a natural fortification. There would be watchers high on the red cliffs on either side of the canyon entrance. He raised his binoptics and scanned for them but saw nothing. They were well concealed. Best then to leave the tuskvor here and advance openly on foot until he was challenged. Mrrsel Pride were his mother's kin. He had kills in battle, and he was First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. He could claim his place here, and a name. He needed to do that before he could take on the Tzaatz. The czrav prides were a tremendous resource, fanatic fighters, and with their high proportion of natural telepaths, able to communicate and organize beneath the notice of the rest of the Patriarchy, bound as they were to the limitations of the electromagnetic spectrum. More importantly the Telepath War aligned their interests with his. Kchula-Tzaatz himself had shown him how to take the Citadel. Surprise from within, and a small, elite force coming over the wall under the rules of skalazaal. The czrav would form the elite force, if he could convince them to follow him, and there would still be some in the Citadel who remembered their fealty pledge to the Rrit.
He put his weight on the harness bar to move the tuskvor's head down and waited while the beast slowly yielded to the pressure. Once it was all the way down he tied it off so the beast couldn't wander away, and then dismounted.
He'd expected to be challenged at the canyon entrance, but he wasn't. He moved confidently, but kept his eyes open. It was possible he'd come to the wrong canyon, although Kr-Pathfinder's instructions had been quite clear. There was only one way to find out.
His tail was already twitching with concern by the time he reached the den mouth unchallenged. There were no harnessed tuskvor, either outside the canyon or inside it, though their spoor was everywhere. It was possible they had moved, but why? He stood at the empty den mouth and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. The charcoal of the pride circle fire was there; this was not the wrong canyon.
“I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, son of M'ress of Mrrsel Pride!” His call echoed from the distant cavern walls. He listened for a response, ears swiveled up and forward, but none came. “I come to your circle with news from Ztrak Pride.” Again there was no answer.
He knelt to look for spoor. Marks in the sandy floor of the cavern, where something heavy had been dragged, many somethings. Cautiously he followed them. The footmarks of kzinti, impressions of prrstet pads around the pride circle. Other footmarks, something small and four legged with three clawed toes per foot. Deeper in the cavern was tiled with stone slabs, and the easy spoor vanished. A smear on the stones. He sniffed it. Kzinti blood. The direction of the smear aligned with the drag marks. A bleeding body had been dragged from the den. He found more bloody drag marks. Many bodies. With mounting alarm he turned and continued deeper into the cavern. At the entrance to a side passage a flow sculpture of ancient stone was cut in half on an angle, the bottom still standing on its base, the top on the floor beside it. He examined the almost mirror-smooth cut. A variable sword, but the czrav don't use variable swords. At least, Ztrak Pride didn't, but they used hunt cloaks and other technological impedimenta. They could make variable swords if they wanted to, and perhaps Mrrsel Pride did.
It is unlikely, but not impossible. He didn't want to consider the alternative, and then in an alcove he saw something that removed all doubt. It was a small, scaly body, badly mangled. It took him a moment to recognize it, the source of the three-clawed tracks. A harrier rapsar. The Tzaatz had found the den. Sick despair surged in his liver. Mrrsel Pride, his mother's pride, were dead. He ran then, through rough-hewn passageways and finely appointed chambers, looking for any survivors. Everywhere there were signs of a violent battle, spattered blood, broken furnishings. Nowhere was there even a body. Finally exhausted he staggered to the den entrance and roared, anger welling up in him as the sound echoed from the canyon walls. Kchula-Tzaatz, you will pay for this.
And then sick worry spread through him. The Tzaatz could only have found Mrrsel Pride by tracking the migration. They were searching for him, and they'd kill everything they found until they were sure he was dead. The blood scent was still fresh; the raid had been only a day ago, at most. Soon they would know that he wasn't among the bodies they'd collected, and they would go looking for another pride. Ztrak Pride, and Cherenkova-Captain… He ran out of the canyon to his tuskvor. He needed Ztrak Pride now, and now that he had left he would have to win his place there as well. He would rather not have returned nameless to the pride that gave him sanctuary, but he had no option. It is not just I who need them now. They need me, to warn them of the Tzaatz. There was no time to waste.
Think, if you like, of the distance we have come, but never let your mind run forward faster than your vessel.
— Captain William Bligh
Quacy Tskombe was watching Trina throw fish for Curvy. It was a game they both loved, and it was like a day at the marine park for him. Curvy would do a trick, and Trina would throw her a fish, or two fish, or three fish, depending on how good she thought it was. Except if Curvy thought her trick was worth more than she got she'd leap up and belly flop to splash Trina, who would try to scramble out of the way, laughing. She never made it, and she was soaked from the start of the game. The fish were a lot smaller than the darting trout that still filled the pool. Curvy was playing for fun, not food, and for Trina. Curvy didn't have her translator on, so the communication was entirely nonverbal, but that made the playful care she gave the girl all the more effective. Swimming was a luxury Trina hadn't enjoyed since her mother had died, and the water seemed to cleanse her soul, the layers of tough defiance dissolving to reveal a carefree girl-child hidden deep inside. The dolphin was better therapy than any psychdoc, with a talent for drawing the girl out of herself. In the safe, restricted environment of the UN quarter, Trina was slowly healing.
Tskombe sighed and left the pool deck to go back to his room. It was something that was going to have to stop soon. The UN support people were still pulling out all the stops for them on the basis of Curvy's high level ident. He hadn't heard from Sergeant Veers again, but he knew they were on borrowed time. Ravalla's group on Earth were tying up loose ends in the consolidation of power. One more day to find a ship, and then we're going to have to take passage to Wunderland. That would be a setback, because the cost of the tickets would eat up enough money that he'd have to get more before he could hire a ship, but it had to be done. They couldn't locate in Munchen either, because they would need to be on a coast somewhere, so Curvy would have salt water. Away from the capital it would be harder to find work. And my qualifications don't lend themselves to application outside the UNF. The ability to lead a strike battalion into the attack counted for little in the civilian world.
And Trina would have to go to the Bureau of Displaced Persons. That would be a setback for her as well. Maybe there was a way he could arrange to have Curvy
look after her. The Wunderland government should value the dolphin's skills as highly as the UN did. And maybe that's the answer to the problem. Curvy was much more marketable than he was, and they could cut a deal. He nodded to himself. He'd book their passage immediately.
He picked up his beltcomp just as it chimed. There was a face in the holocube, a kzin.
At least it wasn't Veers. He keyed answer. “Good afternoon.”
“You are the human Quacy Tskombe?”
Tskombe nodded. “Do I know you?”
The kzin's image twitched its whiskers. “You took me to Healer, when I was injured. You have my blood debt.” The kzin didn't look happy about it.
“You're welcome.” Tskombe didn't know what else to say.
“Healer told me you seek a ship with a kzinti pilot.”
Tskombe raised his eyebrows. This might be interesting. “Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“I need to get to Kzinhome.”
The kzin's ears swiveled up and forward. “May I ask why again?”
“Why are you interested in what I'm doing?”
“I might be able to get you in contact with a pilot, to repay my debt to you. I need to understand what you will do with the ship.”
Tskombe shrugged. “I was on a diplomatic mission to Kzinhome. The Patriarch was deposed, as you might know, and we were caught in the middle. One of my colleagues is still there, and I want to bring her back.”
The kzin's lips twitched over his fangs. “I know of this conflict. I was once Grarl-Rrit-Patriarch's-Voice.”
Tskombe's eyebrows went up. “You were?”
No-longer-Grarl-Rrit snarled. “Do you doubt my honor, kz'eerkti?”
“No, please forgive me. I was surprised.”
“I was Third-Son-of-Yiao-Rrit, and cousin to the new Patriarch. Scrral-Rrit has dishonored my line, and I am now outcast.”
