It had been a long time since Teyud had been aboard an Imperial warcraft, even a transport, in terms of her personal life span; not since she fled the Mountain, and that one had been damaged, several of the crew dying. This ship was very old—you could see that the frame had been regrown in patches, crystal paler than the rest in the looping girders and circular braces.
Yet the smooth efficiency of the operation was a pleasure to behold, a dream of Sh’u Maz in living reality rather than dusty records. The scent was clean, too, only the healthy flesh and tissue of well-cared-for machinery and an efficient waste system.
“Course twenty-two, neutral buoyancy at seven thousand,” Notaj said. “Ahead half.”
The ship turned northeast along the curving edge of the cliffs and away from the central city, and she could feel an infinitesimal lightness as it descended; behind and above, the auxiliary engines wheezed as they worked the pumps, compressing the hydrogen. Valving it was an emergency measure, and would attract attention.
Below her, the lands around the Grand Canal unrolled, mellow beauty and ancient wealth; before her was the huge, shield-boss bulk of the Mountain, the long home of her Lineage . . .
Of both my lineages, she thought. I must remember both the genomes that have shaped me. And the environment and other individuals who have activated that potential. It is not enough to restore that which fell; for it would fall again. A new synthesis must be made, if Harmony is to be truly Sustained.
“We avoid the main concourses?” she asked, as the five-thousand-foot spire of the Tower slid away from the flier’s course and fell behind.
“Yes. While an isolated area is more vulnerable to direct attack, yet in congested lanes an accident is too probable. A direct attack will attract attention and may reveal who is responsible. It is a calculated risk; an oblique move to enfilade rather than overwhelm the board. We are to dock near a country palace the Supremacy favors when he seeks solitude and quiet.”
She appreciated the ironic ear-flip that stressed the word and adopted a posture of wondering innocence. The guardsman almost smiled in response. The engines gasped and wheezed as the propellers drove the airship onward. She stood quietly, her hands in the sleeves of her robe, watching the terraces and domes and towers of Dvor Il-Adazar diminish and the natural cliff face reassert itself. Long before then, only an occasional structure showed the signs of living occupancy. The last sections to be built were usually the first to be abandoned as water levels fell and population shrank.
Then a speaker on the roof of the control gondola opened its mouth, repeating the words spoken into the ear at the other end of the neural ganglion:
“Paiteng approach! From the north at ten thousand feet, accelerating. Hostile action, probability unity; attack formation.”
“He dares!” Notaj said, surprised.
“A straightforward subtlety,” Teyud observed dryly. “The quality of play in the Mountain Tournament is not what it was.”
Notaj nodded, grimly amused, and barked: “Lethal Conflict Stations!”
Feet sounded throughout the transport as the crew dashed to their posts. It had been modified, and was no longer quite the peaceful cargo-hauler it appeared from without. A crew member threw open a hatch in the center of the control gondola’s floor, and lowered an openwork turret with a heavy darter mounted below the gunner’s chair. The gunner slipped into the saddle, strapped herself in, and worked the control yoke. The long barrel of the weapon rose and fell, and the whole contrivance hummed in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle as the clawed feet of the motor pushed it around. Others would be deploying, another like this further aft, three on the port and starboard, and two atop the hull.
The main helmsman looked up. Thoughtful Grace obeyed intelligently, not in blind De’ming-like submission, and the whole crew was of that breed.
“He dares at the appropriate tactical juncture, Superior. The engines are fatigued; we cannot outmaneuver the Paiteng riders. If we seek altitude or distance, we present other vulnerabilities.”
“Even so, he must feel that some factor protects him from personal retaliation,” Notaj said. “We must protect the Designated Successor and . . . that which she bears.”
The crew all gave slight, decisive nods. Notaj bent and put his face into a masklike depression in the control dais; she could see tendrils that frayed out into filaments too thin for visibility to settle on his temples. That would connect his vision centers with eyes scattered the length and breadth of the Useful Burdens. The eyes were budded from stock originally taken from birds of prey, and had considerable distance-viewing ability.
“Half the Paiteng are carrying foot-burdens rather than riders,” he said; the intelligent beasts could be trained to attack targets themselves. “Perhaps incendiaries.”
Teyud put her fingers to her temples. The wave of frustration was more than she could bear. She could only wait, a passenger of her own fate, even though she bore the greatest of the Tollamune treasures. A push with her will was like a shove against an open door that left her windmilling in vast emptiness that threatened to swallow her mind. Then . . .
“They do feel such protection,” she said. “Not personally; their principal does, and has conveyed this. But they will attack with enzymic loads, not incendiaries. Nonlethals, structural reduction agents. They still aspire to my capture.”
“You are certain, Superior?” Notaj said, rising from the viewer.
In return, she simply looked at him. He nodded, absently wiped the little patches of clotting blood from his temples with his thumbs, and began to issue orders as he absently licked them clean. Teyud strapped on a parachute; the rest of the crew did also, those who weren’t already wearing one. Enzymes were more of a precision weapon than fire; you could tailor what they were supposed to dissolve. In some cases that was skin and flesh—or just part of it, for example the eyeballs—but in this case she knew that it would be aimed at the hull.
The Invisible Crown did do certain things, and some of them didn’t require her to know how to use it, only to believe the data welled up out of some new pit attached to her mind. The fact felt true. When it was That Which Compels telling her something it felt heavy, as if it weighed more than an ordinary conviction. That was imprecise, but it was as close as she could come to expressing the sensation, even to herself. They intended to capture her, or at least part of her.
Of course, dissolving the fabric of a flier around you could also be lethal, if it was seven thousand feet above the surface. Hence the parachute . . . though even a severely battered corpse usually had harvestable ova if you moved quickly, while a burned one probably would not.
“Come about, set course north, drop ballast and increase angle of attack to maximum,” Notaj said, ordering the ship to rise to meet the challenge. “All engines ahead full. Obtain neutral buoyancy at ten thousand feet.”
Ballast sand rumbled as it spilled out of the tanks along the keel. Teyud made herself useful by extracting oxygen masks from the storage cells and handing them out; the one she applied to her face slid home with waxy strength, beginning to swell and shrink as it pumped pressurized air into her lungs. The landscape swung beneath them, and the nose of the Useful Burden tilted upward as the control fins at the rear of the teardrop-shaped hull bit the air. She took her binoculars out and applied them as well, enduring the double sting.
When she did, she blinked in surprise. They were far more responsive than she had ever experienced before, requiring no conscious control. Now she could see the Paiteng approaching, a full fifty of them, growing from dots to shapes as the great pinions beat the air.
We will not reach their altitude in time, she thought. They were too high.
And they were using that advantage, each file of four making a swift, banking turn and then folding their wings, making themselves into missiles aimed at the airship. Spheres were clutched in their claws.
Ptank!
The sound came faintly, from the forward weapons blister on the top of th
e airship, directly over the control gondola. A growl of satisfaction went through the control crew as two of the Paiteng dodged, tilting to either side—Thoughtful Grace were a fierce breed. The flatulent swamp-gas reek of burnt methane drifted down from the upper hull, the smell of battle.
Ptank! Ptank! Ptank!
More heavy darts snapped out, as fast as the guns could recharge their gas-bladders. A great yellow shape turned from a thing of deadly grace into a tumbling ruin in the sky, whirling as it fell, centrifugal force spreading its limp wings outward. Feathers and a spray of blood surrounded it. Heavy darters didn’t just poison; they had enough kinetic energy to smash through bodies. The rider slashed his saddle-harness with a dagger and dove free; a few moments later, a rectangular parachute blossomed above, and he steered it away from the action.
Another fell, and another . . . and cheers from the darter positions told of enemy casualties not visible from the gondola.
I am more apprehensive than in any combat I have ever experienced! Teyud knew, astonished. She took a moment to control breathing and heartbeat. This is unprofessional! You are a Coercive; this is your function!
After a moment’s thought, she realized why her mouth had gone dry and her heart started to hammer.
This is not an ordinary exercise in coercive violence. I have more at stake here than my own safety. Many others depend on my survival—in fact, the Real World and Sh’u Maz itself. The burden of responsibility is great, and my subconscious realizes this.
A lizardlike hiss ran through the fabric of the Useful Burdens, and then a thump. Fractionally later the speaking tube reported:
“Hit amidships, upper hull.” A slight pause. “Enzymic load, well-tailored. The outer hull fabric is dissolving.”
“Damage control teams! Counteragents to the upper gasbags!” Notaj snapped.
Before he could countermand, Teyud leapt to the ladder and raced upward into the vast dimness of the hull. Her left arm was still sore and weak, but it was better than inactivity. Or than her thoughts . . .
Jeremy, how does event and randomness and the malice of our enemies deal with you? Are you well, closest of commitments?
Jeremy Wainman sat upright. It was early morning; the intake for the light conduit must be facing west, for that was the dimmest part of the day. It was four hours until he was due to be fed; he stretched and yawned, pulling the sleeping fur around his shoulders for warmth.
Astonishingly, the revolving hatchway in the center of the door opened. It stopped halfway, and he began to jump forward until a muffled voice said sharply:
“Stand back! Destructive agents will be applied. The vapors may be injurious if excessively inhaled.”
His heart thumped. Someone was trying to bust him out. The problem was that he couldn’t tell who; he couldn’t even tell if it was a woman or a man, given the rather androgynous way Martian voices sounded. It might be someone who wanted to rescue him or just another bunch of enemies who wanted a hold over Teyud. In fact, the latter was a lot more likely.
The area around the door’s central lock began to hiss. A few seconds later acrid green smoke billowed from it, looking almost black in the dim light. Jeremy retreated further, standing up on the sleeping bench and pulling part of the wide sleeve of his robe over his mouth. It smelled rather strongly of not-too-clean Jeremy Wainman, since he hadn’t had the chance to wash or change it in quite some time, but it was better than the choking acid-and-metal smell of the vapor. He coughed as a whiff of it got past the fabric. The cloth was incredibly tough and hardwearing, comfortable, warm even in Martian weather, and the russet and green colors were handsome. It stopped low-velocity projectiles about as well as DuPont’s stuff did back on Earth. But as far as he knew it didn’t have any special power to filter toxic vapors.
“Owww!”
Something had grabbed a tuft of his hair right above the robe’s high collar and pulled hard. He jerked his head forward, swearing, and looked behind him. One of the rat-things was sitting just behind the grille that closed the ventilation shaft, holding the bars with one hand and stuffing a tuft of brown Terran hair into its mouth with the other, giving every sign of enjoyment. Teeth shaped like miniature spades chopped happily, and its long sticky tongue caught floating wisps and flicked them back between its jaws.
“Shit!”
The whatever-it-was reached out for him with clawed fingers and a squeal that probably meant Tasty-yum-yum! More, more!
He couldn’t even hit it—getting his hand into range was just what it wanted, and if he stopped to take a boot off it would be gone before he could strike. The little bastards learned fast. More of the green vapor poured out of the cell door. Luckily zombie-rats—which was what he’d privately christened the things—weren’t all that came out of the shaft; a cool, dry waft came from it, and fairly steadily. As long as he kept his head close to it, if just far enough away to be out of the thing’s reach, he could breathe.
Then there was a shunk sound. After an instant he realized that it was the locking bar in the cell door withdrawing. An instant after that, someone pushed the door aside into the slot in the wall that held it. The green vapor billowed out into the corridor. A robed figure stood there, face hidden by a smooth mask of brown ceramic, dart pistol in hand. Another two figures robed in black lay motionless on the floor. As the air cleared, the Martian with the pistol unhooked the mask.
Jeremy felt his mind boggle. It was Daiyar, the doctor who’d examined him . . . and sounded so enthusiastic about dissecting him, too.
“Come quickly,” she said. “I am an agent of the Supremacy and the Crimson Dynasty; this piece of Prince Heltaw’s has pre-defected. The Tollamune will be interested in what you have to say of his offspring.”
Oh, Christ, Jeremy thought, pulling up his jaw. I just get involved with this really great woman, and already I have to go meet her dad?
The reservoir of neutralizing agent bumped awkwardly against Teyud’s side as she crawled through the space between the gas cells and the outer hull. The fine mist she sprayed settled on the ragged edges of gaps and rents; she could see the pale blue-pink of the sky through them, and feel the steady chill beat of the high-altitude air.
A Paiteng flashed by outside, a brief glimpse of gold-and-blue ferocity, and the dart rifle of its rider snapped. The projectile thumped into the gas-cell beside her, and there was a brief hiss. Then the material humped up around the puncture, turning semiliquid for a moment and then sealing. It had probably been a nonlethal dart, although a rifle’s projectiles could do serious harm even without their load. And slipping backward off the cell and crashing down into the hull would produce trauma as well.
She went back to work, grimly conscious that the damage-control teams were not going to be able to seal enough of the hull.
The calculated risk did not eventuate as we hoped, she thought. Although the other faction probably had an airship ready to “accidentally” explode too close to us, as a failsafe if their first attempt failed. Even the randomness of the dice is patterned in the Game of Life.
The fireproofing anticatalyst did fail sometimes; and you could find a pilot willing to undertake a suicide mission. There were drugs, mind-control parasites, and leverage on the individual’s lineage.
Another hiss, this one much louder. A little farther along droplets of attack enzymes had spattered through onto the gas-cell. A hole appeared; it grew wider as she watched. When she sprayed the neutralizing agent on it, the rate of growth slowed, but it did not stop. A look around showed more such spots, and too few crewfolk to control them.
With a shrug, she shed the harness that controlled tank and hose and let them drop—the chance of their doing important harm was negligible. Then she crawled down to one of the curved ladders that ran around the lower support rings of the hull, and from there down to the gondola.
“The attack will succeed in disabling this craft shortly,” she said.
Notaj had his face in the view mask again. He made a gesture of a
cquiescence before disengaging; there was less blood this time, as he used the recommended slow procedure and gave the neural link time to secrete a clotting compound.
“I express reluctant agreement. This is unfortunate,” he said. “The Useful Burdens has been a valuable resource, in this and a number of previous missions. I have been comfortable utilizing it and will regret its destruction.”
A Paiteng dove toward the nose of the airship, then twisted in midair to flip and dive. As it did, it released the globe in its claws, and swept by beneath with a thunderclap boom . . . boom of giant wings as it maneuvered. The heavy ptank . . . ptank of the darter turret in the floor of the control gondola followed it, and there was a shout: “Exultant triumph! Destruction of the target!”
Or in Jeremy’s language . . . yeee-ha! Teyud thought. Imprecise but evocative.
That meant the bird had been struck, although only after the damage was done. The globe followed its expertly launched trajectory, smashing on the gondola’s prow just below the forward control post. A broad swatch of the tough transparent material went opaque immediately, as the liquid began to eat inward.
“Bridge crew, with me,” Notaj said. “Inaugurate self-destruct sequence.”
Then, into an ear for broadcast throughout the Useful Burdens, he ordered: “Crew, prepare to abandon ship. Rendezvous Alpha-seven. You have striven earnestly to accomplish your mission; a commander could desire no better personnel. May event and randomness favor you.” A long breath. “Abandon ship!”
The hatches at the sides of the control gondola fell away as their emergency release levers were tripped. Despite the fact that she was retreating from a lost battle, Teyud leapt through the opening into the cold thin air with a burst of savage exultation.
She was going to Jeremy . . . and toward those who attempted to defy the Tollamune line.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Encyclopedia Britannica, 20th Edition
University of Chicago Press, 1998
MARS: Development of Weapons Technology
In the Courts of the Crimson Kings Page 24
