Wolf Among the Stars-ARC

by Steve White

  “Uh, maybe whoever they are just continued on in overspace and didn’t come through the transition gate,” Rachel offered.

  “Rubbish!” snapped Persath. “Their course would make no sense unless they intended to make transition here, nor would the fact that they were following us.”

  “Then where are they?” asked Andrew in what he thought were eminently reasonable tones.

  “I don’t know.” In his perplexity, Persath momentarily forgot to be irritable. “They should show on my normal-space scanners.”

  There seemed nothing more to be said on the subject, and they settled in to await Reislon’s acknowledgment of Persath’s signal while nervously speculating as to the nature of the mysterious intruders. They had not long to wait. A flashing light on the comm panel brought Persath scurrying up to the control console, where he performed various cryptic manipulations in silence.

  “Uh, what does he say, Persath?”

  “Nothing. The signaling device is precisely that: it sends an almost infinitesimally brief squirt of data on its peculiar frequency, announcing one’s presence. Reislon has no wish to actually engage in radio conversation that might be overheard, thus compromising himself and . . . his associates.”

  “Persath,” said Andrew grimly, “there’s a lot you’re not telling me!”

  “How does it feel?” Rachel was heard to mutter.

  “What’s the story on these associates?” Andrew persisted, ignoring her.

  “All will become clear in good time.” Persath placed both hands in front of his chest and tilted his head back, which Andrew recalled was the Lokaron equivalent of a human raising a hand palm-outward to forestall an anticipated outburst. “Suffice it to say that their presence in this system is not generally known—not known at all, in point of fact, any more than is Reislon’s—and they are rather particular about radio silence. Therefore Reislon is coming out to rendezvous with us. A physical meeting is far safer, as it will take place in the gravitational borderlands between the two components of the Kogurche system, where there is nothing except the occasional robotic ore-carrier.”

  A glance at the nav plot showed Andrew that this was indeed the case. Their drive was pushing them outward from Kogurche A, which was falling astern, and into a hyperbolic course which, if carried beyond a certain point, would result in capture by the gravity of Kogurche B.

  Further questioning extracted nothing from Persath, and they again had to draw on their depleted store of patience. Finally Persath cut the drive and went into a free-fall trajectory. Presently, a radar blip that Persath identified as Reislon’s ship appeared, matched vectors, and began to maneuver alongside. When it came into visual range Andrew saw that it was smaller than their own craft and of an altogether different design—a purely space-to-space shuttle, with no need for streamlining of any kind. Persath, at the control console, carried out a brief, low conversation via short-range communicator; Andrew couldn’t make out what he was saying, and his translator implant didn’t pick up what was emerging from the console at all.

  The new arrival extruded a short access tube that affixed itself magnetically to their starboard entry port with a muffled clang. The lock wheezed open and their ears popped as air pressures equalized. A Lokar dressed in a form-fitting light duty space suit stepped into the saloon.

  To anyone familiar with the Lokaron, Reislon’Sygnath was clearly a transmitter and probably early middle-aged. But in his amazement, Andrew noticed none of that at first. He had automatically assumed that a Harathon agent would belong to the subspecies of that gevah and its offshoot Gev-Tizath—the “default Lokaron” type as far as humans were concerned. So he wasn’t prepared for Reislon to be only a little over seven feet tall, less thin of build than the Harathon norm, and with skin that was not the standard light blue but rather a kind of greenish-blue, almost aquamarine . . .

  Reislon, well acquainted with humans and their facial expressions, gave him a close-mouthed Lokaron smile. “You surmise correctly. I am a hybrid. The product of a Harathon primary male and a Rogovon transmitter, to be exact.”

  In his embarrassment, Andrew had nothing to say.

  To humans, the most alien thing about the Lokaron, compared to which the external differences were merely cosmetic, was their three-sex reproductive pattern. The egg-producing transmitter—larger, stronger and traditionally the sexual aggressor—was impregnated by the primary male and subsequently implanted the fertilized egg in the female, whose only function was to give birth. Both stages of the process were accomplished using organs analogous to human male equipment, which had given rise among humans to no end of bad jokes about the transmitters. Direct intercourse between primary males and females was reproductively pointless and was regarded as a perverse vice.

  Almost equally frowned upon was intercourse between transmitters and primary males of the various genetically engineered planetary subspecies into which the race, never given to terraforming, had differentiated itself. This could produce offspring—but the offspring, like those of Terran horses and donkeys, were sterile. (There were exceptions like the Harathon and the Tizathon, which were essentially the same subspecies, but even in such cases social barriers existed.) In addition, for reasons that evidently made sense in terms of Lokaron biology, the offspring were almost always transmitters. Transmitters with nothing to transmit . . .

  “The primary male,” Reislon continued imperturbably, “was a member of a Harathon trade mission, seduced by a socially prominent Rogovon transmitter who, for reasons best known to himself, saw fit to subsequently have intercourse with a female.”

  Andrew nodded with understanding. Abortion was a nonissue for the Lokaron. A transmitter carrying a fertilized egg need only refrain from implanting that egg in a female, and it would die after a certain period. And the “females” were irrelevant to the nature of the offspring, which they merely carried. Even in present-day Lokaron society, they were hardly ever seen or mentioned.

  “Rogovon society,” Reislon went on, “was not particularly open to me.” (A studied understatement, Andrew suspected.) “Afterward I departed for Gev-Harath and eventually found myself in the service of Hov-Korth. But that is enough about me. I imagine the presence of the two of you accounts for this unexpected visit. Is this true, Persath?”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Persath fussily performed belated introductions. “Captain Roark and Ms. Arnstein are both connected to the late Admiral Nathan Arnstein—the former as his chief of staff and the latter as his daughter.”

  “The late Admiral Arnstein?” Reislon’s aspect grew expressionless. “I regret to learn that. I communicated with him less than a year ago. How did he die?”

  “That is what we are trying to ascertain,” Andrew lied, “as the CNE government is not being candid.”

  “But why come to me?”

  “Because we have good reason to believe that the Black Wolf Society is somehow connected with his death.”

  Reislon’s expressionlessness became absolute.

  “I’ve told them everything, Reislon,” said Persath quietly.

  “I see.” Reislon grew brisk. “And you were right to do so. This brings matters to a head. We must—”

  The strident squeal of an alarm shattered the air.

  Persath bounded up to the control bridge with Andrew just behind him. He slapped at various controls, and a harsh voice filled the saloon. “You will lay to and stand by to be boarded. Any attempt to uncouple your vessels will result in your destruction.”

  It took a second for Andrew to realize that he hadn’t heard it through his translator implant. It had been a human voice, speaking English. A voice he somehow thought he ought to recognize.

  He had no time to dwell on it, because at appreciably the same instant a radar blip flickered into existence on the screen—a very nearby blip that hadn’t been there before, so nearby that it simultaneously appeared on the viewscreen, feebly reflecting the distant light of the two Kogurche suns.

  “Where did
it come from?” Rachel whispered.

  “It must be the ship that was following us in overspace,” said Persath. “But how has it approached so closely undetected?”

  Andrew said nothing, but he suddenly recalled what Svyatog’Korth had told him about the advanced stealth features the Harathon had briefly glimpsed in 2055, and his eyes met Reislon’s in a moment of shared understanding.

  Persath activated the magnification feature, and the intruder filled the screen. It was a lifting body, apparently a commercial vessel small enough to have surface-landing capability, but at least three times the size of their own ship. And it had been modified. Andrew’s practiced eye recognized laser-weapon blisters—short-ranged ones, but quite adequate under the circumstances.

  Reislon spoke to Persath. “Our two craft, besides being unarmed, are incapable of maneuvering while locked together. We are quite helpless. Do not attempt to resist.” He seemed to be taking it very calmly.

  “Very well.” Persath spoke into the communicator. “Come ahead.” Then, with a defiant flash of his usual asperity, he glared at the blank comm screen. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

  The screen came to life. A human face looked out, wearing a tight smile of vindictive triumph.

  It was the face of Amletto Leong.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The hostile ship remained watchfully on station in its matching orbit as it deployed an interorbital car—little more than a life-support bubble for two with a very low-powered drive unit. As it approached them, Andrew excused himself momentarily. When he returned, Rachel noted, but did not comment on, a small bulge under his pullover shirt at the small of his back.

  The car maneuvered alongside and sealed itself to their port-side airlock, opposite Reislon’s shuttle. Persath, with a great show of put-upon dignity, opened the lock and two figures emerged.

  Both were dressed in the same sort of light-duty vacc suit that Reislon wore. It was standard garb for anyone riding a spacecraft as flimsy as the interorbital car: a form-fitting jumpsuit of flexible nanofabric with a slight bulge in the back holding a concentrated oxygen supply and short-term temperature-control unit. To become an emergency space suit, it was only necessary for the wearer to don gloves and pull over a hood like helmet made of a transparent version of the same nanofabric. That fabric had the additional virtue of automatically adjusting itself to whoever was wearing it, over a fairly wide range of sizes and forms and even races.

  That was unnecessary in this case, for both of the boarders were human. One carried what Andrew recognized as a laser weapon about the size of a turn-of-the-century submachine gun—a lower-powered version of a military laser rifle, doubtless currently on its stun setting, which could be used safely inside a spacecraft. He obviously wanted to use it, as he looked at the greenish tinge of Reislon’s skin with unconcealed loathing.

  The other was Leong, armed with a commercial version of Andrew’s gauss pistol—not as good, but it could kill you just as dead. He wore the same expression they had seen in the comm screen, but even more tightly controlled than before. The ingratiating functionary they had known on Tizath-Asor was nowhere to be found.

  “Don’t try anything foolish,” he said without preamble. “I am in continuous communication with my ship.” He tapped a standard earpiece communicator he wore. “If anything happens to us—which I doubt, because we will shoot you without hesitation if you make trouble—it is under orders to open fire.”

  Persath, indignant beyond fear, stepped up almost to the muzzle of the gauss pistol. He loomed over the diminutive Leong even more than he would over most humans. “What is the meaning of this outrage? I am informed that you are an employee of the CNE diplomatic service. The government of Gev-Tizath will hear of this hostile act! I shall protest strongly, yes, strongly to the—”

  “Shut up!” snapped Leong. His fixed expression slipped, and what could be momentarily glimpsed behind it was ugly indeed. “As our prisoners, you’re in no position to bluster.”

  “Yeah,” the other man snarled. “Prisoners of humans! Get used to it!”

  Leong irritably waved him to silence. “We primarily want you two for questioning,” he said, indicating Persath and Reislon, “concerning the whereabouts of a certain . . . artifact.” He turned to Andrew and Rachel. “You will have to come, too, as we can hardly let you go. Also, you may be able to provide useful information.”

  “You’ve already used us plenty,” said Rachel expressionlessly, “letting us lead you to Resilon. But why is the CNE doing this?”

  “Oh, we don’t work for the damned gutless CNE,” the laser-armed goon began.

  “Quiet, you cretin!” rasped Leong.

  “That’s right, isn’t it, Leong?” said Andrew. “Naval Intelligence might play it this way, but I doubt it. This is more the style of you people in the Black Wolf Society.” Leong’s expression told him his guess had hit home. He decided to risk another stab in the dark. “The only question in my mind is this: Are you also working for Admiral Valdes?”

  For a moment, Andrew thought Leong was going to have a stroke. Then he smoothed out his features and apparently decided that dissembling was more trouble than it was worth under the circumstances. “As he’s repeatedly stated, he isn’t associated with us in any way. We do find much to agree with in his platform. We share his disgust with the CNE’s groveling acceptance of the peace settlement that was forced on us by the Lokaron powers, robbing Earth of the full fruits of its victory. We’re working toward the complete expulsion of the Rogovon interlopers from the Lupus frontier.”

  Using the profits from drugs and extortion and human trafficking, Andrew mentally finished for him. He considered saying it out loud in an attempt to provoke Leong into losing control, but decided it probably wouldn’t have that effect. Leong’s words might be those of a fanatic spouting doctrine—and the goon certainly took it that way, judging from his stupidly rapt expression—but to Andrew it had a strangely hollow quality, as though he was consciously trying to seem like a fanatic spouting doctrine. He confirmed the impression by dropping the oration as abruptly as he might have switched off a recording and turning businesslike.

  “Now my ship will come alongside and we will commence transferring the four of you to it, after which your two ships will be destroyed, leaving no evidence. Afterwards—what?” Suddenly, Leong’s attention was riveted on what he was hearing through his earpiece, and he swung around to look at the viewscreen, on which his ship still showed at full magnification.

  Andrew at once saw what was happening. The laser blisters were swiveling in their mounts, turning away from Persath’s ship toward some other target. Of course the laser beams were invisible in vacuum, but a sudden flash like that of heat lightening from off to the side suggested that they were being worked, and had hit something . . . an incoming missile, perhaps.

  “Power up the drive and get out of here!” snapped Leong into his communicator.

  “We’ll break this ship loose and try to escape.” Then he turned back around, gauss pistol pointed at his prisoners. “Stun them!” he ordered the goon.

  That worthy moved to comply, raising his laser weapon.

  Up to this point, Reislon was the only one present who had not said a word. In fact, he had somehow made himself so perfectly ignorable that Andrew hadn’t even thought of him as being silent—hadn’t thought of him, period. Which made it all the more startling when he exploded out of his inconspicuousness, thrust out a hand, pointed at something behind the goon, and shouted, “Look!”

  The goon turned his head to look (he would have been more than human if he had not), causing the laser weapon to swing out of line.

  Reislon brought his outstretched arm down slightly, and raised the hand as a human would when making the stop gesture.

  The six-digited Lokaron hand was different from the human version in many ways, just as the Lokaron skeletal structure in general differed. But raising it in the way Reislon had done exposed something analogous to the huma
n “heel of the hand.” Now he pointed it at the goon’s direction and swept it horizontally across.

  Andrew heard the sharp, vicious rapid-fire snapping sound as the tiny steel slivers of a gauss needler—a hundred of them in a single burst—broke the sound barrier. The long, thin needles were harmless against any sort of rigid barrier, but in living tissue they were lethally unstable. A stream of them sleeted across the goon’s head, with no knock-back effect and the characteristic near-bloodlessness of instant death. He simply slumped to the deck.

  Leong was already turning to bring his Gauss pistol to bear on Reislon. It gave Andrew a chance to reach behind him and pull out his M-3.

  Leong saw him out of the corner of his eye and whirled back toward him . . . while Andrew was still in the act of clicking off his safety.

  In what seemed like slow motion, Andrew watched Leong’s muzzle come into line and knew himself for a dead man.

  All at once they were bathed in a blinding glare as the viewscreen became a momentary sun.

  A missile got past the lasers and the deflection shields, Andrew had time to think.

  With a cry compounded of rage and despair, Leong turned to stare at the funeral pyre of his ship.

  It gave Andrew the split second he needed.

  He intended to use an autoburst to shoot Leong’s gauss pistol out of his hand and take him alive (though doubtless minus the hand). But the wave front of expanding gas from the explosion reached them, rocking their ship and throwing off his aim. The first 3mm bullet shattered Leong’s wrist, sending his pistol flying. But the rest of the burst slanted downward across Leong’s abdomen, stitching a row of tiny holes. With a rasping moan, he sank to his knees and toppled over forward.

  It had all happened too quickly for Rachel or Persath to even react. Now the former turned aside and looked like she was going to be sick, but mastered herself, while the latter still seemed marbled in shock.