A Bonfire of Worlds

by Steven Mohan Jr.

  mounted on the walls were turning, but someone had muted the siren. OK, he thought, the trick is to be calm. Make it look like you belong.

  He drew a steadying breath and quietly shut the door he'd come through. And jumped.

  Whitfield stood there, a laser pistol pointed at his chest.

  Tucker jerked his gun up. "Put the laser down," he said from between clenched teeth. The gun shook in his hand.

  Whitfield frowned. "We don't have time for this. They're going to see through your little tricks any minute."

  "Put it down."

  She took a step toward him. "Tucker," she whispered. "Please."

  "Put. It. Down."

  She hesitated. Then she knelt and gently set the weapon on the ferrocrete deck. "Tucker," she said softly. "Don't you know me?"

  Tucker's voice was harsh. "Oh, I know you."

  Whitfield shook her head. She reached up with her left hand and brushed back a strand of red hair. "I —I don't think so." A shy smile came to her face. Hesitantly she reached out and touched his face with her left hand.

  Just like the dream.

  "Tucker, I've come to rescue you. I'm Alexi Holt."

  Pradesh Hotel, Sakuntalem

  Lyran-Occupied Kalidasa

  Protectorate Coalition

  Free Worlds League

  The western horizon glowed orange-gold as the sun slipped from the world, but Duke Vedet Brewer saw patches of purple that bordered the sunset, waiting to claim the sky for night. Sakuntalem's lights winked on, like the stars coming out. And just like that, the ballet of color and form was gone.

  Replaced by darkness.

  Duke Vedet, who followed the Skye tradition of attaching his noble title to his given name, stood on the hotel's penthouse balcony, looking out at the city, a tumbler of scotch cradled in his right hand, a scrap of paper crushed in his left.

  He ignored the man who'd brought him the message, Leutnant-Colonel Thomas Kirk of the First Hesperus Guards.

  The "balcony" was more like a small plaza. Vedet felt not stone under his feet, but grass. He smelled saffron and jasmine, orchids and lemon grass. He heard the playful bubble of a fountain behind him, felt its cool mist on his skin. Marble benches were sprinkled throughout the balcony, though neither man sat. They both leaned against the balustrade that kept people from falling the twenty stories to their deaths.

  The scotch had started as scotch on the rocks, but the ice had melted while he watched the sun set. Now it was just a slurry of alcohol and tap water.

  "This could have been the beginning of something great," said Vedet, his voice rough. "Kalidasa has always been a place where commerce tied together House Marik and House Steiner. It could have been that again. But for us."

  Kirk said nothing, which was a healthy indication of his intelligence.

  Suddenly Vedet winged his glass out into the night. Hedidn't hear the tumbler smash, which was vaguely disappointing. "When do the New Hope Raiders arrive?"

  "Four days," said Kirk softly. "Looks like they're taking a nice slow run in."

  "Why not," said Vedet bitterly. "They have us and they know it."

  Somewhere in the near darkness, Kirk shifted.

  Go ahead and disapprove, thought Vedet savagely. I don't need your approval.

  His Guards were battered and bloody and his supply lines were extended nearly to the point of breaking—not that anything was coming through them, anyway. He had fought at Melissa's behest, taking world after world for that bitch, and this, this was how she repaid him.

  She had stripped him of parts and munitions. Oh, it had been cleverly done, of course. The subtlety with which his equipment and consumables had been shifted coreward to the Falcon border suggested the treacherous hand of Trillian Steiner. Melissa had organized this whole war to destroy him.

  And it had worked.

  Vedet would be the man who lost Kalidasa, the man who fumbled away the whole Free Worlds offensive. He felt the paper crumpled in his left hand.

  The man who couldn't restrain the Wolves.

  The message had been brought to him via JumpShip only an hour ago. It was short and to the point. He unfolded it and read it again:

  Z 231443MAY40

  FROM: ARCHON LYRANCOM

  TO: COMBOLANMILPROV

  ALLPLANMILITIAS BOLANMILPROV

  ALLFORCES LCAF

  COMFIRSTHESPERUSGUARDS

  COMFIRSTSTEINERSTRIKERS

  COMSTORMHAMMERS

  TOP SECRET//N06788//

  SUBJ: ATTACK ON LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

  1. ON 21 MAY 3040 GAL CDR ALARIC WOLF STRUCK ACROSS LYRAN BORDER, ATTACKING FIVE WORLDS IN BOLAN MILPROV. FIRST-WAVE TARGETS ARE UHURU, NESTOR, CONCORD, TOGWOTEE, AND MCAFFE. HIGH COMMAND ANALYSIS INDICATES THIS IS A FULL-SCALE ASSAULT.

  2. THE LYRAN COMMONWEALTH IS AT WAR WITH CLAN WOLF.

  3. LIC REPORTS NON-AGGRESSION PACT BETWEEN FWL AND CLAN WOLF.

  4. ALL OPERATIONAL COMMANDERS ARE TO IMMEDIATELY CEASE HOSTILITIES WITH FWL. HOLD CURRENT POSITION AGAINST ATTACK BUT DO NOT ADVANCE.

  5. STORMHAMMERS WILL IMMEDIATELY REDEPLOYTO UHURU.

  6. FIRST STEINER STRIKERS WILL IMMEDIATELY REDEPLOY TO HYDE TO AWAIT FURTHER TASKING.

  7. FIRST HESPERUS GUARDS WILL HOLD KALIDASA UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  8. IMMEDIATELY CANX ALL LEAVES FOR LCAF PERSONNEL. INITIATE FULL MOBILIZATION.

  ARCHON MELISSA STEINER SENDS

  BT

  This was a disaster of unimanageable proportions. It might very well drag down Melissa, but Vedet would certainly fall with her. He was tied politically to her Free Worlds adventure. If the nobles and the shopkeepers and soldiers decided this war had been a mistake, she would get most of the blame.

  But there would be plenty left over for him.

  Especially since his First Hesperus Guards would not be part of the desperate, heroic defense of the Bolan Military Province. While the Stormhammers rushed to Uhuru to blunt the tip of the Wolf spear and the Strikers were prepped to defend a second-wave world, the First Hesperus Guards were assigned garrison duty.

  He snorted. If the New Hope Raiders had their way, that would be over soon enough.

  "I bet now you're sorry you shipped all our supplies core- ward, eh, Melissa." muttered Vedet. He froze. That was it. His mind raced, working through the possibilities, the angles. It might just work. He'd have to write a message that infuriated Melissa, but that should be easy enough. His very existence seemed to infuriate Melissa.

  "What did you say, Duke?" asked Kirk.

  Vedet peered at the message again. It ordered the First Hesperus Guards to remain on Kalidasa, not the Commander, First Hesperus Guards.

  "I said ..." said the Duke slowly, "that I am turning operational command of the First Hesperus Guards to you."

  The man blinked. "Sir, I don't-"

  "I am departing Kalidasa immediately."

  Kirk goggled at him. "Sir, you can't— I mean— What about the Raiders?"

  Vedet placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "I would not leave, Colonel, but I have a service I must render to the Commonwealth. A service no one else can provide."

  "But, sir. What am I supposed to do?"

  "Why, hold, of course," said Vedet, managing to sound surprised. "For as long as you can."

  ComStar Secret Research Facility Omega One

  Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown

  Prefecture X

  Tucker stared at her. This woman who had tormented him, who had mocked him, who had loosed Patricia on him. This was— He shook his head. "You don't look like—"

  "Of course not. Do you think I could've infiltrated ComStar if I looked like the Alexi Holt you knew?"

  "Infiltrated?"

  "I was ordered to by Paladin Sorenson to find you. To rescue you."

  Tucker shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No."

  "Do you remember the last thing I said to you? When I gave you my rank pip."

  Tucker swallowed.

  She reached out and enfolded
him in an embrace. "I'll miss you, Tucker," she whispered. "But at least you'll be safe."

  He broke the hug, looking sharply at her. "Y-You took that from my—" He shook his head. "Patricia took that from my mind. "

  "No, " she said sternly. "I was there. It's me."

  "But-"

  "No," she said firmly. "No, there's no more time for doubts. We have to get out of here. This way." She picked up her laser and started moving right.

  Tucker glanced left at the Leopard. "But—"

  "Adept," she barked, "this way."

  Atechnician looked up at them andTuckerturned and walked briskly toward Whitfield. Or Holt? Could this really be Alexi Holt? He fell in step with her. They strode toward the S-7A.

  "But I was going to hide on the—"

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. "We won't get out of here by hiding. ComStar's only hope for survival is to find you. If they think you're still here, they'll take that DropShip apart bolt by bolt. If we're going to get clear, we'll have to do it ourselves."

  And then, pointing her laser up in a two-handed grip, she stepped onto the shuttle.

  S-7A in High Orbit

  Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown

  Prefecture X

  Tucker saw the aerospace fighter flash by, painted ghost white, sleek and deadly. It arced around in a slow, graceful orbit, reminding him very much of a great white shark circling, circling. As the fighter reached the apogee of its turn, it arced into a climb and then tipped over, slicing down toward the helpless shuttle like a javelin.

  Ruby fire cut into the shuttle, rattling the vessel, and throwing Tucker against his safety restraints. Pain slashed through his chest, and for a moment reality grayed out.

  "Good thing they're going easy on us," said Whitfield.

  "You think this is easy?" asked Tucker incredulously.

  "Those are two SHV-0 Shivas out there," snapped Whitfield. "The only reason they haven't already blown us out of the sky is that ComStar wants you alive."

  "Great," said Tucker, "well, let's keep it that way."

  Whitfield shook her head and threw the shuttle into a hard port bank just as another shark flashed by.

  Was this all part of some elaborate ruse to win his trust? Tucker wondered. How could this be Alexi Holt?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a staccato pounding on the shuttle's hull. It sounded a little like gunfire, only less regular, less certain. As if whatever it was might kill them, but only if it got around to it. "What's that?"

  "Debris," Whitfield bit the word out. "We're crossing the plane of the ring."

  Tucker craned his neck, looking out the shuttle's ferroglass canopy. A bright swath of silver climbed up at right angles to his field of vision. He could just see the structure starting to arc. The ring.

  Unlike the rings of gas giants, this ring wasn't made up of ice crystals and dust motes, no it was constructed of garbage, everything from metal particles all the way up to dead

  spacecraft. No wonder it sounded like bullets hitting the ship.

  Luyten had been home to orbital factories and massive space stations, all of which had been destroyed during the Jihad.

  Another one of the Shivas flashed by and the shuttle shook hard as it took another hit. Pain lanced through Tucker's ribs.

  "Shuttle," said the radio, "this is Demon Flight One. Return to planet or we will be forced to destroy you. This is your final warning."

  "So much for taking me alive," muttered Tucker.

  "Oh, they're bluffing," said Whitfield.

  "Good to know."

  "They'll just wait for us to run out of fuel and tow us in," said Whitfield.

  "Oh," said Tucker. He swallowed. Felt the bulk of the slug thrower shoved into his pants pocket. "They can kill me." He shook his head. "But I'm not going back."

  Whitfield glanced back into the compartment. Tucker followed her gaze to a locker containing five or six space suits. He turned to look at her.

  "No one's asking you to," she said.

  * * *

  Adept Miguel Costa brought his bird around in a tight arc, his crosshairs settled comfortably on the ungainly midsection of the odd-looking S-7A. The reticle, the targeting pip in the center of the cross-hairs, glowed a deep gold, signaling target lock.

  Costa's gloved thumb carressed the red button on his stick that pilots called a pickle. He felt the hard plastic through his Nomex glove. Just a few newtons of pressure-

  But those were not his orders. His orders were to bring the shuttle back.

  Costa didn't have anything against the people in the shuttle—indeed, he had no idea who they were—nor did he have any problem following orders, but he was the pilot of an aerospace fighter and aerospace fighters were not designed to bring back prisoners alive.

  In its nose the Shiva carried missiles, a small laser, and an LB 20-X, to say nothing of the quartet of large pulse lasers spread across its two swept back wings. Simply put, the Shiva was beautifully designed to kill. To do anything else just seemed wrong.

  He felt the pickle through his glove like an itch.

  Somehow he managed to resistthe temptation. He swept his aircraft up and over in another plunging attack, dialing down his laser's power. As he dove toward the shuttle he stitched underpower ruby beams across her hull, just to remind them Demon Flight was still here.

  Suddenly the shuttle did the last thing in the universe he expected. It swung nose up, aiming straight for him.

  Startled, Costa had only an instant to react and he did just what his combat-honed instincts demanded. He jammed his thumb down on the pickle, trying to blow apart the obstacle before he smashed it.

  He didn't have time to dial up his laser power or tie his other weapons into his primary trigger. Weak ruby light washed off the shuttle's hull, burning paint and opening rents in the craft's thin metal skin.

  But hardly blowing it apart.

  Costa had only an instant to realize his error and then Demon One smashed into the shuttle at a thousand kph, igniting fuel and warheads and releasing the nuclear fire that burned in the Shiva's guts. In a fraction of a second, raging energies transformed the shuttle, the fighter, and Miguel Costa into a thin gruel of superheated plasma that arced across a hundred kilometers, adding yet more debris to the planet's glittering silver ring.

  * * *

  Tucker's magenetic boots glued him tothe shuttle's steel hull, while the entirety of the universe passed overhead. Whitfield stood next to him, a couple steps away, a silent figure in a snow white space suit occulting the stars. They were tethered together by a three-meter line. Tucker wasn't sure what was going to happen next.

  But he had a bad feeling he wasn't going to like it.

  He keyed his LOS transmitter. "Hey, what's the plan here?"

  Whitfield turned and slashed an angry hand across her neck. Her meaning was clear enough. Kill the chatter.

  She stepped over to him using the peculiar step-lock-unlock- step gait unique to spacers. She bumped her head against his. "Radio silence," she yelled. Her voice sounded small and tinny. "Got that, Tucker? Radio silence."

  "Yes," he said sheepishly, "but—" She had already stepped away.

  She looked back at the fighters and then at the ring. Fighters and ring. Fighters ... Ring. High above them (though there was really no "above" in space) one of the Shivas climbed towards the height of its arc.

  She bumped her helmet against his. "Listen. When I count three, jump."

  "Jump" squeaked Tucker.

  "Yes, jump. When-"

  "C-can't we just stay with the shuttle?"

  "No. I've programmed the shuttle to do something very bad. On three. And do not hesitate, or you'll kill us both."

  "But-"

  She crouched down and glanced back. She held up her hand, balled into a fist. Then she counted off with her fingers.

  And leapt.

  Tucker swallowed and jumped after her, remembering only just in time that he had to unlock his magboots as he lept.
He tumbled through void, small particles of debris

  scoring his faceplate with a sharp rattle that set his teeth on edge.

  Whitfield kept her body wrapped into a ball. She didn't turn to look back at Tucker, she just kept looking straight ahead, as if she were searching for something.

  Something flashed bright in Tucker's peripheral vision, brilliant white but totally silent, like distant lightning on a hot summer evening. He glanced back.

  The shuttle was gone, just gone. In its place was a cloud of glowing white gas and a string of debris traveling along the steep angle of the fighter's fatal plunge.

  He felt a tug on the line that connected him to Whitfield and looked back. She pointed at something: a star, an irregular star, because Tucker could see the pool of light wasn't spherical, but ... cylindrical.

  Whitfield fired the small jets in her pack, vectoring her toward the strange light. Their relative velocities changed and the tether pulled tight. She scowled back at him. He hurried to fire his own jets.

  Slowly they drifted toward the cylinder, making tiny course corrections with their jets, never firing more than a second or a two.

  As they drew nearer, Tucker realized the structure was big, maybe eighty meters along its major axis and twenty in diameter. Its surface was pocked with craters. A thin rime of ice crystals shadowed holes shaded from the kiss of sunlight. The station had once possessed a pair of gold-filmed wings, solar cells. One of the arrays had been snapped cruelly in half, but the other appeared to be undamaged.

  Whitfield fired her jets and landed on the derelict's hull in a graceful crouch, anchoring herself with her magboots.

  Tucker swung around and hit the hull with his shoulder. For a second he panicked as he felt himself spin away, nothing below him but vastness. Only Whitfield's purchase and the tether's pull saved him.

  The line jerked him back toward the hull. He bounced again, sending a lance of pain through his ribs, but this time he managed to grab a handhold on the way out. The force nearly wrenched his arm off, but somehow he held on.

  He lay there for a moment, breathing hard and clinging to the shattered station as if it were salvation.