The Mediator listened to the recording Victoria had made, the notice in trade koine that the ship was salvage but that Medina Alliance would pay well for Jennifer and Terry. The Mediator turned to the Master and spoke. The Master spoke curtly. Both ignored the humans.
The Warrior went away. The Mediator examined Pollyanna without waking her, then took position in front of a monitor recently worked over by an Engineer. Watchmakers scurried about like big, helpful, curious spiders.
Over the next several hours Cerberus changed again. A pity Freddy couldn't see this. The Khanate found his drive, Hecate's drive, pushing too light a load. They added a truss to hold cargo, fiddled with the drive to get yet more thrust, added nets of spheroids, as if Cerberus had sprouted clusters of tremendous grapes. More cargo . . . and weaponry? Jennifer couldn't tell. Terry would have known, but Terry wasn't talking.
Terry dozed most of the time. Something would get his attention: Jennifer caressing his neck or ear, or a Watchmaker running across his back. His eyes would open; maybe he would smile, maybe he would drink some water or broth, speak a few words, and presently go back to sleep. He wasn't keeping good track of events. Jennifer had to keep her own counsel.
Help would come. Jennifer waited.
Inside, the Moties were at work. This time there was no stopping them. Their interest was in the screens, cameras, computers, communications. They didn't touch the air system. Perhaps the Tartar Engineers had sufficiently altered that.
Pollyanna woke. She and the Khanate Mediator chattered as they watched the monitor.
The Master came back with a Doctor and another Engineer. Pollyanna jumped to her at once and began to nurse.
The Khanate's Doctor was distinctly different from Dr. Doolittle, smaller, frail seeming. She did little to disturb Terry, though she examined Jennifer in detail,
Pollyanna, well fed now, returned to Jennifer's shoulder and stayed there while she chatted with the Khanate Mediator. Her toes clutched Jennifer's shoulder now, while her arms waved in flamboyant gestures. The adult's answers were more concise, a flip of the wrist, right elbows rapping each other: how the hell would a human copy that? Jennifer tried to concentrate. An infant Mediator was teaching a mature one to speak Anglic! The recording would be fantastically valuable, but it would miss things, nuances . . . that head-and-shoulder tilt, "not quite" . . .
Terry stirred, and Jennifer looked into his eyes. Was sense returning to him?
And everything went blurry.
Jennifer recovered slowly. It struck her that if she were Terry Kakumi, and uninjured, she could take the ship from these wailing, kicking Moties. But lack of sleep had done Jennifer in, and the Moties were already gathering themselves. She moved hand over hand to the telescope controls.
Cerberus had jumped, of course. The Frankenstein's monster of a spacecraft was nearly the first through to MGC-R-31. Ships were pouring through aft, accelerating, sweeping past Cerberus and leaving it behind, a crippled hybrid. Cerberus limped behind the Warrior fleet at about one Mote gravity. The drive flames of a thousand small ships retreated ahead.
And the Mediator spoke to Jennifer for the first time. "You are Jennifer Banda? Call me Harlequin. I serve the Master Falkenberg." She must have seen Jennifer's reaction—Oh, really?—but she did not try to temper the arrogance of her claim. "We must discuss your future."
"Surely yours, too," Jennifer said.
"Yes. You are ours now. If all goes best, we break free from the Empire to seek our own stars. You and Terry Kakumi with us. When finally we must confront the Empire, you or your children must speak for us."
It was hardly the future Jennifer would have chosen. But the Mediator was speaking: "Barriers wait before us. Where will the next bridging point lead us? What stands to block us?"
"The Empire of Man," Jennifer said. Terry smiled, barely, and she saw bright glints: his eyes were open.
"Detail," the Mediator said. "We find one tremendous ship and several much smaller."
"There'll be more. We got the jump on you. More ships will be coming through from New Cal, any hour. You don't know what you're facing. This is the Empire."
When Jennifer Banda was six years old, the Navy had declassified certain holo recordings. The whole school assembled to watch them.
That was twelve years after the Empire fleet had assembled off New Washington before the final Jump to New Chicago, a world that had seceded from the Empire and renamed itself Freedom. That world had been restored to the Empire, its name restored, too. There had been battles, but what Jennifer remembered was the massed might of the Empire of Man, ships the size of islands passing at meteor speeds and higher.
No Motie Mediator could see all that in her eyes. Still, Harlequin would see nothing to deny what Jennifer believed: that the power that held a thousand worlds in its gripping hand was coming down the Khanate's throat.
Harlequin said, "If we could reach the new bridging point in time—"
"You'd find our battleships just the other side. You felt the Jump shock. And they'll be waiting."
"I will show you what we plan."
Warrior and Engineer and Mediator huddled, and Pollyanna with them. On Cerberus's screens the gory details of an Engineer's autopsy were replaced with . . . something astronomical. The colors were poor, but this was MGC-R-31, there the little red star, there the blue sparks of Warriors retreating well ahead of Cerberus, there a lozenge next to concentric circles: undoubtedly Agamemnon and the Jump to New Cal. And there, popping out of the other target area aft: more ships, bigger.
"The Masters come before it was intended," Harlequin said. "Never mind. What waits beyond"—she indicated the outward target—"this?"
"Classified," Terry said.
"Oh, good! Terry, how are you feeling?"
"I might live. Won't like it at first. Thanks for staying."
"Oh, no! How could I leave you?"
"Don't tell them details. Sleep now," Terry said, and closed his eyes.
Jennifer nodded. She'd expected him to speak earlier.
Harlequin said, "What system lies beyond the bridge? There must be other bridges."
"I'm going to stop talking now," Jennifer said.
"Not a problem." Harlequin pointed at the cluster of large ships aft. "I will tell you. Twenty Master ships have come through. Our Warriors will prepare the way through to the Empire. There must be bridges to other stars. We seek the one that departs the Empire. So do you, Jennifer,
for my life and yours, and to save the lives of any in our path."
"You shouldn't be running from the Crazy Eddie Worm," Jennifer said. "You can surrender. Don't you understand, you don't have to die!"
The Warrior made a sound, and Harlequin turned. On the screen other ships were popping through behind the Khanate Masters.
* * *
Something big was crawling across Renner's chest. A monkey . . . or a big spider, injured, missing limbs. "Ali Baba is sick," it said. "His Excellency is sick. So is, am I. Sick in the head, concussion, scrambled brains and wobbly eyes. Kevin?"
"It'll be all right." Renner hugged the little Mediator. Craning his head around made him dizzy and sicker. "Just wait, it'll get better."
Bury was on his back, toes pointing slightly apart, hands apart and palms upward. Yoga corpse position: he was calming himself the only way he knew how.
The screens were blurred. A voice was shouting from the background, shouting for the Captain. I'm too damned old for this.
Renner popped his restraint belts. "Townsend?" His balance was still screwy. He pulled himself around to where he could see Bury's monitors. The medic array had turned itself off at the Jump. Now it was running a self-test loop. But here came Cynthia, moving quickly on hands and knees. She crouched above Bury and began a medical inspection, pulse, tongue, eyes . . .
"Townsend!"
"Here."
"What's—" Renner couldn't say it properly.
"Atropos on line. We can receive."
But no trans
missions yet. Renner slapped at the keys. The screens were still dark, but a voice was saying, "Sinbad this is Atropos. Sinbad this is Atropos. Over."
Renner stretched experimentally. Integral e to the x dx is e to the x . . . He'd found that the computers recovered
quicker than he did. Should be safe enough to test now. He woke the communications computers. A snarl of static. "Atropos, this is Sinbad."
"Sinbad, stand by."
"Rawlins here."
"Status report?" Kevin croaked.
"Critical. We're under attack by half a dozen ships. One of them's a big mother. Sir."
Green lights showed on one corner of Renner's control board. "Freddy! She's waking up, see if you can see anything."
"Right."
"We're recovering," Renner said. "How bad is it?"
Rawlins: "We're peaking in green. I won't last forever, and I can't shoot back. No chance to send a message to Agamemnon."
Renner shook his head. Critical. Can't shoot back. Why can't he shoot back? Energy. Energy control. More green lights on his console.
Bury's machinery started suddenly: displays hunting, then drips to adjust his chemical balance.
The Mediators were thrashing feebly.
A screen came to light. Then another.
"Rawlins," Renner said. His voice was still thick. "Hang in there. We're going past."
"Here's a battle picture. I'll relay as long as I can."
The enemy fleet was a scattering of black dots across MGC-R-31's orange-white glare, visibly receding with Sinbad's velocity. They'd positioned themselves well, Renner thought. Just sunward of the Sister, to foul an intruder's sensors; near enough to blast them at point-blank.
Atropos was glowing far brighter than the little sun. Nothing smaller than Atropos would have survived this long, without Atropos itself as shield. Too few Medina ships were adrift behind Atropos, firing around the shield, easing back. When Atropos went, they'd go, too.
It was going to be tricky. The Moties aboard were no use at all. Sinbad's computers were Navy quality, three independent systems, each working the same test problems until they all got the same answers—and they weren't getting them.
"Townsend!"
"Sir?"
"Get the Flinger going! Hit that Motie fleet. Especially the big ship."
"Will do. Launcher self-check. In order. Erecting." The Field blinked for a second as the loops of the linear accelerator eased up through the black energy shell. "Launcher outside Field. I'm getting direct camera information. Trajectory analysis—"
Sinbad was flashing past the battle. They had almost no time. "Trajectory computers give divergent answers!" Freddy shouted. "Rape it. Launching. Stand by!"
Sinbad recoiled. Then again. "On the way. Automatic loaders are working," Freddy said.
A muted keening sound had to be coming from Glenda Ruth.
"Stand by," Freddy said. "On the way. Dispersion pattern. Continuous fire, stand by!"
There was a floodlight glare from every screen, then all screens went dark. "They hit us. That's it for the cameras," Freddy said. "Captain, the Flinger's dry. We'd have to bring it in to reload."
"Never mind."
Bury was trying to crawl up Kevin's ankle with just one hand. "Bring it in. Kevin, bring it in!"
"Okay, I'm doing it. Lie still, Horace." Unseen, the loops of the flinger were sinking through the Field into the hull.
"Superconductor," Bury said.
"Ah." Sinbad’s flinger was a linear accelerator made with Motie superconductor. That was why it hadn't melted in the glare of Khanate lasers. If it wasn't withdrawn, it would conduct the energy of the laser attack into Sinbad.
"We're still getting relays from Atropos," Renner said. The relays would be progressively out of date as Sinbad moved away from the battle. "And I've got a camera on-line."
Someone, human or Motie, made a strangling sound. Glenda Ruth wailed again. The black beyond the windows began to glow dull red.
An image formed on Renner's screen, a composite of the relay and direct observation. It showed a cluster of Motie ships receding as Sinbad moved past the battle. Beams reached from three smaller Motie ships toward Sinbad. Six others held Atropos pinned like a bug. One of the Motie ships attacking the Imperial cruiser was nearly as large as Atropos.
"Blue field," Renner muttered. Give him another five minutes. Then he's gone and so are we.
"Five. Four," Freddy counted. "Three. Two. One. Zero. Maybe the timer's off. Or the trig—"
Something flashed intolerably bright beyond the larger Motie ship. The larger Motie ship went from green to bright blue, expanding. Another flash. Another. The blue shaded toward violet.
"Jesus, Horace," Renner muttered. "Fifty megatons? More? How long have we had those aboard?"
"You would not . . ." Bury's voice was weak but held a note of ironic triumph. "You would not have approved. At what those cost I nearly did not approve myself."
"It's working!" Joyce shouted. "They're not attacking Atropos anymore. They're—"
She fell silent. Two of the Motie ships flashed violet and beyond and were gone. The largest ship was now glowing blue-white, and Atropos was firing at it. "He can't last," Joyce said.
The big Motie ship flashed and vanished. Now a score of bright dots clustered around the fading glow that was Atropos and accelerated toward the remaining Tartar ships.
"Sinbad, this is Atropos."
"Go ahead, Commander."
"Well done, sir. We've won this battle," Rawlins said. "The Moties can clean up the rest of their blockade fleet. Sir, there was no opportunity to contact Agamemnon. I suggest you do that."
"Right. Carry on, Rawlins. Townsend!"
"Here."
"Find Agamemnon. Send that message."
"On it."
* * *
"You fight like vermin," Harlequin said with contempt. Jennifer flinched at the insult, then wondered at its meaning. But the Mediator had kicked himself aft without giving her a chance to reply. Now the Moties huddled, chattering, and Jennifer turned back to the display.
There had been a battle. Ships had died. It looked as if the intruders had won.
Harlequin was back, with the Warrior hovering behind her. "I apologize," the Motie said. "I understand now. You throw away resources like vermin, but it is not that you are animals. You have endless resources."
"If you win everything you want, your descendants will think the same way," Jennifer said.
"Yes. Our battle plan has changed, Jennifer. We no longer believe we can pass to New Cal."
"Surrender," Jennifer said. "Accept the Crazy Eddie Worm. No Motie need die because there are too many."
A wave dismissed the notion. "We have considered this. There are domains to be fought for, and we may yet win."
And Mediators speak for the Masters. "You can't win. The Empire has—you've seen the resources we have. This hasty little expedition. A civilian ship was enough to harm your war fleet and alter your plans, and you haven't seen what the Empire can do! Harlequin, talk to your Masters!"
"I have done so. You have none of your altered parasite. There is no time to test it, and your altered parasite might well be fiction." Harlequin might not even have seen her reaction. "In any case, our options are not ended. Your representatives have made agreements with our rivals. Medina Consortium, Pollyanna calls them. Very well, we need only conquer Medina and take their place. Then we will have a gripping hand on the vast resources offered by your Empire."
This at first seemed ludicrous to Jennifer. "All Moties look alike?"
"We must assume that you passed messages describing your situation, describing promises made to Medina Consortium, describing battle plans. But if we silence every human voice, and if we make our rivals extinct, who will tell your Masters which of us was Medina Consortium?"
Jennifer sensed that her answer would be taken very seriously; so, very seriously, she thought it through.
"What if you fail? One voice could
destroy you all."
"Humans are conspicuous. They require their special life support systems. We will find you."
"What are you going to do?"
"It is done. Our Warriors will follow your human-built ships and destroy them. Others may remain on Medina's major carrier, but my Warrior adviser calls it a mere hydrogen snowball, conspicuous and slow, easy to capture."
She's crazy! But all Moties look different. It's no better than looking all alike. It could work, Jennifer thought. And Harlequin knows I believe it might work. Damn. "What of us?"
"We may have need of you."
"Of course." If the Khanate failed, she or Terry would convey surrender terms to the Empire. So, they would be the last to die. I have to think. There must be some way to convince them that this is madness. "Crazy Eddie."
Harlequin had not mastered the art of appearing to shrug, but her inflection conveyed the same sentiment. "As you say. These are Crazy Eddie times. But time is short, and if we seek this option, we must seek it now. We will speak later."
* * *
Freddy Townsend said, "Sir, I have some other ships in view. Interested?"
"No. Find Agamemnon."
"Waiting."
"Making coffee," Joyce said. "Strong, with hot milk?"
Freddy said, "If Agamemnon has shields up, I won't find it, period. What if we just beam your message at the Jump point?"
"Good, Freddy. Do that. Then keep trying."
"Aye, aye."
Lights dimmed. All of Sinbad's power was going into that one blip.
"Oh, Lord," Freddy said.
"Talk to me, Townsend."
"More ships under acceleration. Fusion drives, high acceleration. I count sixteen no more than five million klicks away, all with a redshift and no drift, and I don't know where they're aimed but it isn't at the Jump to New Cal."
Renner brought the images in closer.
The Gripping Hand Page 38
