The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The Fleurdilis was edging toward the alien’s geocentric orbit station, right above the largest broadcast power source on the planet. Gerswin would have bet that the station was close to directly above the planetary capitol or what passed for it.

  The ship shivered slightly as the antique antigravs failed to compensate evenly for the deceleration. Gerswin frowned as be scanned the screens, but he did not move to take over from Senior Lieutenant Harsna as the lieutenant continued the approach to the orbit station.

  A tight smile played around the captain’s face.

  He knew all too well the gambit the Fleurdilis represented. An obsolete ship, crewed by a group of misfits, would be no loss to the Empire. Since the Dismorph Conflict, and the years that had passed since without event, more and more systems had come to question the value of the Empire and the resource taxes necessary to support it. Another alien adventure would be just the thing to drum up enthusiasm.

  The Imperial strategists couldn’t lose. If the Fleurdilis succeeded, then the newshawks would be told how a single obsolete ship, which was all that could be spared, overcame incredible odds continually one step from disaster. And if the Fleurdilis failed . . . what could one expect without greater support from the allied systems?

  Besides, if the failure led to another war, then the Empire could use the war as an excuse to rebuild and strengthen its holds on territory and resources and to discredit the peacemonger critics.

  Gerswin glanced across the command bridge at Major Strackna, who scanned the power screens, all of them, not just the summaries represented on his console. Her jaw was tightly clinched, he could see.

  He doubted she would ever understand just how expendable the Empire thought she was.

  “Stationary in orbit, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Harsna.”

  “The four alien ships are spreading.”

  “Stet.” Gerswin could see that himself. He stabbed a glowing stud. “Captain here. Any guesses on the magnitude of their screens?”

  “Nothing definite, but from the background radiation, which seems to be residual secondary associated with fusactors, I’d have to say that their screens are not designed to block energy weapons or even high speed torps.”

  Gerswin pursed his lips. If so . . . the aliens had one or two obvious options.

  If they were xenophobic, they would have already tried to destroy the Fleurdilis before it settled in orbit. That they hadn’t meant that either they didn’t think they could or didn’t want to.

  If they couldn’t—

  “Multiple launchings.”

  “Permission to destroy attackers, Captain!” demanded Strackna.

  “Permission denied,” snapped Gerswin, touching another stud.

  “Estimated ETA at Fleurdilis?”

  “Twelve plus, Captain.”

  “Strackna, draw our screens back to hull plus one.”

  “Retreat screens, Captain? Hull plus one?”

  “Screens at hull plus one. Screens at hull plus one.”

  “But—“

  “That’s a boarding party, Major. They’re not about to fry their own, which means they either don’t have penetrating lasers or particle beams or tacheads, or that they don’t want to use them. Blast their boarding party and Istvenn knows what they’ll do.”

  “Batteries on full. Stand by to fire!” ordered Strackna.

  Gerswin could see Lieutenant Harsna’s mouth drop open, and the look of disbelief in Relyea’s face.

  Gerswin stabbed his own overrides.

  “This is the captain. Negative the last. All batteries stand down. All batteries stand down.”

  No sooner had he finished the statement than he dove off the command couch like a hawk toward the Exec’s station.

  “Stand by! Stand by—!”

  Thud!

  Gerswin’s shoulder knocked the Executive Officer away from her console. His hands flashed twice.

  Then he stood up abruptly and touched the vacated console.

  “All batteries stand down. I say again. All batteries stand down.”

  “Standing down. Standing down.”

  “Lieutenant Harsna!”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “As of this instant, you are acting Exec. Have Major Strackna confined to quarters and a guard posted. She is relieved until further notice.”

  Gerswin ignored the collective sigh that crossed the bridge and checked the figure lying on the deck. Strackna, unconscious, was breathing evenly, and had no obvious injuries.

  “Estimate plus eight for arrival of alien boarding party.”

  “Get my suit ready, Riid. My suit and a scooter.”

  “Captain . . . do you think that is wise?” That was Relyea, the senior tech.

  “If I’m wrong, and if the aliens blast me, or if I don’t return within a standard week, then you can release Major Strackna with my posthumous apologies. Until then, Lieutenant Harsna will be acting Captain.”

  “You’re not leaving the ship?”

  “You must have a reason, Captain,” said Harsna slowly.

  “I do, Harsna. I do. Too many people lost their lives unnecessarily in the last great Imperial adventure. Some were close to me. These aliens aren’t a threat now, and they may never be one.

  “If I’m right. . . well . . . you’ll see. Guns! Have a spare tachead?”

  “Not spare, Captain. But we have one.”

  “What’s the closest point at which a detonation is safe for those aliens? Assume our metabolism and no suit shields.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend any closer than a thousand kays, and that’s probably too close.”

  “All right, set one for two to two point five straight out. Ninety from the orbit station. Launch when ready.”

  “Plus one from launch, Captain.”

  “Five plus for alien arrival.”

  Gerswin nodded.

  “Suit ready, Riid?”

  “Ready, Captain.”

  “As soon as we get a burst on the tachead, I’ll be down. Have the scooter ready.”

  “Yes, set.”

  “You think the tachead will awe them?” asked Harsna.

  “No, but their techs will note torp speed and burst size. Shortly it might dawn on them that we possess the power to pulverize their system. That won’t awe them at all, I suspect, but it should make them cautious.”

  “Tachead away! Tachead away!”

  For the miniature jumpshift of the torp, two thousand kays amounted to an instantaneous burst.

  For an instant, a second sun flared far behind the Fleurdilis.

  Gerswin did not wait for the light to fade, but headed for the main lock, and the suit that waited for him.

  “Plus three to alien arrival.”

  Now all he had to do was survive and return before an entire week passed.

  “Confident, aren’t you?” he muttered as he swung into the armorer’s bay.

  “Suit’s here, Captain,” Riid said quietly.

  Gerswin repressed a smile.

  Riid had ignored the letter of his order, instead had readied one of the five Imperial Marine Marauder suits, obviously previously tailored for Gerswin without his knowledge.

  “Feedback circuits might be rough, Captain, but you’re not going without the best I can do.”

  “Appreciate it, Riid. Appreciate it.”

  He reached across to the console. “Bridge, Captain here. Harsna, bulge the screens a little, and push them back gently for a couple of minutes. Soon as I’m clear of the lock, drop the screens and reform them right on the hull itself. Understand?”

  “Stet. You need the time, and we’ll reform behind you. Major Strackna’s under restraint. No problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gerswin devoted his energies to getting installed inside the armor.

  It could be a damned-fool idea, but he owed something to Martin, and to Faith, and to the poor, unsuspecting aliens. And this was the best he could come up with on short notice, the best possible
with an obsolete cruiser that the Empire would have preferred as a martyr to Imperial expansion.

  Not that any devilkid, even one who now wore the insignia of an Imperial Senior Commander, intended to submit to martyrdom, inadvertent or otherwise.

  He grinned behind the suit’s face screen. All the years of practice in esoteric and often theoretically obsolete weapons just might prove useful in the official line of duty. Official line of duty—wonderful phrase.

  Absently he wondered if Martin had felt the same inane relief at the thought of action and the ability to use long sharpened skills. Had his son felt the same way on that day so many years earlier? He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Martin certainly hadn’t wanted to be hero or martyr, any more than his father now did.

  “Are you subconsciously out to avoid the duty Caroljoy laid on you?” The words were low, addressed only to himself.

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  “Muttering to myself, Riid.”

  He wanted to wipe his damp forehead with the back of his hand. He settled for rubbing it against the suit’s sweat pad.

  Besides, Caroljoy hadn’t forced him to do anything. Just made it possible to follow his own expressed dream.

  Dream?

  He pushed away the question, refocused his eyes on the suit’s internal indicators, and steeled his thoughts on the encounter ahead.

  VII

  THE WAILING FROM the four piece group reminded Gerswin of a landspout when it struck a fast flowing river—screeches, gurgles, and dull thuds. Despite the strange assortment of sounds, behind the surface chaos was a clearly identifiable theme—harmony.

  Only the silence of those listening around the arena kept Gerswin from snorting aloud, but he maintained his attentive and superficially reverent position while studying the guards around him, and beyond them the red stone arena. He had mentally dubbed the aliens Ursans, for want of a better term, and because they resembled bears more than any other of the animals he had run across.

  One of the Ursan officers, or clan leaders, or whatever their class of leaders were called, stepped a pace closer, but did not look directly at the I.S.S. officer.

  While Gerswin didn’t understand the language, he had a fair idea why he had been escorted to the arena near what he thought was the capitol. He hoped he was right.

  Although he had misgivings about leaving the Fleurdilis in Lieutenant Harsna’s hands, with Major Strackna unstable and under restraint, there hadn’t been any real alternative. Strackna was not only Imperialistic, but xenophobic to boot. While she was a competent Service officer in peacetime or in all out war, she was precisely the wrong person for any sort of alien contact. Strackna would have no compunctions about unleashing all of the Fleurdilis’ tacheads at the Ursan capitol, without even understanding the implications.

  Gerswin repressed a sigh as the strange musical wheezings continued. While the Empire might benefit from another repeat of the Dismorph Conflict, that was the last thing he needed, the last thing needed by the majority of the people of the Empire, and certainly the last thing Deeded by the Ursans, whether they understood or not.

  Gerswin brought his mind and thoughts back to the present and the red stone arena. To forestall Strackna and the rest of the hawks, he would need every bit of skill he had developed over the last half century. He wondered if it had really been that long.

  The captain of the obsolete cruiser that orbited directly overhead, albeit nearly thirty five thousand kays above his head, hoped he had guessed correctly about the aliens, and about their culture.

  He shrugged to himself. If not, it was already too late, but the signs were there that be had not.

  He took a deep breath and almost choked. The Ursans smelled like a cross between wet coydog and rancid fish.

  They resembled the pictures of bears he had seen in the archives, but their pelts were red—eye searing red. Their heads rose directly from broad shoulders, with no necks as such. Their respective heights varied only slightly, but most stood ten to fifteen centimeters shorter than Gerswin. Their squarish bodies massed more; how much would have been a guess.

  Like bears, they had claws, but thinner claws and fully retractable. Their fingers were more like claw sheaths, and the lack of flexibility was offset by two opposing thumbs on each hand, which did not contain claws.

  He studied the Ursan closest to him, watching the slight chest movements in an effort to analyze the breathing patterns. From what he could tell, both chest and back expanded. He speculated on whether the lungs were based more on a bellows concept and jointed cartilage separating two stiff rib plates.

  The anthem, if that was what it had been, screeched to a close, and the honor guard shambled forward, their motion designed either to force Gerswin to come along, or to start a fight under the arched gate to the arena.

  From the opposite gate he could see another guard group, although the individual being escorted was an Ursan of some rank.

  That, again, was a guess, but the guards around Gerswin wore only plain purple leather harnesses, on which hung servicable long knives and short swords. The dignitary around whom the other guards clustered wore a silvered harness with clearly more refined weapons.

  Gerswin carried no weapons, none except for the throwing knives concealed in his waistband.

  Despite the lack of technology in their personal weaponry, the Ursans were not primitives. The four spacecraft that had met the Fleurdilis had been nuclear powered and carried defensive energy screens against meteors. They had to have chosen the boarding party technique for cultural reasons, not for lack of more sophisticated weapons.

  Gerswin almost shook his head in retrospect. With a handful of devilkids, he could have disarmed the Ursan boarding parties on the spot.

  With Lerwin and Lostwin and Kiedra, or Glynnis . . . but the devilkids were on Old Earth, busy trying to reclaim their poor poisoned planet, busy buying time for Gerswin, busy and secure in their belief that their efforts mattered.

  They did, but not in the way the left-behind devilkids thought.

  Still, a handful of trained devilkids could have prevented the situation in which he found himself. When the Ursans had launched four shuttles filled with warriors, Gerswin had faced the choice of incinerating the shuttles and possibly starting another system war, which meant the destruction or immediate subjection of the Ursans, or ignoring the shuttles, leaving the Fleurdilis safe behind unbreachable screens. The passive use of screens could only have encouraged the Ursans in the belief that the Imperials were personal cowards, and such a belief would lead to contempt . . . and to eventual rebellion and war.

  That had left Gerswin with the need to outface the Ursans personally, meeting them alone outside the Fleurdilis, in the hope of instilling respect for the Empire without the cost of destroying the Ursan culture and society. Not that some Imperials wouldn’t have relished that destruction.

  Strackna had tried to blast them out of existence—until Gerswin had her locked up. And Harsna thought he was crazy. Maybe he was.

  So . . . here he was, standing in the middle of an arena, basing his future on the possibility that he was facing a warlord-personal-honor-type mentality.

  The guards backed away abruptly and left Gerswin in the center of a hollow square of Ursans. The silver-harnessed Ursan stood on the other side.

  Gerswin saw the scars, the slight discoloration of the bright red pelt hairs, and spit on the hard-packed clay in the direction of the other.

  A hiss ran around the arena. Gerswin couldn’t tell what it meant for certain, but it was the first reaction of any sort, and he couldn’t tell what the following grunts and clicks signified.

  Two of the guards lifted their knives. Gerswin stepped toward the guards and motioned them back. They looked at each other and halted.

  “Look. I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight. I said I wouldn’t fight him or her, or whatever. No status.”

  He elaborately raised his hands and frowned, dropped his arms to his s
ides, half turning from the Ursan champion.

  A series of sounds, more screeches and gurgles, issued from the four Ursan instrumentalists, and the square of guards opened. From the far side of the arena a series of steps was extended, and another Ursan appeared sedately strolling down to the hard packed clay.

  Gerswin turned back to study his potential adversary. The second Ursan was not scarred, not obviously, though the reddish pelt could conceal most anything, and it moved with greater assurance than the first.

  Gerswin repeated his charade.

  This time the entire squad of guards reached for their knives.

  “Only once?”

  Gerswin motioned them back and turned to face full on the recent arrival, noting that the first “dignitary” had retired to the side of the arena.

  His current opponent motioned to a guard, who stepped forward carrying a short sword or long knife, and a longer sword, apparently a match to what the Ursan wore strapped to his or her harness.

  The commander took the knife first, testing its balance and construction. It was designed as a thrusting instrument.

  The sword was more of a heavy cutting blade. Both fit with what Gerswin suspected about the Ursan physiology. He hoped he could give the aliens a lesson in psychology as well.

  Smiling wryly, he took the heavy blade, after thrusting the knife into his waistband.

  Talk about ethnocentrism! The Ursans obviously believed that any culture would follow patterns similar to their own. Most I.S.S. Commanders would have blasted all four boarding parties and proceeded from there.

  Gerswin was gambling, gambling that his reflexes and abilities would enable him to come out on top, gambling that his observations were accurate enough for him to do what he wanted.

  Each of the score of Ursan guards stepped back several more paces and the square expanded again.

  The Ursan champion faced the I.S.S. Commander and touched his sword to the clay before him.

  Gerswin raised his sword, then touched it to the arena clay, whipping it up and dancing aside just in time to avoid the pounding rush of the Ursan.

  No polite fencing here! Gerswin avoided three back to back cuts from the other’s heavy blade with footwork, using his own more as a shield than as a weapon.