Eric Flint's Blog, page 256

A Call To Arms – Snippet 25

A Call To Arms – Snippet 25

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They weren’t the words Captain Fairburn wanted to hear, Osterman knew. For that matter, they weren’t the words she wanted to say.

But she had no choice but to say them.

“No, Sir,” she said, feeling the pain in her throat. “In all good conscience, I can’t place the blame on Ensign Locatelli.”

“You can’t?” Fairburn demanded. “Excuse me, Senior Chief, but didn’t you just testify that he ordered his crew to find replacement parts for his tracking systems in any way they could?”

“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said. “But unless Ensign Locatelli specifically said to take the components from other systems — and I have no evidence that he used any such language — then he’s personally not liable for the, uh, overenthusiasm of his crew.”

“Isn’t he responsible for knowing what his crew is doing?” Commander Todd put in.

“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said. “But only within reason. In this case, with Salamander having gone to Readiness Two, the bulk of everyone’s attention was on bringing systems to full operational status, not on wondering where replacement parts had come from.”

“Then at the very least a charge of negligence should be put on his record,” Fairburn pressed.

Osterman felt a stirring of annoyance. That wasn’t in any way what she’d just said. Was he even listening to her?

Probably not. Fairburn had spent an expensive missile for nothing, and he was clearly desperate to share the blame for that fiasco with someone. And if that someone was well-connected, so much the better.

Osterman could sympathize. She could also agree that Locatelli was a pain in the butt.

But there were lines she wasn’t ready to cross. This was one of them.

“Ensign Locatelli was occupied with the preparation of his equipment for combat, Sir,” she said. “As, I daresay, was everyone aboard Salamander.” She hesitated; but this, too, had to be said. “Furthermore, the action of Spacer Carpenter in swapping out the hex is not what caused the telemetry system to fail. That was the fault of whoever subsequently swapped out the telemetry hex for the unreliable one Spacer Carpenter had put into the temperature sensor.”

Fairburn frowned. “There was another component switch made?”

As if such switches weren’t the norm aboard his ship. “Yes, Sir, as near as I can tell,” Osterman said. “I did a check on the serial numbers, and while some of that data is…foggy…it supports my conclusion.”

“Then it was whoever did that swap who’s responsible,” Fairburn said.

“Except that he or she would have no way of knowing the hex in the temp sensor was used,” Todd murmured reluctantly. “As far as they would have known, it was the original temperature sensor component.”

Fairburn opened his mouth, probably preparing to point out that the spacer should have done a complete system check once the new hex was in place.

Closed it again, the words remaining unspoken. Of course there hadn’t been time for anything but the most cursory check before Salamander went to Readiness One and launched the missile.

There was plenty of liability here, Osterman knew. More than enough to go around. But it was so evenly shared among so many people that there was no way Fairburn would ever be able to gather enough to tar any one person.

She could understand his desire to find a scapegoat. But it wasn’t going to happen.

More than that, Fairburn was Salamander’s captain. That was the bottom line. He was her captain, and the ultimate responsibility for what happened aboard her rested with him.

Fairburn took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. And with that, Osterman knew, the witch-hunt was over. “Commander, close the record.”

Todd keyed off the recorder, a frown creasing his forehead. Apparently, this wasn’t part of the usual interrogation procedure. “Record closed, Captain.”

Fairburn’s eyes locked onto Osterman’s. “This stays between the three of us, Senior Chief,” he said. “I will be ending this investigation, and will reluctantly be leaving the records of those involved intact. But I’m not putting up with him and his posturing anymore. I’ve done my time, and I want him off my ship.”

Osterman glanced at Todd, saw her surprise mirrored there. Clearly, this was news to him, too. “Ensign Locatelli, Sir?” she asked.

“Who else?” Fairburn countered. “I’ve spoken with Admiral Locatelli, and Captain Castillo’s agreed to take him. He can be Phoenix’s problem for a while.”

“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said, breathing a little easier.

“There’s just one catch,” Fairburn continued sourly. “Admiral Locatelli insists that if his nephew goes, you go with him.”

Osterman stared at him. “Excuse me, Sir?” she asked carefully.

“You and Ensign Locatelli are being transferred to Phoenix, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said. “Effective immediately upon our return to Manticore.”

“For how long, Sir?” Osterman asked. “I mean –”

“I know what you mean, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said. “And the answer is, God only knows. Until Ensign Locatelli is transferred again, I suppose. Or until he grows up. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I see, Sir,” Osterman said, her voice going automatically into Petty Officer Neutral mode. Until Locatelli the Younger grew up.

Right.

“That’s all, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said. “Dismissed.” He hesitated as Osterman stood up. “And,” he added, “may God have mercy on your soul.”

Osterman suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Sir,” she said. “Thank you, Sir.”

* * *

Carefully, Breakwater set his tablet on the table. “Extraordinary,” he said. “I trust I don’t have to tell anyone at this table how much that missile cost the Star Kingdom?”

It was, Winterfall decided, about as rhetorical a question as it was possible to ask. Across from him and Breakwater were Prime Minister Burgundy, Defense Minister Dapplelake, and Admiral Locatelli. At the head of the table was King Edward, himself a former captain in the Royal Manticoran Navy. All four of them would know precisely how much a missile cost.

Not just in Manticoran dollars, but also in Solarian credits, Havenite francs, and number of years’ worth of a captain’s salary. They knew how much the missile had cost, all right.

“We’re quite familiar with the numbers, My Lord,” Dapplelake said evenly. “If you don’t mind, let’s move on to the extra pound of flesh you’re hoping to extract.”

“Please, My Lord,” Breakwater said, in that reproachful tone that managed to be injured and condescending at the same time. “This isn’t about penalties or punishment. On the contrary: given Captain Fairburn’s incident report, I’m ready to concede that you’ve been right about pirate activity in the region.”

“Really,” Locatelli said. “I haven’t heard any mention of that in your speeches.”

“Nor has there been any such in Parliamentary or committee meetings,” Burgundy murmured.

“There’s a time for public pronouncements, My Lords, and a time for private discussion,” Breakwater replied smoothly. “This is one of the latter.” He turned to King Edward. “Your Majesty, I submit that Captain Fairburn’s encounter proves beyond a doubt that there are indeed outside dangers that need to be addressed. Accordingly, I would like to again submit my request that the five remaining corvettes be transferred to MPARS.”

“And?” the King prompted.

“And that they retain their full armament,” Breakwater said. “Future pirate activity can only be dealt with if there is a strong, armed presence throughout the Star Kingdom.”

“Welcome to our side of the argument, My Lord,” Dapplelake said dryly. “Unfortunately, you seem to have forgotten that the problem of crewing those armed ships still remains.”

“A problem which would have been eliminated long ago if more slots had been opened up for MPARS personnel at the Academy and Casey-Rosewood,” Breakwater countered.

“You have as many slots as we can afford to give you, My Lord,” Dapplelake said. “But there may be another way.”

Breakwater tilted his head to the side. “I’m listening.”

“MPARS already has Aries and Taurus,” Dapplelake said. “Since Baron Winterfall’s rescue modules haven’t proved all that useful — ” he inclined his head at Winterfall, as if apologizing for that assessment ” — I suggest we go ahead and reinstall the box launchers. The Navy will supply you with petty officers and gunnery crews to handle them, and we’ll try to squeeze a few more slots in those rating tracks for your people.”

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 23

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 23

Someone stopped directly in front of his alcove so he could no longer see the proceedings through the gap in the tapestries. He stood up to try and see past them, but his view was being blocked by two people. He didn’t dare move the fabric or risk moving enough to slosh any water from his bucket.

“Who is it this time?” one of them asked.

“A pair of havildars from the coast,” a woman answered.

The young man chuckled. “Has our house grown that desperate?”

“What do you know of desperate? Sixty of our best soldiers have tried and failed. Ten of our own caste have been carried from this hall cut or missing limbs.” The woman sounded very angry, so the boy squished as far back into the corner as possible. Though he understood everything she said, her words were different than casteless speech, clear and not nearly so rough. These two were of the first caste. The angry woman continued. “We’ve been without our ancestor blade for nearly a month. The other houses are circling like vultures, and there are open discussions in the Capitol about our shame. If the sword does not choose soon, it will be seen as a sign of weakness.”

“My apologies, mother…But a mere havildar? That’s a nothing rank. Normally it would choose our greatest. For it to pick someone so low would be unseemly.”

“They are both young, but accomplished enough. Regardless, we are far beyond courtly matters now. The warrior caste is troubled. There are whispers that perhaps Angruvadal will not deem anyone worthy to wield it. If no one is chosen, then its magic will die. Other house’s ancestor blades have died before, usually from treachery or dishonor, but whatever the reason, those great houses have perished soon after their swords. Perhaps you should try to take Angruvadal up yourself, firstborn.”

“I’m not the soldier father was.”

“Of course you’re not, Harta. And we’d hate for it to mark up that pretty face of yours. Now be silent. The warriors are here.”

He couldn’t see, but he could still hear. He’d already watched the sword maim dozens of others, and he figured that this wouldn’t be any different. The men in the robes announced the warriors by name, and their father’s name, and their father’s father. The boy still found that most curious. Casteless were not allowed to have a family name. Next the announcer listed their offices and exploits. That part normally took far longer than the test itself, only these introductions were shorter than normal. It sounded as if these warriors hadn’t dueled much or attended very many battles. Now the boy really wanted to see if the sword would treat them any differently from the proud ones it had already flayed.

“My lady, you do us all a great honor by attending this event. I will take up Angruvadal and serve with distinction, as your husband did before.”

“Proceed, Havildar,” the angry woman in front of the tapestries commanded.

A hushed silence fell over the main chamber. There were footsteps as the first man approached the sword. He must have been very brave, because there was no hesitation, just the scraping of metal on stone as the sword was lifted. The boy could feel the tension. All of the observers were holding their breath. Could this be the one?

Then the screaming began.

Nope.

The screaming abruptly stopped. The sword must have really disapproved of this warrior, because it had not taken long to make its decision. From the noise and the gasps of the crowd, it had been a particularly violent death. The woman of the first caste swore beneath her breath, but the boy was close enough that he was surprised to learn that even the highest of the high used the same profanity as the lowest of the low.

“Next,” she snapped.

This warrior sounded much younger and not nearly so cocky. “I will do my best, my lady.”

Luckily the man in front of the alcove had stepped to the side so the boy could peek out again. The first warrior had stabbed himself through the chest and it looked like he’d done a messy job yanking it back out through his guts. This one was going to be at least a five-bucket job. Sadly, he was bleeding out right on top of the palest stone in the entire floor. The boy would be scrubbing until his hands were raw tonight.

The second warrior was standing by the sword, looking flushed and timid. As usual the dying man had flung the sword clear across the main chamber. Maybe that was why the witnesses tried to stand so far away, so as to not be sliced by accident as a disemboweled warrior flailed about. Despite just ripping a man in half, the gleaming black sword was clean. Wearing an expression like he was about to pet a cobra, he knelt down and extended one hand, but hesitated.

“Do it,” the lady of the house ordered.

He did. The warrior slowly lifted the sword from the floor. He grimaced when the handle bit into his hand. The boy didn’t know why the sword did that, maybe it wanted to taste them first? He stood up straight, held the sword pointed at nothing, and waited for its decision. This one had an honest face, so the boy hoped that the sword wouldn’t be too hard on him.

Several seconds passed. The crowd was growing hopeful. They began to whisper excitedly, but the boy could already tell this wasn’t right. The man was concentrating so hard that he was red faced and sweating. Veins were standing out in his forehead and neck. This warrior was the strongest one yet, and he was most certainly a good man, but he wasn’t the right man.

Then it was as if the warrior’s limbs moved on their own. The muscles in his arm twitched and contracted. The dark blade flashed and he gasped as it parted his flesh. The sword clattered back to the stone at his feet. He stepped back, one hand pressed to the long weeping cut on his other arm.

It wasn’t even deep enough to sever any tendons. It had only cut him enough to teach him a lesson. The sword must have really liked this particular warrior.

“Forgive me,” the young man said through gritted teeth. “I was found wanting.”

“What did you see?” the woman demanded.

“So much…” It was as if he didn’t know how to put it into words. “It was as if the eyes of every warrior who has carried this blade before were upon me. There’s a thousand years of courage stored within, waiting for…something.” The warrior stumbled, then fell over on his backside. The men in uniform went to him to staunch the bleeding. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m becoming a bit faint.”

“Get out,” she snapped. “All of you, be gone from my house. Come back when you have someone worth a damn.”

The boy was glad the sword hadn’t chosen yet, because when it finally did he’d have to give up his comfy job of blood scrubber.

* * *

It would be dawn soon. He’d spent the entire night cleaning the pale stones. He’d scrubbed until his fingers had grown soft and his calluses had begun peeling off. He had to be careful not to add his own blood to the mess, so he’d torn scraps from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped his fingers so he could continue.

Up and down the stairs, he’d carried that bucket so many times. Down red, up clean, over and over, until he was satisfied that the main chamber was perfect. The house slaves told him that this big room was normally only used for parties, where members of the first caste and the highest-ranking warriors and richest workers would gather to dance and eat more meat than the entire casteless quarter would consume in a season. He suspected they were teasing him.

The boy had not seen the other casteless since they’d taken the warrior’s body to the furnace. There were guards patrolling inside the great house, but they didn’t pay any attention to him. He’d be inspected by the overseer when he was dismissed to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything. It was just the boy and the sword in the main chamber, so there was no one to punish him for speaking. He had been alone with the sword so many times over the last few weeks that it had become his only friend.

“Why did you spare the last warrior?” the boy asked the sword as he inspected the seams for any errant spatter. Of course, the sword did not answer. The only time it made any sound was when it was whistling through the air or hacking through bone. “Why do you only hurt some but kill others? I think it is because you like them better. The whole men think they know you, but I don’t think they do.”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 24

A Call To Arms – Snippet 24

If Grimm had killed Shresthra and the rest of the crew, Izbica’s destruction could be viewed as a form of summary and unprocessed justice on a group of murderers. If the pirates had merely confined the crew, Fairburn would be guilty of murder himself.

“Telemetry’s back up,” Ravel snapped abruptly. “Retaking control.”

Fairburn glanced at the timer. Two minutes four seconds had passed since the missile took off. Fifty-six seconds to go before its wedge burned out.

“Can you get it back on track?” he asked.

“Working on it, Sir,” Ravel said. Fairburn counted off ten more seconds — “No, Sir,” Ravel said. “It’s too far along on its kill course. I might be able to get it to detonate between Izbica’s stress bands, but the timing would be tricky.”

Fairburn looked at the tactical display. His eyes followed the missile’s track as it converged on Izbica’s…

“Shall I send the self-destruct code?” Ravel prompted.

“No,” he told her. “Run it into Izbica’s wedge. Try to get it to detonate just before it hits. But if you can’t, just let it hit her wedge.”

“If we detonate between bands, we can still pretend it was a deliberate warning shot,” Todd pointed out.

“Too close, XO,” Fairburn said. “Even if Commander Ravel can pull off the timing, we stand a good chance of killing everyone aboard.”

Todd cleared his throat.

“Understood, Sir,” the XO said, lowering his voice. “May I point out that the whole point of the warning shot was to demonstrate that we had the skill to put a missile exactly where we wanted it? Running it into their wedge hardly sends that message.”

“Sir, Izbica has gone to full-bore acceleration,” CIC reported. “Pushing their compensator to the limit.”

“She’s pulling away,” Todd confirmed. “Shall we increase our own acceleration to compensate?”

“Negative,” Fairburn growled. In theory, Salamander had more than enough gravs waiting in reserve. In practice, the iffy state of her compensator made any such increase far too dangerous to attempt.

Fairburn had already taken one gamble. His ship had failed him. He wasn’t about to tempt fate with another roll of such badly loaded dice. “We could try another warning shot,” Ravel offered quietly. “We might still have time.”

“With our telemetry probably being held together with packing tape?” Fairburn shook his head. “No. At best, we’re one for two — hardly the convincing argument we’d hoped to deliver. At worst, we kill them all.”

“They are pirates, Sir,” Todd reminded him.

“I know,” Fairburn said. “But bodies alone prove nothing. If we can’t take them alive, there’s no point in taking them dead.”

There was a slight pause. “Yes, Sir,” Todd said.

“Everyone stand ready to follow when Izbica jumps into hyperspace,” he ordered, raising his voice again so that the entire bridge could hear. “We may yet be able to run them down.”

There was the usual murmur of acknowledgments.

But Fairburn hardly heard them. It was still history in the making, certainly. But not the glorious historical victory he’d envisioned.

It might even be the beginning of the end of the Royal Manticoran Navy. Breakwater would certainly be all over this once he heard about it. It was conceivable that a fiasco of this magnitude would be the straw that would persuade Parliament to let the Chancellor take the Navy apart and fold it into MPARS.

Even if that didn’t happen, it was certainly the end of the career of one Captain John Ross, Baron Fairburn.

* * *

“Crap, crap, crap,” Merripen’s muttered voice came from the intercom. “They hit us, Grimm. The damn Manticorans fired a missile and hit us.”

“Yes, I know,” Grimm said with all the patience he could manage. He’d seen the result of that impact on the repeater displays down here.

That result being exactly nothing. The Izbica’s wedge had made short work of the weapon, exactly the way stress bands were supposed to. There’d been a bit of a power flutter, but that was all.

“So are we dead?” he asked Merripen.

“What?” Merripen asked. “No, of course we’re not dead.”

“Then shut up about it,” Grimm said. “We still pulling ahead of them?”

“Yeah. For the moment.”

“That’s all we need,” Grimm said. “Relax — we’re almost ready. Did you call up the Number One course package like I told you?”

“Yeah, it’s plugged in,” Merripen growled. “You do realize they’re outside the hyper limit, right? And that there’s no way in hell we can outrun them in this thing?”

“Trust me,” Grimm said with a tight smile. He made the last connection — “Ready,” he said, plugging the board into the interface and keying for a self-test. “Don’t touch anything — I’ll be right up.”

The self-test had finished by the time Grimm reached the bridge, with everything showing a satisfactory green. “I hope you’ve got a really good hole card on this one,” Merripen warned with a grunt as he moved away from the helm station. “Fairburn’s called twice with orders to surrender.”

“Why didn’t you pipe it down to me?” Grimm asked, keying up the board.

“‘Cause you were busy,” Merripen said. “I didn’t think you had time to gloat.”

“There’s always time to gloat,” Grimm admonished him mildly. “Okay. Here goes…”

* * *

“There she goes!” Ravel snapped. “Bearing…we’ve got her vector, Sir.”

“Go!” Fairburn snapped, mentally crossing his fingers. If Salamander’s hyperdrive was in the same sorry shape as her telemetry system, this was going to be a very short trip.

Fortunately, it wasn’t. Without even a flicker of a problem, Salamander translated into the alpha band.

Only to find that Izbica had vanished.

“Where did she go?” Fairburn demanded, running his eyes back and forth over the sensor displays, as if he could will the freighter’s image into existence by sheer willpower. “There’s no way she could have gotten out of range that fast. Could she?”

“No,” Todd said grimly. “Best bet is that she did a microjump and got back to n-space just as we were leaving it.”

Fairburn clenched his teeth. Todd was right. It would take precise timing, but that had to be the answer.

“TO, calculate how far Izbica would have gotten if she’d translated down just as we translated up,” he ordered. “Helm, get us back to n-space as close to that spot as you can. CIC, I want a full-sensor scan as soon as we translate.”

“Got it,” Ravel reported. “Sending coordinates to the helm.”

“Ready to translate,” the helmsman reported.

“Go,” Fairburn ordered.

Izbica wasn’t there. Izbica was nowhere.

Salamander spent the next six hours not finding her.

* * *

Bettor lifted a glass of the wine Merripen had found in the late Captain Shresthra’s private stores.

“That,” he said flatly, “was about as crazy a trick as I’ve ever seen.”

“Not crazy at all,” Grimm said mildly, taking a sip from his own glass. Whatever else Shresthra had been, he’d had excellent taste in alcoholic beverages. “It’s all in the timing. Plus a certain degree of willingness to push the envelope when making one’s translations. Don’t forget, I spent a lot of time studying this ship during the voyage. I knew exactly what it could and couldn’t do.”

“I still think it was crazy,” Merripen said. “But I guess you can’t argue with success.”

“Especially when success pays so well,” Grimm said. “Speaking of which, I hope you were able to get all the data you needed, because we sure as hell aren’t going back.”

“I got enough,” Bettor assured him. “Another couple of hours would have been nice, but I should have enough to confirm the junction’s existence and give us a close approximation as to where it’s lurking.”

“Good enough,” Grimm said.

“And meanwhile,” Merripen rumbled, “the Manticorans now know there are pirates working the area.”

Gently, Grimm swirled the wine in his glass. Yes, that was indeed the downside of all this. In retrospect, he probably should have just ignored Izbica’s hails and let Fairburn come to the pirate/hijacker conclusion on his own. That was surely all the little man’s little brain was capable of. The problem was that, without Grimm’s declaration on record, a more clever brain might have started thinking outside the lines and wondering if there might be another reason behind the Izbica’s passengers’ visit.

The odds that someone was searching for wormholes in their system were extremely low, of course. But low odds were not zero odds; and if the Manticorans even suspected what it was they were sitting on, there would be a mad scramble to get all those mothballed ships back into service to defend themselves and their incredible asset.

But pirates weren’t nearly such a serious threat, certainly not to a system with this many warships already in service. The most likely response to Izbica’s hijacking would be a beefing-up of their customs personnel and procedures, and maybe more escort runs.

Of course, the best-case scenario would have been to continue on to Minorca without causing any ripples whatsoever, leave the Izbica peaceably, and catch the Axelrod freighter that would be arriving on carefully unrelated business. That would have left everyone blissfully unaware of what had happened, and given no one any reason to look at this ship, her passengers, or her cargo ever again.

But what was done was done.

And really, the repercussions were unlikely to be anything serious.

“Not a problem,” he assured Merripen. “They’ll probably tighten up scrutiny on incoming passengers, but that’ll be the end of it.”

“You don’t think they’ll beef up their Navy?”

“Against the vague threat of some pirates?” Grimm shook his head. “Not a chance. I mean, come on — they already have all the hardware they need for that.”

“The Navy will want more anyway,” Merripen said. “Navies always do.”

Grimm snorted. After spending a week in Manticore orbit reading the newsfeeds, skimming the recent history, and generally getting a feel for the Star Kingdom, he could answer that one with complete confidence. “Of course they’ll want more,” he said. “But they won’t get it. Not here.”

“You sure?” Merripen persisted.

Grimm lifted his glass in salute, the transcript of Chancellor of the Exchequer Earl Breakwater’s last speech in Parliament floating before his eyes. “I guarantee it.”

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 24

Raising Caine – Snippet 24

Chapter Twenty-Six

Close orbit, GJ 1248 Three and Far orbit; Sigma Draconis Two

“Nezdeh,” Sehtrek called over his shoulder, “the Slaasriithi shift-carrier is breaking from orbit. At full acceleration.”

Nezdeh Srina Perekmeres had not yet crossed from the hatchway to the con. “Did they detect us?” Refueling out at GJ 1248’s gas giant, Red Lurker had been shielded from the Slaasriithi shift-carrier’s active sensors. Also, there was no sign that the outer planets had been seeded with passive trespass monitors. Nonetheless…

“No indication of detection, Nezdeh. But the target has acted with considerable dispatch ever since the two interface craft returned from the surface of the planet.”

Nezdeh fastened the top clasp of her off-duty tunic when no one was looking. Over the past three days, she and Idrem had only had a few intermittent hours when their off-duty cycles over-lapped, and this had been one of them — until she had been summoned to the Arbitrage’s bridge two minutes ago.

Brenlor ducked through the hatchway, waved off Sehtrek’s attempt to update him. He had been aboard Red Lurker when its superior sensor suite had alerted them to the first signs that the target might be preparing to move. “Your assessment, Nezdeh?”

“They mean to make best speed to their shift point.”

“Then we must break off our own refueling immediately and commence preacceleration. That way, we will arrive before them in BD +02 4076 with enough lead time to take on fuel and seek a suitable position from which to ambush them.”

“Assuming they are heading to that system at all,” added Sehtrek.

“And if they are not,” Nezdeh amended, “then we will refuel and seek our fortunes elsewhere. And elsewise.”

Brenlor was able to hear this disappointing possibility with almost complete equanimity now. “We would have little choice. Sehtrek, commence preacceleration for the shift point to BD +02 4076 as soon as our skimmers have returned to their berths.” Leaning over, he asked Nezdeh in a lower voice, “Has Idrem determined the likelihood that the Slaasriithi will see our tug’s anti-matter drive, this time?”

Nezdeh nodded. “If we stay in the shadow of the gas giant, and if the target continues to maintain its current course, that will put the star directly between us. They have, at best, a twenty percent chance of detecting us as we accelerate.”

Brenlor did not take his eyes away from the starfield. “I do not like those odds.”

Nezdeh decided to take a chance: changing into the ancient dialect used only among the Srinu of the Creche worlds, she observed, “Twelve weeks ago, you would have found those odds exhilarating.”

Brenlor nodded tightly, answered in the same tongue. “Twelve weeks ago, I was still thinking like an angry Srin, and a prodigal to boot. Now that the die are cast, I think like a man who may one day be a Hegemon.” He turned to face her. “Before our Extirpation, I had no such hopes. I was rash during my first years outside the precinct walls. I resented the Breedmistresses’ prediction that I would never rise high enough to even guard a Hegemon’s dais. Now?” He shrugged. “I may be the last of our line left to ascend that platform myself. And so I school myself to think appropriately.”

Nezdeh put a hand on her cousin’s arm. “And have done so admirably.” She looked at the virtual instruments showing their telemetry and other transit data. “How long?” she asked Sehtrek.

“One hundred and fifty hours.”

Nezdeh rose, relinquishing the con to Brenlor. “Only six days to wait, now.”

His smile was both rueful and feral as he slid into the captain’s chair. “I would not mind if it was a bit longer, this time.”

“Really? Why?”

Brenlor’s smile was now wholly feral. “So I have enough time to prepare our ambush.”

* * *

One hundred and forty-nine hours later, when the Arbitrage reached her shift point, Nezdeh and Brenlor were back on its bridge. In the faux-holograph of the navplot, the green blip of the pre-accelerating Slaasriithi ship was headed directly away from them.

“Threshold energy state attained,” the Aboriginal pilot announced. “Shift drive ready.”

“Engage,” Brenlor ordered.

Reality seemed to swim through a hole in itself and emerge on the far side, unchanged — except for the star field, and the nearby mass of a gas giant.

The communications officer put a hand to her ear. “Idrem with a sensor report; multiple small objects orbiting the main planet.”

“Size of objects?”

“Initial densitometer readings are imprecise, but they seem to vary between seventy and four-hundred fifty cubic meters. All are spherical.”

Brenlor nodded. “Surveillance satellites and automated craft. Any sign of weapons?”

“Given the distance and our reliance upon passive sensors, Idrem reports that we are unable to discern any. He remarks, however, that the Trojan point asteroid fields of the main planet are both highly attenuated and quite dense.”

Brenlor nodded. “We will approach the Spinward Trojan point carefully and ensure that it has no dormant trespass sensors… If it doesn’t, then we shall spring our ambush from there.”

Nezdeh nodded. “In the meantime, let us fill our tanks at the gas giant so that, if the Slaasriithi shift-carrier does make this its next — and final — destination, we are in readiness.” And then quickly move on, before Tlerek Srin Shethkador catches our scent and sends some stealthy hounds to track us down…

* * *

As soon as Tlerek Srin Shethkador heard Olsirkos enter his spin-chambers, he asked, “You have completed your review of both the general ship’s log, and the communications log?”

“Yes, Fearsome Srin. As I reported, Ferocious Monolith’s journey to Sigma Draconis was largely uneventful. In fact, the Senior Annalist recorded statistically low mortality among the unshielded low-gee helots, of which all deaths were, happily, cull-worthy. As one often encounters on an Aegis ship, there were several disputes that required intervention and summary discipline. One evolved into a formal duel.”

“What do you know about that duel?”

“Very little, Honored Srin. After it was reported to me, I had the senior lictor investigate to ensure there were no security or operational consequences. The senior annalist collected the particulars to make his report. That was the end of the matter.”

“I see. When did the duel occur?”

“Several days before departing the V 1581 system, our last shift to this destination. The duel involved the second bridge crew’s communications officer and one of his journeyman-trainees. There was no indication that House rivalry was the cause of the duel.”

Shethkador waited for further explication. None came. “The loss of the second communications officer affected crewing, did it not?”

Olsirkos shrugged. “Slightly. The second communications officer was scheduled to transfer to Red Lurker, which we left behind in V 1581 three days later. The first alternate communications specialist was tasked to take his place aboard Lurker. The second alternate, the trainee who won the duel, became the second crew’s communications officer here aboard Monolith.”

“So, as the new secondary comm officer, the trainee’s duties now include maintaining the communications logs, running readiness checks, and monitoring enemy communications, correct?”

“That is correct.”

And still Olsirkos does not see the connection. “Has your new second communications officer brought any unusual enemy communications to your attention?”

Olsirkos frowned. “No, Fearsome Srin.” This time, Olsirkos put extra emphasis upon the word “fearsome.”

“So, shall we presume that he failed to notice this?” Shethkador pressed a stud on his belt-com. Behind him, communications records from twelve days prior rose up as a holoflat. Shethkador had flagged one of the entries in red.

Olsirkos scanned it: a footnote appended to the report of an informer aboard an Aboriginal cargo ship, the RFS Ladoga. It reported that her master, Captain Ludmilla Privek, had hurriedly submitted an exhaustive report concerning the last known whereabouts of a senior-grade cargo worker. This worker, Agnata Manolescu, had been officially missing for ten weeks. However, it seemed probable that her disappearance occurred earlier and that Privek had avoided drawing attention to it, hoping to resolve the matter independently and save face.

Olsirkos’ frown deepened. “Potent Srin, I fail to see –”

“Read every word, seek every nuance. Why, after the worker had been officially missing for over two months, was the master of the ship suddenly compelled — compelled — to submit a complete report, at the direct and confidential order of Lord Admiral Halifax himself?”

Olsirkos scrolled back through the Aboriginal communications traffic. He stopped at an entry dated five days prior to the submission of the report. “This must be it. The Aboriginals found the cargo worker’s body adrift in space.” His frown returned. “It was not discovered near any currently used orbital track. Why did they even think to look for it?”

Shethkador wondered if Olsirkos’ future might not merely include demotion but an appointment with a cull-master. “Logic dictates that we must return to the beginning of the incident: the first, internal record of Manolescu’s disappearance. Her last known location on the Ladoga was in a cargo bay during a high-priority transfer of cold cells, and you will note their destination.”

Olsirkos’ voice was dry — or possibly strangled with anxiety: “The cold cells were being transferred to the Slaasriithi vessel.”

“Yes. This tells us how the Aboriginals found Agnata Manolescu’s body. Logically, since she disappeared from the bay where the transfer took place, the Aboriginals determined which lighter effected that cargo transfer and then checked its flight recorder data. They performed close sensor sweeps radiating out from its flight telemetries and discovered Manolescu’s corpse spinning slowly away from the lighter’s prior path. The subsequent question is, obviously, why would the person overseeing the transfer of the cargo from the Ladoga be killed?”

Olsirkos’ frown was replaced by wide-eyed revelation. “They cryocells loaded on the lighter were not the ones it had been sent to transfer. Some of the cargo was switched.”

Well, there is some hope for you after all. “Correct. According to our informers in the Aboriginal military structure, two coldslept personnel chosen to accompany the legation into Slaasriithi space were never removed from the Ladoga. Their cold cells were later found ‘misfiled’ in the same cargo bay.”

“So, the two coldsleepers who went in their place are infiltrators, sent to sabotage the Aboriginal envoy to the Slaasriithi?”

“Likely, but impossible to determine without investigating. Which we should have been doing for the past ten weeks.”

Olsirkos sounded like he wanted the change the topic. Desperately. “It is strange that the Aboriginals have not detained the crew of the lighter and questioned them.”

“More persistence in reviewing the data would have shown you that they tried and failed.” Shethkador changed the file displayed on the holoflat to a secure bulletin calling for the apprehension of two missing persons of interest: the Aboriginal female and male who had been the crew of the lighter.

“It is not conceivable that they could remain undetected on one of the fleet’s hulls,” Olsirkos asserted. “So where are they?”

Shethkador brought up a holograph of the interstellar region surrounding Sigma Draconis. He pointed into it: the red star closest to Sigma Draconis flared in response. “The two renegades are almost certainly here: system V 1581. We know that Visser, one of the human Consuls, and a significant intelligence chief named Richard Downing commenced transit to Earth aboard the prize ship Changeling the same day that the Slaasriithi departed. I suspect that the two fugitives, furnished with false identities, were already aboard Changeling when she shifted out to V 1581. So, we must journey there and intercept them before they can flee to Earth: they are the only remaining clues to the rest of the plot.”

Olsirkos was lost again. “The rest of the plot?”

Shethkador rose. “I must recontact the Autarchs. They require an update.” He stared hard at Olsirkos. “The rest of the plot is obvious, or should be. The two who operated the lighter could not have had long-standing orders to switch the cold cells on the Ladoga. Only three days earlier, the Slaasriithi had not even arrived in Sigma Draconis, much less invited the Aboriginals to visit their home world. So if you find the persons who signaled the lighter’s crew to switch the cold cells, you will ultimately find the persons who were ready to launch this plot in a matter of hours.” Shethkador brought up the communications logs. One entry was flagged in red. “The day that the Slaasriithi departed, there was a routine communications test, to assess mechanical readiness. Read who oversaw the test.”

Olsirkos stared, swallowed, managed to get out the words: “It was the recently promoted trainee, the one who killed the former second communications officer in a duel.”

Shethkador nodded, walked to the hatchway, exited, made briskly for the Sensorium, Olsirkos trailing behind. “I will make my Reification to contact the Autarchs swift. I will explain that we must return to V 1581 to recover Red Lurker. In actuality, we shall be following the path of the crew of the lighter and whoever contacted them and is behind this plot. You have half an hour quietly detain and interrogate the communications trainee who won the duel. In the interrogation, presume that you will have to use drugs and extreme measures. Presume that the subject is not a knowledgeable part of the greater plot. Discover how he used the communications testing routines to send the necessary message to the lighter crew, who gave him the message, how he knew where to send it and when.” Shethkador paused before the threshold of the Sensorium. “Impress me by succeeding in this, and I shall overlook your signal failures in detecting this plot from the outset,” he lied.

“I am my Srin’s right hand,” Olsirkos breathed with a low bow.

“Yes,” Shethkador muttered. Which would make me half a cripple, if it were true.

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 22

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 22

Chapter 11

Twenty-five years ago

It was hard work to mop up so much blood. Luckily there had been so many opportunities to practice lately that he’d become very good at it. He may have only been a child of the non-people, and a small, sickly one at that, but you didn’t need to be strong to clean up blood, only committed. When he was done, the stone floors were so clean you couldn’t even tell that a man had just been gutted there like a pig. He had been doing such a good job at scrubbing up the blood that the overseer had not had him beaten even once over the last few weeks.

After the whole men had stormed out in frustration, and the other casteless had carried the dead warrior’s body outside for cremation, the boy found himself alone in the main chamber of great house Vadal, on his hands and knees, pushing a red puddle.

Only he wasn’t really alone. The sword was there, watching him.

Ringing out his rag over the bucket, he saw that the water running over his hands was still very pink. There was much work to do.

* * *

When the Thakoor of House Vadal had died, they had placed his terrible magic sword in the main chamber. Casteless did not usually live as long as whole men, but there were a few among them old enough to remember the last time this had happened. They warned the other casteless what to expect. Until the ancestor blade was satisfied, the whole men of the warrior caste would be tense and quick to anger. Do your jobs, stay out of sight. The warrior caste loved to spill blood, but they considered it beneath them to mop it off the floors. That was unclean. Even the lowest of the workers thought they were too good to play with corpses and blood and guts. That was work for the casteless, so some of them would be sent into the main chamber. If they were chosen, look only at the ground, do not speak unless spoken to. If they were lucky, they would not be killed by frustrated warriors. If the Forgotten had mercy on them, the sword would pick someone sooner rather than later and life could return to normal.

It had not taken long for the sword to begin killing whole men. That last Thakoor’s ashes were still warm when the first of the warrior caste tried to take up the sword. A few minutes later the overseer had arrived in the casteless quarter looking for help to remove the body parts.

* * *

“Why take the boy?” his mother asked.

The overseer frowned. “Why not?”

“He’s weak. He’ll just be in the house slave’s way.”

The overseer was casteless as well, but even amongst the non-people, there was order, and questioning his commands could lead to a beating or worse. The overseer seemed like a huge, muscled beast to the small child, especially when he roughly grabbed the boy by the wrist. “I got strong men for lifting bodies. He’s got small fingers to get into the cracks. I don’t want no stained mortar and I don’t want the main chamber stinking of death. Got it?”

His mother had lowered her head in submission. The casteless did as they were told. They worked and they died at the pleasure of their betters. That’s how it always had been and how it always would be. Such was the way of the non-people.

The overseer had given him a rag and a bucket. They were his most prized possessions.

* * *

The first time he had entered the main chamber, he had tried to heed the elder’s warning, but he had been too tempted, and had lifted his head to see. The inside of the great house was truly as amazing as the house slaves proclaimed it to be. The floors were flat stone, not dirt. The walls did not have holes in them, and in fact, they were covered in carvings and paintings of animals and birds, mountains and trees, and heroic scenes of warriors defeating demons. There was food everywhere. This one room was big enough to hold ten casteless’ barracks. It was more than he could comprehend. But it wasn’t the vastness of the great house that intimidated him, it was the sword.

There was no ceremony to it. The sword was just lying there on the floor where the last warrior had flung it after severing his own legs. Though there was blood on the walls and the floor and in every crook and crevice and joint, there wasn’t a drop on the sword or anywhere close to it. In time, he would learn that this was normal for the ancestor blade, as it did not want to stain itself with unworthy life, which was good, because the boy was scared to get close to the sword.

He’d overheard warrior caste speak of the dead Thakoor’s sword. It was said whoever carried it could defeat entire armies by himself. Only this kind of sword could easily kill a demon from the distant and terrifying ocean. Even the mightiest heroes were scared of the ancestor blade. The boy took their fear and made it his own. He was casteless. The Law declared that his kind were not even allowed to touch a weapon. His experience with swords consisted of seeing them in the hands of warriors when it was time to intimidate or execute.

This sword was not like those. This one was…beautiful. It hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t help but look anyway. Realizing that he’d been staring, he’d quickly averted his eyes. There were still warriors present. If a whole man saw a casteless looking at the sacred ancestor blade of House Vadal, he’d surely be killed. In this room, his life was worth absolutely nothing.

Only the warrior caste did not see him. The casteless were typically beneath notice. They were simply there to do the things whole men should not have to. They wrapped the body parts in old blankets and carried them down the stairs to the furnace. He was so small that it was a real struggle to carry just the man’s leg, and this one had been cut off at the knee.

Then he’d been put to work pushing thick blood around with a rag and carrying buckets of water up and down the stairs until the main chamber was spotless. The overseer had inspected it carefully. If any blood got into a gap and began to rot, he’d have to smoke the smell out with hot coals, and the smoke might upset the great house family. The pale stones took the most scrubbing to keep from staining. It was hard, but it was better than the typical unclean duties of tending swine, cleaning sewers, or burning corpses.

The first few weeks were very busy, as members of the warrior caste from across all of the lands of house Vadal tried to take up the sword. There was so much blood to clean up that the child found himself working in the main chamber more often than not. The overseer allowed him to stay hidden in there during the day, so he didn’t have to walk back and forth to the casteless’ quarter to fetch laborers.

The boy was able to watch many of the warrior’s attempts to wield the sword. Few ended in crippling injury or death, but all ended with blood.

* * *

There was a shadowed alcove in one corner of the main chamber, well hidden behind a few hanging tapestries. The boy squatted there, waiting, his precious rag clean and his bucket filled to the brim with soapy water. He liked his alcove. It was cool out of the sun, there were no biting insects, and best of all, the whole men could not see him, but he could see them. The overseer had dumped a few buckets of wash water over the boy first, so his betters wouldn’t detect the pig, ash, and dung smell of the casteless.

It was the first time he’d observed whole men. The Law declared that they were separate and better, but outside their armor shells the warriors didn’t seem so different from the non-people. They were strong and proud until the sword opened them up, then they screamed and bled the same color as a casteless. Above the warriors were the members of the great house. They didn’t look so different than his family, only they were far better fed, wearing real clothing, and carrying themselves without constant fear. But the Law said they were superior, so that was the way of things.

The house slaves began preparing the chamber by lighting lanterns. That meant that it was time for another attempt. Men in uniform, their station far beyond his understanding, arrived to serve as witnesses. The sword ended up in a different place every time, depending on where the last user had dropped it after it cut him, but the witnesses always stood as far from it as possible, as if it might become angry and cut them as well. They boy knew that was foolish. The sword only judged those who tried to wield it. He was only a casteless blood scrubber, and he already understood the sword better than the whole men in the fancy robes.

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 23

A Call To Arms – Snippet 23

“So noted,” Fairburn said, an eerie feeling creeping along his spine. He’d read this order when it first came out five T-years ago, and remembered feeling the same black cynicism that probably every other officer in the Navy had felt at the time. Here and now, though, the words didn’t sound nearly so ridiculous. “For the record, I note in turn that I am consulting Executive Officer Commander Todd and Tactical Officer Lieutenant Commander Ravel. Have either of you anything to say?”

Todd and Ravel exchanged looks. Neither seemed exactly thrilled at the plan, Fairburn could see. But neither did they want to go down in Star Kingdom history as the ones who’d ruined the Navy’s first chance to finally nab a real pirate.

“I agree with Captain Fairburn’s assessment of the situation,” Todd said formally. “The circumstances justify the expenditure of a missile.”

“I also agree,” Ravel said.

“So noted and logged,” Fairburn said. And thanked God that Breakwater hadn’t added language that would have required them to ask his personal permission to do their damn jobs. “Weapons Officer, prep me a missile. TO, plot me a warning shot.

“Let’s take these bastards down.”

* * *

The last board was half reassembled, and Grimm was starting to breathe a little easier, when a sudden curse came from the intercom. “Grimm — they’ve launched on us,” Merripen bit out.

Grimm felt his heart skip a beat. “You mean a missile? They’ve launched a missile?”

“No, a cupcake,” Merripen snarled. “Yes, a damn missile. What the hell do I do?”

“You start by not panicking,” Grimm said, thinking fast. Unless the destroyer had increased its acceleration significantly — and Bettor had given Merripen strict orders to watch for that when the latter took over bridge duty — they still had several minutes before even a fast-track missile could reach them. “You’ll want to do a pitch, either up or down. Twenty degrees ought to be enough. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that,” Merripen said. “But if I do, I won’t be able to see the Salamander anymore.”

Grimm frowned. That side effect of the maneuver hadn’t occurred to him. But Merripen was right. Blocking the incoming missile’s path with the floor of the Izbica’s wedge would also block their view of the Salamander.

Could that be exactly what Captain Fairburn was going for? To force the Izbica to lose track of it while it –?

While it what? Fired another missile, this one angled and arcing to run straight up the Izbica’s kilt? Or kicked up to a pursuit acceleration that was far greater than its listed limits?

Both scenarios were damn unlikely. But neither was completely out of the question.

But Grimm and the others had no choice. There was a missile incoming, and no matter what Fairburn had planned for after that, it would all be irrelevant if the missile blew the Izbica to atoms.

“Just do it,” he growled toward the intercom.

“Fine,” Merripen growled back. “You just get that interface the hell back together, okay? Suddenly, this isn’t looking like such a good neighborhood.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grimm said, feeling fresh sweat working its way onto his skin. “Working on it.

* * *

The missile had been launched, Salamander had cut her acceleration long enough for the solid booster to get the weapon clear enough of the ship, and as the missile’s wedge came up Salamander resumed her own acceleration.

“They did it,” Forward Gunnery Officer Lieutenant (jg) Pascal Navarre murmured from behind Osterman. “They really did it.”

Osterman nodded silently. Captain Fairburn had actually fired one of Salamander’s missiles.

Or rather, Salamander’s senior officers had launched it. She’d seen that ridiculous committee order when it first came down, requiring a vote of the senior officers before a ship’s captain could spend any of the Navy’s precious ordnance.

Clearly, all of those officers had agreed.

What the hell was going on out here?

Osterman hadn’t the faintest idea. But given the situation, maybe Ensign Locatelli’s loud insistence that all three of his tracking systems be functional might not have been such a stupid order, after all.

An instant later, a dull thud sounded faintly in the distance.

And the telemetry section of the status board went solid red.

“Telemetry,” Navarre snapped unnecessarily. “Damn. Crash kit?”

“Probably not,” Osterman said, grabbing a handhold and pulling herself into the passageway. “I’ll get the one from Autocannon.”

“No — I’ll get it,” Navarre said. “You get to telemetry.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Osterman said. Leaning into the handhold and her own inertia, she changed direction and headed toward the telemetry compartment.

She had the face off the main panel when the sound of someone tumbling through the hatchway came from behind her. “Report,” Ensign Locatelli ordered tartly.

“Telemetry is down, Sir,” Osterman said, her teeth clenching around the last word as she spotted the problem. “Looks like a hex blew.”

She spared a glance at him as she shoved off the deck toward the crash kit. But there was no recognition of reality in Locatelli’s eyes, no connecting of the blatantly obvious dots. All he saw was a dead component, and a job for his senior chief petty officer. “Then we’d better replace it, hadn’t we?” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said, consciously unclenching her teeth. This was no time for revelations or recriminations. One of Salamander’s missiles was running free, and with the telemetry system crashed there was no way for anyone to guide or otherwise control it. All the missile had right now was its own internal hunting programming, and that might not be the proper setup for whatever Fairburn had in mind. “Can you get the face off the aux panel, Sir?” she called back over her shoulder.

At least Locatelli knew how to move when he needed to. By the time Osterman got back with the crash kit he had pulled off the auxiliary panel’s face and set it out of the way. Osterman braked to a halt with her feet against the supports and popped open the kit.

Crash kits were supposed to be the emergency supply boxes, theoretically holding a spare or two of all the major components for a given electronics or hydraulics system. Unfortunately, they were as subject to pilferage as all the rest of the ship’s equipment. As Osterman had predicted to Navarre, the telemetry crash kit was woefully incomplete, with barely a third of its untouchable contents having actually remained untouched.

Among the missing items, of course, were the two hexes that were supposed to be there.

“Damn,” Locatelli growled as he peered into the box. “Now what?”

“We first get the bad one out,” Osterman said, grabbing the eight-mil wrench from the tool tack strip and getting to work on the hex. “The Lieutenant’s getting the crash kit from Autocannon. Maybe it’ll have a hex.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“Then you’d better have Carpenter pull the one he stole for your Number Three tracking system, hadn’t you?” Osterman countered. It wasn’t the smartest thing a petty officer could say to an officer, but she wasn’t much in the mood for tact right now.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Locatelli shot back. “My people don’t steal equipment. They get it from Stores, and through proper channels.”

Osterman felt her teeth clenching up again. Either the man was as dumb as paint, or he was deliberately turning a blind eye to the inevitable consequences of his or-else orders. “Unless Stores doesn’t have what’s needed,” she said. “In which case –”

She broke off as Navarre came caroming in off the edge of the hatchway. “Got it,” he puffed. “What do you need?”

“A hex,” Osterman told him, mentally crossing her fingers.

Crossing them uselessly. There were no hexes in Navarre’s kit.

“Now what?” Locatelli demanded.

Dumb as paint. Leaning past him, Osterman jabbed the intercom.

“Forward Tracking; Telemetry,” she called. “Osterman. Shut down one of your tracking systems, pull out a hex, and bring it to me here.”

“What?” Locatelli said. “Wait –”

“Meanwhile, Sir,” Osterman put in as she cut off the intercom, “may I suggest you and Lieutenant Navarre start calling the other stations nearby and see if any of them has a crash kit with a spare hex.”

“Senior Chief — ” Locatelli began, his voice dropping into Authority Zone.

“Good idea, Senior Chief,” Navarre interrupted. “Ensign, you start with Electronic Warfare and Sensors — use the intercom in the next compartment. I’ll call Gravitics and Forward Impellers from here.”

“Sir — ”

“Move it, Locatelli.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Osterman saw Locatelli throw a glare in her direction. But he merely nodded and swam his way out the hatchway.

“Thank you, Sir,” Osterman murmured.

“Just doing my job,” Navarre rumbled, moving over to the intercom. “Meanwhile, better make sure the hex didn’t cascade anything else when it died.”

“Already on it.”

* * *

The seconds crept by. Slowly, they turned into a full minute.

And the missile was still rogue.

Fairburn consciously forced open his hands, which had somehow closed themselves into fists when he wasn’t watching. A rogue missile might not be a commander’s worst fear, but it was pretty damn high on the list.

And still the missile flew. How long did it take to repair a damn telemetry transmitter, anyway?

“Tracking reports missile still on kill course, Sir,” Ravel said tautly.

Fairburn’s hands again closed into fists. Kill course. Not the overshoot-and-explode in the wide open area in front of Izbica that he’d planned for it. With its telemetry link to Salamander gone, the missile had shifted to internal guidance.

And the default programming was to go for the kill.

Whether the missile would be able to carry out its new goal was still in question, of course. At its current flight angle, Izbica’s floor was blocking a direct intersect vector, and as the missile gained speed it progressively lost its already limited maneuverability. At this point it really had only three possibilities: impact on Izbica’s floor, make it past the edge of the floor and impact on the roof, or split the difference and detonate during the split-second it was between the two stress bands.

The first two scenarios would accomplish nothing except the waste of the missile itself. The third would probably vaporize the freighter.

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 23

Raising Caine – Snippet 23

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s summary was breathtaking in its ruthless and egoless accuracy. “So how large a defense increase will you require? How extensively have you settled this region of space?”

The Slaasriithi’s tendrils waved languidly. “Where life has arisen, there we have remained. And we have had a long time, even by our standards, to nurture biota on even the most inhospitable worlds.”

So, pretty extensive settlement. “I take it, then, that you are well-furnished with shift-carriers, to serve so many systems.”

“Not so well-furnished as you might expect, Caine Riordan. The great majority of our expansion has been effected by slower-than-light ships, many of which are directed by semiautonomous machine biots.”

Gaspard’s question was slow, calm, careful. “You have living, self-directed ships?”

“That characterization would imply a greater degree of awareness than is possessed by these craft. Each ship’s semiautonomous system resembles a highly advanced hive-mind. Its task is simply to deliver its payload from one known place to another known place.”

“I understand,” Gaspard replied in a tone that suggested he might not. “But why do you not prefer to use a crew of intelligent beings? We have seen at least one subtaxon which you specially evol — er, induced, to meet the challenges of working in space. Why not create an even more narrowly specialized subtaxon to live upon your STL ships?”

“Because we eschew generating more subtaxae than is absolutely necessary. The capability to induce a new subspecies or subtaxae does not mean that one should do so whenever it would be most convenient. So, instead of complicating our polytaxic society with yet another subtaxon, we attain our objectives by relying upon the universe’s most underappreciated and yet greatest force.”

Gaspard leaned forward. “And what force might that be?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash purred faintly. “Time, Ambassador. As your own aphorism has it, time changes all things. It wears down mountains, moves continents, even exhausts stars. Perhaps this is one of the reasons we do not record history similarly to other species: our relationship to time itself is different. Your species and the others manipulate time to your own ends, your own pleasure, and even to assure that you will, for at least a while, transcend its limits.”

“You mean, that we perform deeds or create objects that will be associated with us, even after we are dead.”

“Precisely. We do not have these motivations. Indeed, understanding what they truly mean to you remains our greatest interspeciate challenge, since we lack any serviceable analog. We imagine them as a hypertrophied amplification of our self-preservation instinct. But even our self-preservation instinct, while strong, is not so overpowering as your own.”

“Do you mean that you don’t fear death?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash purred again. “That question is the one we hoped you humans would ask. It is worth all the mishaps this mission has stumbled through thus far, if it has prompted you to ask it so soon.”

Gaspard’s eyes were wide. “So you do not fear death?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s purr diminished. “I did not say that. But our attitude towards it is so different from yours that you cannot understand us without understanding that difference. We are not defined — even in our diplomatic exchanges — by the number of ships, or planets, or weapons that are at our disposal. We are defined by our macroecological impulse. And no force shapes that impulse more than patience and its corollary: an egoless conceptualization of time. Which, in turn, also shapes our perception of death.”

Caine smiled. “I suspect this is only the first of many conversations we shall have on this topic.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s purr grew along with Caine’s smile. “Understanding another race is not something that happens swiftly. But for your species to identify, and to question, this signal difference between us is the beginning of the process of knowing.”

Gaspard rested his chin in his palm. “So this is why your primer mentions no historical figures, cites no earlier Slaasriithi by name.”

“Correct.”

Caine frowned. “But if you have no history of conflict, and your leaders must now deal with it, what models do they have for emulation?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s head turned slowly back in Caine’s direction. “This is a matter of deep concern to us. As you have no doubt discerned, we are happy to appease, just as we are willing to be appeased, when disagreements arise. To do so, to compromise, is our preferred method of interaction where harmony has not yet been established. However, we lack a taxon which is inherently capable of conflict, what you might call a warrior caste. If members of such a taxon had existed any time in the last ten millennia, they would have encountered no challenges, no need for their skills. Indeed, they would have been counterproductive to our harmony. According to apocryphal tales of the last such taxon, they devolved into hermits, whose once valuable decisiveness ultimately became disruptive impulsivity.”

Caine tried to tame his leaping speculations to follow only the most pertinent track. “You had other taxae, at one time?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s head bobbed. “We have had many for which our need diminished, and ultimately disappeared. But in some cases, that disappearance need not be permanent.”

“You mean you can reverse the process?”

“It is not a simple matter, genetically or socially, to reintroduce a taxon. Sometimes it is impossible if it was lost too long ago or too completely. Our polytaxic structure has many strengths but its complexities can make it especially vulnerable to disasters. If either our social or reproductory matrices are shattered, we are likely to revert, to become a different and devolved species.”

“Like on Delta Pavonis Three,” Caine murmured.

“Just so. As I once said, the natives of that planet are of us, but are not us, not today’s Slaasriithi. They are a genetic throwback to when we had fewer taxae. Consequently, you have already seen a Slaasriithi community that has been shattered. Today you saw one in its infancy, facing an uncertain future: we cannot know if the changes we mean to induce on Adumbratus will become strong enough to create an equilibrium between our biota and the indigenous life. Finally, in a little more than a week, we will show you a Slaasriithi community on the cusp of becoming one of our primary colonies.” Yiithrii’ah’aash stood. “Speaking of which, refueling will soon be complete, and we will begin preacceleration for our next shift. The members of your legation will be permitted to have free access to your ships and your cargo until then. Prepare for a longer sojourn: we shall examine the next planet more closely, as there is much more to see.”

Gaspard smiled. “And fewer untamed dangers to encounter?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice was grave. “We find that an environment’s dangers do not reside in any of its creatures.”

“No? Then where does the danger reside?”

“In the mind of any visitor who makes the mistake of believing that any environment is ever without danger. Good day, Ambassador, and you as well, Caine Riordan. Please prepare your people for departure.”

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 22

Raising Caine – Snippet 22

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck seemed to collapse, even retract slightly into his torso. “It is we who must thank you for your patience. We not only regret the haste with which this mission was conceived and launched, but we deeply appreciate your willingness to adapt to our means of communication.”

Riordan shook his head. “I do not understand. Your English is flawless, Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash.”

“I do not refer to language. I refer to our insistence that you ‘see’ us rather than ‘read about’ us.”

Gaspard’s smile was gracious, if brittle. “It has been challenging, yes.”

“More than challenging, Ambassador Gaspard. It has been the source of Ms. Veriden’s infractions and the cause of Mr. Buckley’s death. And I am sure it has thwarted your efforts to plan for our negotiations, since your species invariably strategizes how to gain objects you strongly value in exchange for objects you value less.”

Hearing it broken down that way, the legation’s sober diplomatic intents suddenly sounded like well-heeled con artistry.

Gaspard cleared his throat. “These are concerns to us, yes. Are they not also to you?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils seemed to spin for a moment: intense frustration? “Not as you mean it. We too hope to create bonds through exchange. We too hope that these exchanges are materially beneficial to us. And, like you, we will not disclose all our future plans or certain details of our deep history. But our concepts of ‘negotiation’ and ‘gain’ are qualitatively different, and the number of secrets we keep is very, very small.”

Caine experienced both a surge of shame and a stab of wariness. If Yiithrii’ah’aash’s depiction of Slaasriithi negotiations and exchange was even partially accurate, it made humanity look like a bunch of grifters and frauds, by comparison. On the other hand, although the Slaasriithi kept few secrets, they did, by Yiithrii’ah’aash’s admission, keep some secrets. Which suggested, by inverse deduction, that those secrets would be very important. Perhaps important, and problematic, enough to necessitate reappraising an alliance with the Slaasriithi.

“We find similar distinctions between ourselves and almost every other species,” Yiithrii’ah’aash hastened to add. “Less so with the Dornaani, but even they record material exchanges the way you do, as well as the passage of events.”

Gaspard frowned. “So your recording of history is fundamentally different from ours?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash bobbed. “What you call ‘history’ is not a useful concept to us. We notice with interest the linguistic fluke latent in the term you use for narratives of your past: ‘his-story.’ At every level, the focus of your chronicles is upon egocentric personalities: who did what, which group of combatants won and gained specific resources, and how contending philosophies of different peoples sparked both intercultural debates and religious wars.” His neck contracted sharply. “We lack internecine analogs for these events; they only arise when we deal with other races.”

Gaspard raised his hands in appeal. “But in order to deal with the other races of the Accord, you must have kept records of your negotiations, what transpired when you sent or received diplomatic and trade delegations.”

“We welcome such contact, Ambassador Gaspard, but we have experienced much less of it than you might suppose. Only the Dornaani ever displayed much interest in our society. And if you are using ‘trade’ as a synonym for commerce, you must understand that this is not our way.”

Gaspard was silent for a long moment before responding. “I would like to understand what you mean. But I do not.”

“To us, ‘trade’ means exactly that: an exchange. Among ourselves, we do not buy and sell but rather — what is your word for it? — ah yes; we ‘swap’ things. We do not ‘manufacture’ for ‘markets,’ or maintain competing accounts of personal assets, or track what you call ‘balance of trade.’ There are many reasons for this. Arguably, the most prominent is the absence of your universal tradition of attaching the possession of material goods to narrow genetic lineages.”

Caine felt, rather than saw, the consequences. “So, you have no social unit akin to our nuclear family?”

“Correct. Biologically, our reproductive process is considerably different from yours, as is the manner in which we raise our young. It follows, then, that our species’ individual affiliations and social patterns are equally distinct. For example, because of the innate differences between our taxae, there are no ‘class struggles.’ Our individuals are born to their tasks, and evolved to find them more gratifying than any others.”

Good grief; their evolution has made them the ultimate communists. “I can see that there might be no basis for commerce among your own people, but is there no way for our respective societies to accommodate each other in the matter of material exchanges? If only to facilitate cultural and political connections?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash emitted a slow clicking noise from his tightly-furred thorax. “I am certain we may find ways to do so, but I suspect we will seek very different ends from those exchanges. It is in the nature of your species to use commerce as a means of consolidating power. It is in our nature to see exchange as an opportunity to create further harmonies and interdependencies among all biota, in the interest of establishing a peaceful and stable macroecology.”

Gaspard seemed to be grasping for words. “And what sort of — of trade item would be of interest to you, in that context?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s answer rode over the top of his eager buzz. “We have read much about your honey bees, particularly the variety you label the ‘bumble-bee.’ We do not know if we would find their sugar-intensive byproduct palatable, but there are other species that surely would. Logically, it would be a powerful ‘reward object’ with which to accelerate behavioral modification in those species. Another byproduct — the pure wax they generate in constructing their shelters — would be useful in various material processes. Lastly, the bee’s selfless communal defense instincts interest those of us who are tasked with refining the security response templates for our various autonomous drones and missiles.”

Caine’s train of thought staggered to a halt, spun about, began inexpertly down a path he had never considered before. “Are you saying that your computers are partly biological?”

“Yes, although some would be more accurately described as partly mechanical. Those systems, which we call OverWatchlings are rare but also more crucial to us.”

Riordan was careful not to look at Gaspard. Who, he sensed, was pointedly not looking at him. No matter how friendly the Slaasriithi seemed, it would be imprudent to give any outward sign of how pivotal Yiithrii’ah’aash’s last revelation was, and how decisively it might figure in any future negotiations or possible alliance. Caine shifted the topic slightly. “How extensive are your defense needs?”

“Until now, fairly minimal, but we project that the recent hostilities are merely precursors of more to follow. The war resolved very little. The Arat Kur have been temporarily neutralized. The Hkh’Rkh have been contained, but will not remain so for long. The Ktor are stalemated. The Dornaani were not sufficiently alarmed to pay closer heed to the warnings of the Custodians. Your own species has already begun to capitalize upon the technological insights derived from your attackers’ equipment, and is entering its characteristic post-crisis phase: spatial expansion combined with political consolidation. This post-war environment is inherently unstable; there will be further conflicts. We must prepare.”

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 21

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 21

Chapter 10

Among the warrior caste, Jagdish was of low rank, young age, and minor status. His position on the Personal Guard of Great House Vadal had been earned due to his exemplary courage in battle, and the fact that his disregard for tradition and disrespect for stupid commanders had gotten him thrown out of his last unit. Jagdish thought of himself as a brilliant strategist who’d found himself working for careless fools, so he’d been happy to take the promotion. If he’d known the Personal Guard mostly stood around looking pretty while the first caste threw lavish parties, he’d have avoided the promotion and stayed patrolling the border. Continual skirmishing against other houses was always exciting. Watching the firsters drink themselves into a stupor was boring. Listening to high-ranking warriors — who were only of such status because their fathers had been great men — brag about their imaginary accomplishments was offensive. Rich workers pranced about in their silks and gold ornaments, as if their wealth made them equal to the first and second castes. These vapid, useless people annoyed him to no end.

“I wish they’d called off this affair,” Jagdish whispered to Derang.

The other warrior kept his expression neutral. They’d been ordered not to display any emotion. It made a better show for the honored guests. “A little rain is no reason to cancel a party, Jagdish.”

He’d been thinking of the recently arrived news about the border raid by House Sarnobat. Fifty men captured and a town pillaged demanded an immediate, exceedingly violent response, preferably with an entire legion of troops to put those uppity Sarnobat bastards in their place. Of course, Bidaya Vadal had spent more on decorations for this ball than she had equipping that particular garrison, so Jagdish doubted the thought had even crossed her mind.

The dress uniform was uncomfortable and wouldn’t so much as slow a sword unless he got lucky and it hit one of the multitude of medals pinned to his chest. And thinking of swords was another annoyance, since he wasn’t even allowed to wear his in the main hall. They were limited to knives, because it was a fad in the Capitol that wearing a sword at a party was an insult to the safety provided by the hosts, so the great houses had — as usual — copied Capitol fashions. That ridiculous custom had been carried to the illogical end of even limiting the men who were supposedly providing the host’s safety. If this was a proper warrior’s celebration, you wouldn’t be able to walk ten feet without tripping over a real weapon. Jagdish longed to take off the frilly uniform, throw it in a fire, and then return to the other warriors to take a sword in hand to smite his enemies for glory, as he’d been born to do.

Derang tried to hide a yawn and failed. Luckily none of their superiors noticed.

The main hall of the palace was a huge room and it was filled with people. Vadal was the lushest, richest house, so no expense had been spared to demonstrate those facts. The ceiling and walls had been decorated with so many flowers that it made Jagdish’s nose itch. Musicians played. Women sang. A multitude were dancing in their colorful outfits, the young and beautiful trying to impress each other, and though he doubted any of those high-status young warriors knew a damned thing about fighting, Jagdish had to admit that they were all very good dancers. So that’s what the privileged practiced while the rest of us learned to swing a sword…This was the sort of event where suitable mates were found and marriages arranged between the highest of each caste. Jagdish didn’t care. He was of no importance, so he’d be assigned a wife eventually. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too ugly.

Between each song, more arrivals were announced. They must have picked the house herald based upon whoever was the loudest person in the city. The man had a voice that could be heard over a battlefield, and as guests arrived, he would bellow out their names, offices, and status so that the entire hall could hear. The celebration had drawn guests of the highest status, and they’d even been joined by representatives of several other houses. Those ambassadors were probably the reason Bidaya had put out enough food to feed a village for a year. Vadal never tired of rubbing their wealth in other houses’ faces.

Derang looked like he might yawn again, so Jagdish stepped on his foot to warn him. The elderly leader of House Vadal had finally made her appearance, and she’d had guards flogged for far smaller offenses. The tune ended. The dancers came to a stop.

“Thakoor of Great House Vadal, widow of bearer Bhadramunda, mother of Chief Judge Harta, and lady of this house,” shouted the herald with the loudest voice in all of Lok. “Bidaya Vadal has graced us with her presence.”

Bidaya was standing on the balcony. She appeared haughty as ever, dressed in the richest silks of Harban, jewels from Kharsawan, and feathers from colorful Gujaran jungle birds. The giant warrior, Sankhamur, a beast of a man and Bidaya’s personal champion, stood behind her. She didn’t have a voice like the herald, but when you were that important, everyone made sure to listen closely. “Welcome to my hall.” Bidaya possessed a patient and patronizing smile. “Dance, drink, and feast. Enjoy the hospitality of Great House Vadal, for this season we have been truly blessed for our obedience to the Law.”

Bidaya was a terrifying old woman, and she’d ruled this place with an iron fist ever since her husband had died over two decades ago, through multiple house wars and the deadliest of politics. The guests obediently lined up to greet her, acting like she was their favorite grandmother. Bidaya began walking down the stairs, with Sankhamur shadowing her and cataloging every potential threat in the room. The giant’s eyes lingered on Jagdish for a moment but Jagdish took no offense, as he was probably the second best fighter in the room, and a good bodyguard truly trusted no one, especially not his fellow warriors. Jagdish was jealous. The wickedly curved blades Sankhamur was carrying certainly stretched the Capitol’s polite definition of the word knife.

The musicians began playing again, and those too young or too unworthy to greet the Thakoor returned to their merriment. Jagdish went back to watching for trouble. At worst, he’d probably have to remove anyone who became too drunk or smoked too much poppy and began molesting the slaves in public. If they were of higher station — which was likely — the most he could do was ask them politely to take it somewhere private. More important people were arriving. Derang seemed too nervous now to yawn.

There was some commotion at the entrance of the hall, a few raised voices suddenly silenced. Jagdish walked to the side so that he could see better. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a rough travelling cloak was showing something to some very chastised-looking guards. The guards bowed deep, and then fearfully moved aside. The dark, wet hood was very out of place among the bright, stylish guests. Panicked, one of the house servants ran to the herald and whispered in his ear. The herald looked like he might go into shock.

A female singer was in the middle of a verse, and the musicians hadn’t even gotten the signal to stop, so the drums were still pounding when the herald made his rushed announcement.

“After twenty years away, Bearer of mighty Angruvadal, Protector of the Law Ashok Vadal has returned!”

It couldn’t be. The music came to a crashing stop mid verse. The dancers froze. There were many audible gasps. Every head turned to see. Ashok was a legendary figure in this house. Very few of them had ever met the man who bore their sword. “My ass, that’s the bearer. There’s no way,” Derang whispered.

The tall man untied his cloak and let it fall on the floor in a wet heap, revealing that he wasn’t dressed for a fancy party. In muddy boots, and plain, damp clothing, he looked like a regular traveler, nothing more. When he turned, a sheathed sword was visible at his side. Jagdish couldn’t tell if that was the sword. You’d think that you’d feel something.

The newcomer wore the token of the Protector Order on a chain around his neck. That insignia was like a warning sign proclaiming this man could kill whoever he felt like, whenever and however he desired. His skin was darkened by the sun except for where it consisted of lines of white scar tissue. He scanned the room, seemingly taking everything in at once, and there was nothing polite in that gaze. It was as if he was passing judgment on them all. His eyes passed over Jagdish, and the warrior felt an involuntary shudder. Those eyes were cold, hard as the veteran warriors who’d seen so much that they were past feeling. This was a man completely devoid of mercy.

Bidaya broke the uncomfortable silence. “Can it be? Has our noble Lord Protector returned home after all these years? Now we have even more reason to celebrate.”

The newcomer began striding across the hall with purpose. The guests nervously moved aside, crowding toward the edges as if a tiger had just entered a pen full of sheep. The tales said Ashok Vadal had killed a thousand men. Seeing this one here, Jagdish could almost believe it. “Is that really him?” Jagdish whispered.

“I don’t know. Hardly anyone ever met the bearer before they sent him off.”

When the crowd parted enough that Bidaya could see him clearly, she called out, “Ashok, it has been so long. Is it really you?”

The newcomer stopped in the middle of the room. He slowly turned, taking it all in. “I have returned.”

“You’ve grown up,” Bidaya exclaimed. She was trying too hard to sound overjoyed. Jagdish could have sworn that he heard an element of fear in her words. “At last you’ve come back to us, and you’ve brought our precious Angruvadal home! Has your obligation ended? Is our house’s time of suffering finally over?”

“No.” Ashok turned back to glare at the Thakoor. “The suffering of this house is only just beginning.”

It hardly seemed possible, but the room got even quieter. The uncomfortable silence dragged on for several seconds as Bidaya’s forced smile slowly died. “What brings you back to your people, nephew? Are you on Protector business?”

“Tonight, I don’t represent the Order.” Ashok seemed to mull that over for a moment, before reaching up and lifting the chain over his head. He held the token in his hands, staring at it for a long time, as if trying to make a difficult decision, and then he dropped the amulet on the stone. It made an audible clang that made some of the guests jump. He looked up, dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “I have come on a personal matter.”

Jagdish looked down at the discarded symbol, and then back up at the grim, determined man who’d put such a high-status thing aside, and the experienced warrior felt a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Of course, nephew. There’s no need to trouble our guests with family business. Let us retire and discuss it.”

“No. Because this is a legal matter there must be witnesses. Your guests will do. I require restitution.”

The Thakoor tilted her head to the side. “I am afraid I –”

“Restitution.” Ashok kept his voice down, low and dangerous. Like the rest of the crowd, Jagdish found himself leaning forward to hear his words. “The Law is clear that when one is deprived of his property, he may seek a suitable compensation from the offender.”

“The bearer must be exhausted from his long journey.” One of Bidaya’s senior arbiters stepped forward. “Allow us to prepare a room so that he may rest for –”

“Silence,” Ashok snarled. He didn’t so much as raise his voice, but nearly every occupant of the hall took a nervous step away from him. Jagdish realized that Ashok’s hands had curled into fists and the man was trembling with anger. “I require restitution.”

The giant Sankhamur sensed the danger as well, and moved forward, placing himself between his charge and Ashok. Bidaya held up one hand and Sankhamur paused. “Well, nephew, whatever is it that you require restitution for?”

“A casteless.”

Bidaya forced herself to laugh. It was a hollow sound. “A casteless? Oh my. All this drama over a casteless? I thought it was something important!” She kept laughing. The sycophants and fools joined in. Even the privileged warriors who didn’t understand the terrible danger in their midst chuckled nervously. “Whatever is the matter? Did one of my guests run over one of yours with their carriage tonight?” The laughter in the room grew as they made the mistake of thinking Bidaya had just ended the tension, but Jagdish saw more rage building behind Ashok’s eyes. “Whoever ran down a casteless, please pay our Lord Protector for his dead so that we all may return to our merriment!”

“Restitution requires equal value. I demand a life for a life.”

The laughter tapered off. There was no joke here. Someone was about to die, and most of them were beginning to realize it. The guests exchanged nervous glances as they tried to figure out what Ashok was getting at. Jagdish slowly moved one hand to the dagger in his sash.

Bidaya’s expression turned hard. All the pretenses are gone, and now they could all see the iron fist of House Vadal. “A life? Will any do, or do you seek one in particular?”

“Your life, aunt.”

There were cries of outrage. Sankhamur drew his blades. Ashok and Bidaya were staring at each other with icy hate.

“That is enough, Ashok. I know why you’re here. Speak no more, or wound this house forever,” she warned.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded a senior judge from the Capitol. “You may be a Protector, but that doesn’t allow you to insult your Thakoor! What could possibly be so valuable about this casteless you speak of?”

Bidaya shook her head, almost as if she was pleading for Ashok’s silence.

But Ashok would not grant her that mercy. “The casteless was my mother.”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 22

A Call To Arms – Snippet 22

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Readiness Two.

The words echoed through Osterman’s mind as she carefully slid her rebuilt circuit board back into the Forward Missile capacitor-charging monitor. Captain Fairburn hadn’t bothered to explain what was going on, and Osterman suspected most of the crew thought it was just part of the training exercise.

But all her years in the Navy had honed Osterman’s instincts into fine-tuned sensors in their own right. She could feel the subtle tension in the air, the slight edge in the sporadic orders and communications emanating from the bridge.

Something was definitely going on.

But what? A rescue mission? An attack on the Star Kingdom?

Pirates?

Readiness Two.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure float swiftly past the compartment doorway. She glanced over just in time to see that he was carrying something fist-sized in his hand. An electronic module, her brain automatically identified it, probably a hex.

Which in itself wasn’t unusual. Ever since general quarters had been called officers, petty officers, and spacers had been scrambling like mad to get half-working systems up to full operating capacity. Forward Weapons was no exception, and Osterman had nearly been mowed down at least twice by spacers maneuvering racks and large components through the zero-gee at unsafe speeds.

What made this current sighting odd was that there were no storerooms or component bins in the direction the spacer had come from.

Which strongly implied that the hex clutched in the spacer’s hand had been borrowed from somewhere else.

Osterman had pushed her way out of the compartment and sent herself flying down the passageway almost before the analysis had fully worked its way through her brain. Midnight requisitions were hardly unheard of aboard Salamander — indeed, they were depressingly common, given the chronic shortage of equipment. But there was a big difference between borrowing from a secondary system and from a vital one. Wherever the spacer was going with that hex, she was damn well going to find out where he’d gotten it.

She caught up with him two turns later, and to her complete lack of surprise saw that it was Spacer First Class Hugo Carpenter. “Hold it,” she called as she hurried to catch up. “Carpenter? I said hold it.”

For that first second it had looked like he might try to ignore the order and make a break for it. But the use of his name had apparently convinced him that running would be both useless and foolish. Catching hold of a handhold, he brought himself to a clearly reluctant halt.

“Yes, Senior Chief?” he greeted her carefully as he turned around, pressing the hex close to his side. Maybe he was hoping she wouldn’t notice it there.

Fat chance. Even on a ship full of scavengers, Carpenter was something of a legend among the petty officers.

“Something seems to have attached itself to your hand,” Osterman said. “I thought you might need help getting it removed.”

The majority of people didn’t blush in zero-gee. Unfortunately for Carpenter, he wasn’t one of them.

“Uh…” he stalled, his face reddening.

“Come on, we don’t have time for this,” Osterman growled, gesturing to the hex. “Where’d you get it?”

Carpenter sighed.

“Ensign Locatelli ordered us to get the tracking sensors up and running,” he said, reluctantly holding up the hex.

“What, all three systems?” Osterman asked, frowning. One of His Majesty’s ships these days was lucky if it had even two of the tracking systems running. Most of the time they had to make do with one.

“All three,” Carpenter confirmed, giving her a wan smile. “He said he didn’t care how we pulled it off, but that by God we would.”

Osterman suppressed a scowl. That sounded like Locatelli, all right. Still trying to wield the kind of authority he wasn’t even close to actually possessing.

“Where’d you get it?” she asked.

“The laser temperature sensor,” Carpenter said. “I figured that since the system has been down for weeks, and these components were just sitting there –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Osterman interrupted, plucking the hex out of his hand. With the lack of a functioning x-ray emitter having put the beam weapon semi-permanently out of commission, the rest of its associated equipment had become a sort of happy hunting ground for Salamander’s scroungers.

And indeed, Carpenter’s hex looked damn near fresh out of the box. There were no kluges, no rebuilds, and only a couple of casing scratches around the mounting bolts where careless techs had missed the mark with their screwdrivers. Definitely a component that hadn’t seen much use.

“You put your old hex in its place, I assume?”

“Yes, Senior Chief,” Carpenter said. “Ours wasn’t broken, exactly, just a little iffy, and I wasn’t sure it would hold up to one of Ensign Locatelli’s one-ten tests. If it didn’t — well, you know what he’s like.”

“Not sure I like your tone, Spacer,” Osterman warned. “That’s an officer you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, Senior Chief.”

Osterman grunted. Tone notwithstanding, Carpenter had a point. Locatelli the Younger was famous for pushing people and equipment past their limits, and had little patience when the results didn’t match up with his expectations.

In a navy with infinite money and resources, pushing components to a hundred and ten percent of their normal operating ceilings was a good way to weed out those that might fail under the added duress of combat. In a navy with extremely finite quantities of both, that kind of limit-pushing was just begging for trouble.

But nobody could tell Locatelli anything. More depressingly, nobody would tell him anything. Not with the shadow of his powerful uncle looming over him.

Still, this kind of poaching wasn’t something a senior chief ought to turn a blind eye to. Osterman was trying to decide whether to simply tell Carpenter to return the hex, or to take the time to accompany him to the beam monitor compartment to make sure he did it, when the ship’s klaxons abruptly began wailing. “Battlestations! Battlestations! All hands to battlestations. Set Condition One throughout the ship.”

Osterman swore under her breath. Battle stations. Whatever the hell was going on out there, it had just gotten real.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the hex back into Carpenter’s hands. “Get the tracker back together before Locatelli skins you alive.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said tensely. Shoving off the handhold, banging his shoulder against the bulkhead in his haste, he headed back toward Forward Missiles.

And in the meantime, Osterman still had the rest of the capacitor-charging system to double-check. Shoving herself the opposite direction, she flew down the passageway.

Wondering what the hell Captain Fairburn was up to.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Ravel said. “Even if Captain Shresthra was telling the truth about the hyperdrive interface being disassembled, there’s just no way to know how disassembled it was when this Grimm character took over. And without that data, there’s no way to know when Izbica will be ready to translate.”

Fairburn glared at the gravitics display. Izbica was still far ahead, with the TO still putting their zero-zero rendezvous half an hour away.

And that assumed the freighter didn’t increase her acceleration again. Salamander was already pulling more gees than Fairburn liked, and he really didn’t want to push his compensator any further than he already was.

Besides, for all they knew, Izbica’s hyperdrive might already be ready to spin up. Grimm could be one of those sadistic SOBs who would let Salamander get almost in reach before making his move.

In theory, assuming Salamander made it far enough outside the hyper limit, Fairburn could follow the target into hyperspace. But Salamander was still close enough to the edge to make that a bit risky. If Izbica got even a minute’s head start, all Fairburn would have to show for his trouble would be a single sarcastic communication, some useless sensor readings, and a double handful of nothing.

And Chancellor Breakwater and his allies would continue their campaign of scorn and contempt for the Navy.

Fairburn couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not when Salamander was so close.

Not when there might be a way to make sure that pirate ship stayed put.

“TO, what’s our range and position vis-à-vis a missile launch?” he asked.

Even without looking, he could sense the sudden tension on the bridge. “Excuse me, Sir?” Ravel asked carefully.

“Relax — I’m not planning to shoot her out of the sky,” Fairburn said, swiveling to face her. Ravel’s expression was just as rigid as her voice. “What I want is to send a missile past her wedge, detonating the warhead in front of her. Close enough for the blast to cause some damage to sensors, maybe glitch the hyperdrive or impellers if we’re lucky, but far enough away not to instantly vaporize her. Can you set up a shot like that?”

“Yes, Sir, I think so,” Ravel said, her voice going even more stiff and formal. “But even with close-control telemetry I can’t guarantee the blast will damage Izbica enough to disable her. If the error’s on the other end, it may destroy her outright.”

“Understood,” Fairburn said. “But actually disabling her may not be necessary. Once we’ve proven we have the will and the ability to destroy her, Grimm may be more willing to surrender.”

“That may be, Sir,” Todd spoke up, his expression and tone as formal as the TO’s. “For the record, Sir, I’m obliged to remind you that a missile is an expensive and valuable part of the Star Kingdom’s arsenal. To spend one on what is little more than a warning shot could be construed as wasteful.”

And Breakwater would indeed construe it that way, Fairburn knew. Firing a missile at Izbica would be a huge gamble, on several levels.

“I must also remind you, on the record,” Todd continued, “that standing orders require that all expenditures of missiles and other restricted ordnance be fully justified by the situation, and can only be done in consultation with the Executive and Tactical Officers.”