Korval's Game (33 page)

The noise stopped as suddenly as it started, and then there was a more distant sound, as of confident marching. Miri began moving toward one of her lieutenants when the woods near her lead troops exploded with the sound of a Paradis 88.

The targets were up on the hill, and Miri could suddenly see the movement and hear the return fire of dozens of alien weapons. There was a whoosh, an explosion and scream—but by now it was clear which side was which and her lead troops opened live fire on an enemy for the first time.

It was obvious they’d stumbled into a flanking movement by the Yxtrang, one that the Paradis had been supposed to foil.

Now it was their turn, and she signaled her squads into a battle line, tried to straighten out a kink that could be dangerous. The folks on the hill hadn’t been expecting quite so many people, apparently, but they were still willing to fight.

It was hard to tell, but it looked like there were more and more of the Yxtrang up on the hill, as if the whole damned bunch of them had tried an end around.

The Irregulars were returning fire, but the lead squad was in big trouble and likely to get cut off. The Yxtrang were concentrating fire there, and there were more of them on the hill, so many that it looked like a charge forming.

Miri pulled the whistle from her pocket, sounded the attention blast and the double-pulse of short pullback. The Irregular’s firing dropped decidedly then as they all tried to worm backward five meters like they’d been taught.

“Beautiful, up there. A charge forming?” Miri yelled.

“Yes, Captain. I believe it likely.”

“Tell that crew there to open up with their toy. Now!”

Nelirikk crawled to the crew with flag still wrapped tight, carrying the boxes of extra ammo to them, taking time to point out the most likely route down the hill . . .

There was something quite satisfying in the chatter of the Sternbach. True, it wasn’t a Paradis 88, but it should do. She glanced back at the smoke-wreathed gun crew.

Shit. Now they were for it.

The gun crew sat behind their almost-shield of a downed log, the Irregular’s battle-standard waving insults at the enemy.

Unexpectedly, up on the hillside, a spot of color showed, flapped—snapped to blood red.

Nelirikk was suddenly beside her, low to the ground, a very real grin on his face.

“Captain, we face Tactical Assault Twenty-Two. They are very famous for their attacks!”

She cussed but he didn’t hear, for at that moment the woods screamed with Yxtrang rage and the charge began.

***

There wasn’t time
for finesse. Miri blew the command that released squads to sergeants. And when she turned to repeat the call in the other direction, she saw the Yxtrang behind them.

This charge was really aimed at the Sternbach—in fact both of them were. The unit was falling back on its own accord toward the flag; the Yxtrang were heading there, too.

A young trooper—one of the refugee volunteers—fell half a yard away, the side of his face gone. Miri dove, snatched up his rifle and fired into the oncoming mass while the Sternbach kept up its end of the conversation, and the Paradis—

An Yxtrang fell at her feet, dead, and the short sharp sound of a pistol going off behind her warned her to turn.

The pistol spoke again and there was a wounded Yxtrang flung by her. He started to rise, and she took him out, spinning into a forest of blades as the Yxtrang wave and the 1st Irregulars crashed together and merged.

Miri fired, dropped her man, found another target, and heard Nelirikk scream, “Yadak!”

She saw the blade flashing downward, killing-bright in a huge hand, swung the rifle up to catch it—

From behind and above, Nelirikk’s arm swept out, into the blade, smashing it out of the Yxtrang’s hand and Nelirikk’s hands were around a throat, crushing, and he roared out, “Irregulars! Irregulars!”

The Sternbach chattered on and other voices took up the yell, “Irregulars!” and the flag stood over it all.

***

Nelirikk’s arm
was bandaged, but his care was for the flagstaff, whereon he hung—upside down—the flag of Tactical Assault Twenty-two.

Miri waited for yet more casualty reports, watching as the crew of the Sternbach fieldstripped it lovingly.

“Beautiful,” she said finally. “What’s yadak?”

“Captain.” He was carefully looking more at the flag-project than at her. “Yadak was the field name of a dead man. It means nothing.”

Miri nodded. She’d been afraid of that. “So you knew that guy. I’m sorry—”

He shrugged, discomforted by more than the wound, Miri thought.

“Yadak made many errors, Captain. He joined the 14th Conquest Corps. He came with them to this planet. He volunteered for Tactical Assault Twenty-two. And he attacked my captain with a machete while she stood command over a unit with Jela’s insignia on its flag.”

“You mean he shoulda known better?”

He took his time answering.

“Captain, Yadak and I both learned at Jela’s feet. He left the home unit before I did, seeking action.” He looked at her, blue eyes bleak.

“Yadak did not believe much in tradition. But, yes, Captain. He should have known better.”

***

The position
of lifeboat number four had been stable for some time. Ren Zel touched a switch on the main board.

“Tower.” Rusty Morgenstern’s voice was scratchy with fatigue.

“This is the command helm, Radio Tech,” Ren Zel said, as gently as one might in the sometimes bewildering modelessness of Terran. “Please do the grace of directing a laser-packet beam to these coordinates—” The transfer was made from his screen to Rustywith a keystroke. “Alert this station when a dialog has been established.”

“Will do.”

“Thank you,” Ren Zel murmured, and hesitated a moment over the proper phrasing. “Do honor your rest-shift, Radio Tech. The ship depends upon your acuity.”

There was a slight pause, followed by a sound that might have been a grudging chuckle. “Caught me, did you? I’ll hit the sack as soon as we get Shan on the line. Tower out.”

“Command helm out.”

He returned to his duty. The watch-points reported nothing untoward. Apparently they had won a measure of respect from the Yxtrang in their first encounter.

Or the Yxtrang were biding their time.

Regardless, the
Passage
continued its spiral orbit toward Lytaxin. Ren Zel pulled up an auxiliary screen and began to calculate approach vectors, measuring this orbit against that, in terms of best defense of the world below. . .

At some point he became aware of a presence beside him and looked up to find Priscilla Mendoza standing quietly at his shoulder, her eyes on the watch screens.

“A quiet shift, First Mate?”

“A quiet shift, Captain. Lifeboat four has come to rest. The Tower is attempting to establish contact. The Yxtrang have been—circumspect.”

“Well for the Yxtrang,” she said, moving her eyes at last from the screens and smiling at him.

Ren Zel went cold, and in that instant she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder—a sister’s touch, warming, yet inexpressibly painful to one who was dead to three sisters of his blood.

“It’s Weapons Hall,” the woman before him was saying, her deep voice resonant; her black eyes brilliant and fierce. “I told you I had preparations to make. For the good of the ship.”

“So you had.” He cleared his throat. “One had not anticipated . . .”

She laughed, rich and full, drawing the eyes of the duty pilot in a quick flick over a shoulder before he returned to his board.

“No, how could you? I barely anticipated it myself, and I’ve been to Weapons Hall more times than I can count.” Her eyes strayed again to the watch-screens, touched the corner that elucidated the position of lifeboat four, and moved on to the work screen.

“You’re calculating defensive orbits. Good. We’ll also want to bracket that battleship. Have you found anything like a defense system?”

“Debris,” Ren Zel said, reaching to the board and bringing up the charts. “Ship’s records indicate satellite defenses in orbits correlating to the orbits of clustered wreckage.” He looked up into those brilliant black eyes. “The Yxtrang were thorough.”

She nodded.

On the main board, the channel light glowed to life.

“Tower here.”

Captain Mendoza leaned over his shoulder, extending a long arm for the switch.

“Hi, Rusty.”

“Captain,” the Radio Tech said seriously. “Wanted to let you know—there’s no answer on that punchbeam.”

Ren Zel held still, watching the side of her face, refusing to allow himself despair. For after all, there were many reasons why the laser-packet to lifeboat four might have gone unanswered, and not . . . all . . . of them were dire.

“I see,” the captain said quietly. “Keep trying, in quarter-shift rotation. When the reply comes through, notify me immediately.”

“Yes’m. Will do.”

“Good,” she said. “And, Rusty . . .”

“Ren Zel already read me the riot act,” he interrupted. “I’m turning the Tower over to Tonee and Lina and getting me some shut-eye.”

“Lina?” the captain repeated, blankly.

“Yes, Lina.” The voice of the ship’s librarian came briskly out of the speaker. “I speak Yxtrang, Priscilla.”

“You do?”

“Certainly,” Lina said, as if it were the most commonplace of talents. “Why not? The scouts gave the tapes. It would have been a poor use of the gift, to allow them to languish.”

“Of course,” the captain said seriously, but Ren Zel thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “Carry on. Captain out.”

“Tower out,” Lina said. The line-light dimmed and the captain turned her brilliant eyes back to himself.

“Speaking of off-shifts—First Mate, I believe the shift passes.”

He made to rise from the command chair, his eyes touching the screens once more. “Captain—” he began, and froze.

In watch-screen three—a blot of nothing where moments before the instruments had reported clean space.

“Fleas,” he said, hand sweeping out for the all-ship. “All crew, attend! Fleas at three o’clock! Battle stations. Level red.”

Beside him, he heard—no, he
felt
—a gasp, and his eyes leapt in some fey instinct to the corner where the coordinates for lifeboat four should be displayed—

And read instead the stark message from the tracking computer:

CONTACT LOST. LIFE POD UNIT FOUR OFF-GRID.

The explosion was
—beyond his expectation.

When the ground stopped bucking, and after prudently giving it another few minutes to re-acquaint itself with a less volatile state of being, Shan sat up, sticks and gravel raining off his shoulders.

He had expected a . . . significant . . . result from overloading the lifeboat’s coil circuits, and had taken care to put what he believed to be a sensible distance between himself and ground zero, dashing like a long-legged hare through the forest, stasis box under one arm, bulky Yxtrang rifle in the opposite hand, to drop at last behind a solid-looking boulder and bury his face in the mold.

He had not expected a force that would uproot trees around him, shattering boulders less stalwart than his chosen cover, and throwing cargo-holds of dirt and gravel high into the air.

In the aftermath of the shock came a silence so profound Shan wondered if he had been deafened. He stood, shaky, but keeping a good grip on the rifle, and wiped his face on the leather sleeve of his combat jacket. The silence was terrifying. The wreckage of downed limbs and exposed roots, bewildering. If the lifeboat’s last duty had caused such damage here, what must the site of the blast be like?

“Really, Shan,” he said, and it was a relief to hear his own voice, blurry and cracked as it was. “You might have killed someone.”

Abruptly, he sat on the ground behind the boulder, jaw clamped against a sound that might with equal possibility be laughter or a scream. Automatically, he began an inventory.

The rifle was unharmed, the magazine full. The Yxtrang soldier’s ammunition belt, too large for his waist, was slung from shoulder to hip, like a bandoleer. The Yxtrang’s grace-blade, which Dustin had retrieved along with the belt, hung within easy snatch of his right hand.

Weapons counted and made certain of, he turned his attention to the stasis box. It was dented, the Tree-and-Dragon scratched, but the seal had held. He smiled when he saw that and lay his palm over the scratched insignia.

. . . more than a touch of the Dragon in you . . .

He shook his head sharply.

Priscilla
, he thought, painfully,
is not going to take the news that the lifepod is off-grid with equanimity
. No more than he would, had their places been exchanged. Though it was to be hoped that his lifemate would have had more wit than to detonate a coil-driven vessel on a world-surface.

Sounds were beginning to nibble at the edge of the silence. Shan raised his head, listening, sorted out gunfire, some distance to the east.

Nodding, he came to his feet, picked up the precious box and the rifle and looked around him.

The fallen trees gave almost too much cover, the grounded branches were more hazard than assistance. So, he took a few moments to plot his course, from this rock, to that log, to that tree, to
that
one, and then to that large red rock, where he would plot the next stage of his travel.

***

He was in the midst
of his third stage of travel toward the battle-sounds when his open Healer sense caught a familiar glimmer of pattern. He altered course and in a very short time was face to dirt-smeared face with Corporal Dustin.

“Sir.” There was honest relief and not a little wariness in the nutmeg-colored eyes. “Thought we’d lost you.”

“Only temporarily misplaced, for your sins,” Shan said, slipping behind the corporal’s sheltering log and settling the stasis box close.

“You near the big blast?” Dustin asked.

“I’m afraid I’m the one responsible for the big blast. If the coil circuits in a spacefaring vessel are simultaneously closed and set to charge at full, they will overload and catastrophically give up their energy in something just under five Standard minutes. I can do the math for you more precisely later, if you find you’re interested.”