Restoree (22 page)

“Back in my great-grandfather’s day, we once had a force against us of one Star-class, four planet and a satellite. We had, at the time, eighty ships. Nine returned. We disabled two planet-types and the satellite. That was the biggest force we have ever attacked until now. The Mil usually send a group of planets and satellites. With their consistent losses in this area of the Great Starry Wheel, you’d think the Mil would have left us alone long ago.”

“You mean some of their ships still get through?”

Ferrill looked startled. “No! We destroy enough so that they retreat. But there is always a terrific loss of life for us.

“To knock out the control room, a suicide rider with nine men must approach to maximum penetration range of the nuclear missiles. That’s about one hundred land miles. That’s too close to a Mil, believe me. The ships are nothing but speed and one long cannon. Their success depends jointly on the skill and diversionary tactics of the pilot and the accuracy of the gunner. Very often, the suiciders are crushed by the impact of their own blast. All too often, the Mil gunners get the range first. And sometimes,” and Ferrill shuddered, “the riders are grappled and pulled inboard. Even if we do disable the Mil ship, those men are lost.”

“Why?” I asked without thinking.

Ferrill clicked his tongue at me. “One, if the men haven’t as yet been touched, they’ve gone mad by the time we reach them. Two, if they have been skinned, Council’s edict about restoration makes euthanasia imperative.”

“Skinned,” he had said. I had been “skinned,” alive! I fought the rising nausea and the shaking that gripped my diaphragm.

“I’ll wager that’s why!” Ferrill said with a note of triumph in his voice.

“Why what?” I managed to say, pushing to the back of my mind his last words.

“Why Monsorlit tied in with Gorlot”; and he leaned forward so that our conversation could not be overheard. “Gorlot knew some ships and men would fall into Mil hands. He had to have someone make perfect restorations on the victims so they would seem to be no more than Tane casualties. And Monsorlit went one step better. He pulled those restorees out of shock so there could be no suspicion whatever of the men having been Mil victims. To prove his point, Monsorlit would take a far greater risk.”

“I’ll tell Harlan you’re trying to dishonor his claim,” said Jokan’s voice behind me.

Ferrill grinned up at his uncle with a deprecating laugh. Jokan pulled up a chair and signaled a server.

“Did you manage to reassure the skeptics?” Ferrill demanded with an affectation of disinterest.

Jokan shrugged expressively and threw the slate he carried toward Ferrill who cocked his head sideways to read the slate without having to pick it up.

“The odds
are
favorable,” he said with some surprise. “Even if a trifle close to home. Don’t they see that?”

“What they see is the space tank and the proximity of the Mil to Lothar,” Jokan scoffed. “I believe the older one gets the more the fears and superstitions we should have abandoned centuries ago cloud the thinking.”

“Don’t they realize that the older one gets the less valuable he becomes to the Mil?” Ferrill pointed out cold-bloodedly. “No fat. No meat. No smooth hide.”

Jokan did not hide his distaste of Ferrill’s observation.

“I’m not concerned,” he said stiffly. Then grinned as he added, “But then, I’m under the largest pile of reinforced rock and metal on the planet. I also remind myself what the resonators can do to the Mil . . .”

“Under ideal laboratory conditions,” Ferrill inserted maliciously.

“Under ideal laboratory conditions,” Jokan assented without rancor, “which Harlan, with the reinforcement of the Ertoi and Glan, can reproduce.”

“If the Ertoi and Glan arrive in time,” Ferrill amended.

Jokan’s eyes sparkled angrily. “Are you through qualifying the odds against us?”

Ferrill flashed a look at Jokan but thought better of what he was about to say and hitched one shoulder negligently.

“I’m realistic, my dear uncle. Also I find an element of humor in the situation.”

Jokan snorted with disgust at this observation.

“Your humor was never so warped before, my dear nephew.”

“Nor was my life,” Ferrill added quietly, then added too brightly, “Monsorlit has been frightening Harlan’s Sara.”

“Ha. He’s in no position to frighten anyone. Stannall’s after him again. Monsorlit had best look to his own defense. And you have the strongest protection, Lady Sara,” Jokan said stoutly.

He had finished his quick meal as we talked and now rose.

“You two can exchange insults, if you wish,” he said as he glanced at the large time dial above the space tank, “but there are precisely eight hours and thirty-two seconds before encirclement and I intend to use it in sleeping. I relinquish our mutual ward into your safekeeping, Ferrill.” He bowed to the ex-Warlord and then to me, with a touch of his old insouciance, and departed.

“He’s sure about Stannall being after Monsorlit?” I asked hopefully.

Ferrill shrugged. “Stannall has been after Monsorlit for years. Never did know why. Some old quarrel. Stannall has a capacity for grudges that is astonishing.”

“Didn’t I hear Jokan call you nephew?” I asked after a pause.

“He is, after all, my uncle.”

“Well, why isn’t he a candidate for Warlord, instead of Maxil?”

“He and Harlan are only half-brothers to my father, Fathor. But you should remember that only my father’s line can inherit under the old laws. If Fathor had died without issue, and he certainly waited long enough to claim his lady, it would have been different. It’s a pity, too, because Jokan shows the real Harlan strain.”

“Doesn’t Harlan?” I demanded, piqued.

Ferrill chuckled and I realized his omission had been intentional. “Obviously. But Harlan’s real mission in life is to find more and more new planets. The Tane success went to his head. He’s got jet-itch. Besides he’s got nowhere near the deviousness of Jokan.”

“Then,” I demanded, confused by the intricacies of Lotharian governmental structure, “why wasn’t Jokan made Regent instead of Harlan?”

Patiently Ferrill explained that Harlan had been a Perimeter Commander. Jokan had never reached that rank nor intended to. Unfortunately, such military experience was the prime requisite for the Regency.

“Is that how Gorlot got in instead of Jokan when Harlan was drugged?”

“Naturally,” Ferrill assented, his eyes glittering angrily. “The system has too many faults and this affair should make it obvious to the Council that a revision of the old laws must be made. We are too hampered by age-old superstition and pre-Perimeter contingencies.” He snorted derisively. “It’s absurd to assume that only a direct descendant of the original Harlan can lead us to victory over the Mil. It’s ridiculous to bind the genius of modern military tactics to planet-bound traditions. Just like that argument over there!” and he indicated the group of Councilmen arguing vehemently around the space tank.

“Would they really censure Harlan for disregarding them?”

“How can they?” Ferrill scoffed. “At the moment, he
is
Warlord. That’s why he was picked as Regent, in the event of a military emergency an inexperienced stripling could not handle. His plan is law: it’s just typical of Harlan to wish to have Stannall’s agreement. It
is
preferable to have the First Councilman agree with you if you are Regent or Warlord.”

He rose abruptly.

“Jokan’s suggestion is contagious. We’ve hours yet before the crucial test of Harlan’s revolutionary tactics. Sleep passes time admirably. But first, join me for a glance at the tank?”

Ferrill and I stood a little removed from the others. He rightly assumed I needed an explanation. The science behind the tank’s projection he did not bother to expatiate. Its physical presence, however, was awesome enough. It was composed of an amber, transparent liquid or gas with no apparent material enclosing its circumference. It stood ten feet high and wide in the center of the room it dominated. A coil of wires at its foot was the sole connection to the machines and computers that formed a semicircle at its base. Beyond them, built obliquely from the ceiling, were the now blank screens. Only one panel on the boards below the screens was active, the master panel to which each ship in action was hooked. If the light which identified the ship went out, the ship had been destroyed. The technician could also tell by the color variation and pulsations the extent, in theory, of damage to any given vessel. At the computers the clerks were still busy. In all the room, no one’s eyes stayed long away from the mesmeric quality of the slowly moving masses in the tank.

Guardedly Ferrill indicated Lothar, a green ball in the approximate center of the tank. Above and beyond were Ertoi in blue and Glan’s yellow. Below and away from the other three systems was the red of the two Tane planets.

From Ertoi and Glan, lancing downward and bypassing Lothar were the light points of the Alliance ships, speeding to their rendezvous with Lothar’s fleet. Beyond Ertoi and Glan, I saw eight tiny points of light at regular intervals; far, far apart. Ferrill said they were the skeletal Perimeter Patrol that would be all Glan would have to defend it from the Mil if they broke through. Ertoi relied still on its sonic barrier.

“Why doesn’t Glan have it, too?” I asked, thinking that would have freed eight more ships.

“They never considered it necessary with the protection the Alliance has afforded them up till now.”

Speeding out from Lothar and converging from other points around the remaining quadrants of the tank was the fleet, moving not as swiftly as the Alliance ships but as inexorably. From the bottom of the tank, approaching with what I thought appalling comparative speed were the invading lights of the Mil. The alarm of the Councilmen was no longer a verbal fear that Jokan’s assurances and Ferrill’s amused air could dispel. It took no technician to estimate how near to Lothar that battle would take place. And the Mil’s ominous approach was aimed at the equator of the seemingly doomed Tanes.

“Would the Mil land on one of the Tane?” I asked.

Ferrill shook his head in a quick negative response.

“The Mil would never land with such a force approaching them. They could be blown off a planet and our casualties would be light. We overused those tactics a few centuries ago. No. They’ll meet Harlan in space. They’re pretty contemptuous of us in space, you know. I doubt they’ll remain so long.”

We watched, as others did, in hypnotized silence as the blinking lights made their almost imperceptible way. Finally, Ferrill touched my arm lightly and we both retired to our sleeping quarters.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
GENTLE TICKLING ON MY
feet roused me. The room was lit and I could see Ferrill grinning mischievously as he gave my foot one last brush.

“I used to wake Cherez like that and she’d throw a fit,” he grinned. “I thought you’d like to be in on the fun. Harlan’s brave gamble is about to start.”

I scrambled out of the cot, took time to dash cold water in my eyes and comb back my hair before joining Ferrill. I wouldn’t have needed Ferrill’s comment to know that the climax was at hand. The entire room watched the screen, some standing on chairs or desks for better views of the all-important spatial tank. The computers were silent. Conversation was limited to terse low whispers. The tension, fear and apprehension in the main room was like a physical blow after the sleeping quarters. Ferrill had paused at the threshold and we both drifted through the watchers until we found Jokan. He was standing behind Stannall and Lesatin. Jokan looked around irritably as I brushed against him to make way for Ferrill. He gave us the sketchiest of acknowledgments before turning back to the tank.

I had to make myself look at the sphere. Its story dried up the saliva in my mouth. I was certain the pounding of my heart would be audible.

Tane had been bypassed. Empty space separated the straggling Lotharian space fleet from the home planet. The blips of light that were our defenders resembled a tiny crystal string of beads thrown casually on a jeweler’s velvet around a pendant of twenty-three bright diamonds in random pattern. The beads circumscribed no circle; one end, the Ertoi and Glan contingent being too far out to complete even the roughest circular formation. Ferrill’s groan was not noted by anyone.

At first I wondered why the Mil would let themselves be even so loosely encircled. Then I remembered that the Mil in space would wreak terrible losses, so they could be arrogant about our puny trap. I watched the beads, still loose, but slowly, slowly perfecting their circle. They drifted at the same time with such snail slowness toward Lothar. Ertoi and Glan became stationary, being uppermost to Lothar; below and beyond it, I could see the barely larger blips that were the four Star-class Lothar battlewagons in their major compass-point positions. The pendant moved inexorably and the rear quadrants moved still closer, the uneven beads gradually, gradually settling into a rough circle.

I had been so fascinated with the fleet movement that I had not noticed the movements of the Mil pendant. Once a mass of light, it now began to lose its compactness and to string out into a rough line.

Jokan groaned and twisted his tense body in an unconscious effort to bunch the Mil ships back into their former position. Stannall covered his face for a moment, with a shaking hand. When he turned to Jokan, I was aghast at the exhaustion and hopelessness of his expression.

“That maneuver, doesn’t it decrease the effectiveness of the resonant barrage?” he asked, hoping to hear the contrary.

“It depends, sir, it all depends.”

“On what?” Stannall demanded fiercely.

“On how much our men can stand of the backlash from the electromagnetos that generate the resonance. If we can saturate the Mil ships with enough force, their belated dispersal means nothing.” Jokan clenched his jaws grimly. “I
wish
we had had time to develop effective shielding for the power-bleed. At the moment,” he continued in answer to Stannall, “we can be sure of this section being completely paralyzed,” and his finger stabbed at the center of the Mil pendant. “Partial disability on either end and, with luck, our normal tactics can take care of the rest.”

“If they string out farther?” Stannall dragged the words from his mouth.

“The decrease in total disability is proportional. Individual engagements increase.”

Stannall’s expression was desperate and his lips, thinned by fatigue to white lines, closed obdurately over his teeth.

We waited. Glances at the time dial were more frequent. It lacked but a few moments of the hour set for the barrage. Jokan was counting off nervously to himself and someone else on the other side of the room counted out loud. I was not the only one to mouth the seconds in concert.

Zero hour!

The tank remained unchanged. I don’t know what I expected to happen. How much of a time lag there was between the ships and the tank I didn’t know but the next moments or minutes seemed eternities.

A new voice broke the stillness. Glancing up I saw that a patroller was standing before the master panel that checked the condition of the ships. His voice, dispassionate and measured, brought us no consolation.

“No casualties. Two minutes and no casualties. All ships functioning. Three minutes and no casualties.”

No casualties, my brain, echoed. What an odd war. Bloodless, remotely fought, remotely observed. Would death, too, seem remote to the dying? Fear, however, was not remote. It laid lavish hands on everyone in that room, on everyone, I was sure, on those ships and on the planet of Lothar.

“No casualties,” the drone continued.

The intervals between his litany lengthened and suddenly, unable to watch the unchanged picture longer, Stannall whirled on Jokan.

“Nothing has happened. How long does it take?” he cried in tense, strident tones that echoed through the fear-filled room with piercing audibility. Someone started to sob and stopped, choking the sound back.

“The maximum vibrations for the Mil should build in no less than six minutes,” Jokan said tonelessly. “The beam is played across the ship for maximum effect. We count on the fact that the Mil cannot initiate evasive tactics at high acceleration speeds as we can. The longer they remain within the effective range of the beam, the quicker the resultant destructive resonance is reached.”

Someone was counting the seconds again. Still the formation of the ships, all the ships, remained the same, a circle of beads tightening slowly around the menacing gaggle of Mil ships. The man had counted to ten minutes past the zero hour before a voice, in the anguish of waiting, shrieked for him to stop. The circle of beads tightened, drifting ever upward toward the system of Lothar.

“It isn’t working, that’s what’s wrong,” a beefy Councilman snapped, his voice trembling. “That puny electricity doesn’t work. Fathor stopped that research. He must have had a reason. They don’t work, that’s what, and we’ll all . . .”

“All ships functioning,” the official voice, calm and deliberate, broke in. “No casualties.”

“Look, look,” someone cried, gesticulating toward the tank.

The string of beads was breaking up, splitting into smaller circles, driving for the ends of the Mil line.

“They’re using the suicide ships now. The resonators didn’t work at all. We’re lost. The Mil will be here,” a man beyond Stannall blubbered.

Stannall strode to his side in three swift paces and, although the fellow was younger and heavier, the First Councilman fetched him four sharp cracks across the face and turned defiantly to face the room.

“If the Mil should come, we will be ready with the courage and fortitude which have brought us so far along the road to freedom from their awful raiding. Let no one else forget his valiant heritage.”

“One suicide ship casualty,” the announcer droned. “All others functioning.”

On the tank, a small expanding glow appeared and then one bead blinked out. One light obediently darkened on the master panel. But the tank also told another story. The midsection of the Mil line proceeded unharried by the ships which concentrated their efforts on the ends. The tiniest blips flashed in with unbelievable speed compared with the lumbering efforts of others. The upper end reflected a brief glow and the announcer tallied another casualty.

“They’re attacking only the ends,” someone cried in dismay. “The rest are coming straight at us.”

“NO!” shouted Jokan, his voice ringing with triumph. He sprang to the side of the spatial tank. “The midsection is totally disabled. The resonators did their work. Look, would that big a detachment allow the others to be attacked without firing? See, here, here and here, our positions would be vulnerable to their range and yet there are no casualties. I tell you, that weapon works. It does. It does! And see, there’s one of the lead Mil ships going up.”

One of the larger Mil lights at the head of the line flared and died. The announcer gave us no death notice for a defender.

“See what Harlan is doing,” Jokan continued excitedly. “We have plenty of time to disable the far end. He’s tried two passes with the riders to the foremost Mil and is blasting them out of the sky. That means they must be partially disabled. No Mil will set down on Lothar!” His words rang through the big room and set off a cheering, shouting, weeping roar of hysterical relief. Jokan, grinning so broadly his face seemed to split, tears in his eyes, looked around, thrilled at the sight of hope where despair had so long enervated morale.

I, too, was caught up in the emotional backlash, weeping not so much with the relief of salvation as with the knowledge that Harlan would return, in honor and unharmed. The fear of the others did not touch me as deeply, I suppose, because I had not lived with fear of the Mil all my life. Vicariously I was caught up in that joyous hysteria until I noticed Stannall. He was clutching wildly at his chest. His face was gray, his lips blue, his breath shallow, eyes pain-filled and he grabbed wildly at me in his weakness.

Glancing around for someone else to help me, I was even grateful to Monsorlit who must have seen Stannall’s seizure from across the room. The physician was fumbling in his belt as he pushed through the milling, shouting, jumping men. He reached us, jammed a hypodermic needle into Stannall’s arm and smoothly reinforced my grip around the First Councilman.

Jokan, aware of Stannall’s distress, pushed through and lifted Stannall easily into his arms. Bawling for passage, he carried the ailing Councilman to his sleeping room. Monsorlit ordered me to get his instruments from Room 12 and I ran with no respect for dignities.

When I returned with the case, Stannall was pillowed into a sitting position. Although he was sweating profusely, his breath came with less effort. Monsorlit grabbed the bag I opened and seized a stethoscopic device. Jokan was joined by Ferrill now. Monsorlit’s examination relieved him, for he gave a barely audible sigh and reached with less haste for his bag. He picked a vial carefully, filled a new needle and administered the medication.

“Good sir,” Monsorlit said in such low tones only I could hear, “there are too few of your fiber for us to be deprived of you. This time you will have to listen to me.”

He rose from the bedside and, as he turned, I caught the flickering of the only expression I ever saw on Monsorlit’s face. It was the more astonishing to me, this combination of fear, relief, worry and compassion, since there was no doubt of Stannall’s trenchant disapproval of Monsorlit. The physician glanced at me briefly, his features composed in their usual coldness. He passed me and motioned all of us out to the corridor.

Ferrill and Jokan, instantly the door closed, demanded the diagnosis with impatient concern.

“A heart attack,” Monsorlit said dispassionately, replacing his stethoscope with care, rearranging a vial or two precisely before closing the bag. “Natural enough with such intense strain and inadequate rest. I’ve administered a sedative that should keep him asleep for many hours. He must be kept absolutely quiet for the next weeks and complete bedrest is indicated for the next few months. Or, we shall have to elect a new First Councilman. I believe Cordan is his personal physician. He should attend our Council Leader immediately. To reassure all of us.” Monsorlit permitted himself the vaguest of wry grins at his afterthought.

“But Stannall’s presence is . . .” Jokan began, gesturing toward the tank.

“ . . . is required in his bed and asleep,” Monsorlit finished with bland authority. “I do not care what duties he leaves unfinished. There are certainly enough qualified men to make decisions until Harlan returns. Unless, of course, you wish to commit Stannall to the Eternal Flame tomorrow?”

With that, Monsorlit turned on his heel and walked away.

By now the jubilation had subsided sufficiently for the drone of the announcer to be heard. The score of casualties had mounted, but only nine lights were out on the master panel. Two flickered weakly, eight pulsed, but the strength of the light indicated only minor damage. Jokan, after a glance at the picture in the tank, strode across the room to the knot of anxious Councilmen. Stannall’s collapse had been noted as well as the exchange between Jokan and Monsorlit.

“I think,” commented Ferrill thoughtfully, “that the situation is now under the efficient control of Jokan. Will you join me for some refreshment, Lady Sara?”

“Shouldn’t someone stay with Stannall?” I protested.

“Monsorlit seems to have taken that into account,” Ferrill said and directed my attention to the brisk figure coming from the farthest sleeping rooms. The woman, a large, efficient-looking person, stopped at Stannall’s door. She opened it with a quick practiced gesture and entered. A pair of guards simultaneously took positions on either side of the door.