Ruler of Naught (72 page)

“I propose we execute the third attack as planned, with us
dumping the mock lances, but instead of meeting at the next staging point,
Falcomare
will skip behind Lunaire. The moon’s mass will hide us as we relay a beam
through a drone to talk to Juvaszt, and watch him as well. In the meantime, you
two join our frigates and chase off those Rifters. Whichever of you can, dump a
fourth wave here in relation to the
Fist
.” The tactical plot responded
to his touch as he sketched out the geometry of the attack.

“We’ll be talking to him at that point and powering up in a
Katy Wheel, so when he skips up on the first leg of his circum-planetary jump
and starts to come about, we can wheel past him and get off a shot at his
radiants without endangering Arthelion or the Highdwellings.”

A ship always emerged from skip on the same heading it
entered on, with conservation of any rotation. By imposing a yawing spin on the
Falcomare
and skipping at just the right moment, the ship would emerge
with the missile tube already swinging into alignment with the
Fist of
Dol’jhar
.

He held up a hand as he saw the objection on their faces. He
knew it wasn’t to the danger of the maneuver—the
Falcomare
would emerge headed
more or less straight for Arthelion, since that was the only way they could get
off a shot aiming safely away from the planet.

“Sorry, Bea, Jarnock. Rank hath its privileges.” He smiled.
“This one’s mine.”

“Pretty iffy,” Galt growled. “That’s a double Katy you’re
planning.
Falcomare
up to it?”

“Green thoughts, Jarnock.” Hayashi laughed. “The
Fistula
didn’t connect with any of us, so we’re as ready as you are.”

They laughed at him. He knew they didn’t begrudge him the
shot.

It was too bad that there was no safe way to plan a
follow-up attack on the battlecruiser. This close to the planet the risk was
unacceptable. Only one ship could deliver their response, and that ship would
be the
Falcomare
.

They conferred a few minutes longer, agreeing that they’d
keep up the mock lance attack even after they ran out of BBQ materials, to keep
the ships guarding Arthelion out of the main battle as long as possible, and
signed off. Moments later, the
Falcomare
skipped out toward Arthelion to
begin the third attack.

o0o

The radiants of their two attackers dwindled, vanishing in
twin bursts of reddish light as the third attack ceased.

“Possible ruptor hit on one destroyer during the last
attack. No IDs.”

Anaris noted the obvious relief in Erechnat Chikhuri at the
weapons console as the sensors officer reported. Dealing with a fractional-cee
attack was difficult, especially from two directions at once, but so far the
Fist
had dealt nothing to its enemies to compare to the destruction wrought on the aft
second hangar bay during the first attack. It didn’t help that since the
Highdwellings around Arthelion were now the Avatar’s possessions, their use of
the ruptors was severely constrained.

The Panarchists are probably aware of that, too
. So
far, the enemy’s tactics had shown a thorough understanding of Dol’jharian
thought patterns, an understanding unmatched by Juvaszt and the other officers
on the
Fist of Dol’jhar
, especially since the enemy’s ECM had so far
prevented them from identifying their attackers other than ship class.

It galled Anaris that though he recognized a ruse, he did
not yet comprehend the purpose of the attack. A battlecruiser was capable of
absorbing this kind of warfare indefinitely; since the destroyers couldn’t use
their skipmissiles, they couldn’t hope to disable the
Fist
. But there
was no sign of any other activity, although he was certain there were other
Panarchist ships out there.

The Panarch stood at ease between his Tarkan guards, intent
on the viewscreens. That was the only other person on the bridge who realized
that this was all a sham, but did he know what the Navy’s real thrust was?

The fiveskip snarled as the
Fist of Dol’jhar
made the
first of the skips that would take it around Arthelion to assist the Rifter
contingent in dealing with the latest wave of lances.

So-Erechnat Terresk-jhi stiffened in her pod, tapping at the
communications console. “Real-time message from
Deathstorm
,” she
reported. “They are under attack by a battlecruiser... ” Her brow crinkled in
puzzlement. “It did not use ruptors, and skipped out after disabling the drives
and the skipmissile accelerator.”

And then it all crashed together in Anaris’s mind. Real-time!
They had real-time communications at any distance through the Urian
communicator, and the Panarchists hadn’t.
That’s what they’re after.

He stepped forward to stand beside the command pod. “They
want an Urian communicator,” he said. “This attack is merely a diversion.”

Juvaszt gave him a brief glance, tapped at his console, and
then looked up again consideringly. “Diversion it may be, but we cannot leave
the Avatar undefended.”

He turned away. “Communications, I want a real-time feed on
that secondary screen—” He tapped his console and one of the smaller screens
near the main viewscreen flashed. “—for all Rifter vessels in-system.”

The communications officer worked at her console, and a
number of windows began popping up on the indicated screen. They flickered, the
images were grainy, and Terresk-jhi’s movements became steadily more jerky and
frantic, signaling severe stress. Occasionally another image would bleed
through for a moment. The discriminators were having trouble dealing with the
overload caused by the comments and images flooding in from all over the
Thousand Suns as the battle at Arthelion engaged the interest of their Rifter auxiliaries.

Juvaszt began issuing orders, dispatching all the Rifters in
the system to converge on the
Deathstorm’s
position. His speech was
clearer now; the medic had packed his wound with an absorbent, but Anaris could
hear his irritation as he dealt with the increasingly unclear communications
with the Rifters in the Arthelion system.

When he was finished he leaned back in his command pod. “If
that’s what they want, then they will commit all their forces to gaining it,”
said Juvaszt. “Now we can force the engagement and use the full weight of our
weapons against them.”

“Message incoming,” said Terresk-jhi. “From the captain of
the Panarchist attack squadron. He’s hiding behind the moon, relaying the signal
via drone. Two-point-five-second delay.”

Juvaszt glanced up at Anaris again, his expression difficult
to read. “Navigation, hold position. Put him on.”

The viewscreen flickered to reveal a powerfully built man
with a strong, hawk-nosed face, seated in his command pod. The bridge around
him was out of focus. Anaris studied him while the lightspeed delay elapsed,
then shifted his attention to the Panarch, whose smile was gone, replaced by
the mask of command.
It’s happening as I expected.

After five seconds the image spoke. “Captain Metellus
Hayashi, of His Majesty’s destroyer
Falcomare
, commanding. I assume, as
is your nature, that you intend His Majesty as a hostage against the safety of
your ship. I will need to confirm his well-being before speaking further.”

Juvaszt smiled thinly in triumph as he motioned to the
Tarkans. They prompted the Panarch forward, as Juvaszt said, “That, and
cessation of your attacks against the Mandala, and of the action in the middle
system... ” He broke off as the communications officer motioned to him and
pointed to a screen reporting
Satansclaw’s
engagement with a Panarchist
destroyer whose ID matched one of their previous assailants. The Rifter
auxiliaries were being drawn out of position again as the enemy committed more
forces against them.

As Juvaszt’s reply reached him the Panarchist captain’s eyes
shifted from the kyvernat to the Panarch. He saluted, but remained seated,
within reach of his controls. “Your Majesty. I regret the circumstances. Are
you well?”

Anaris watched the Panarch as he replied, “As well as can be
expected.” Anaris wondered if Juvaszt had an inkling of the formal emptiness of
the exchange between the two, an emptiness that hid a fullness of meaning that
needed no explicit statement. I congratulate you on your tactics,” the Panarch
went on in his measured Douloi cadences, so pleasant to the ears, and so
fraught with hidden meaning. “I’m sure Kyvernat Juvaszt here will confirm their
effectiveness...”

As the two talked on, Anaris sustained the visceral flare of
conviction, but hid it. The lightspeed delay made the conversation seem even
more dance-like and ritualistic: it was utterly Douloi. He could see Juvaszt’s
gaze begin to shift between the two Panarchists.
He senses something wrong,
but doesn’t have a chance of figuring out what it is.
Exultation
accelerated Anaris’s heartbeat. This Hayashi was giving him the keys to power
on the
Fist of Dol’jhar
.

“... and so I thank you, Your Majesty. That is good to
know.” Hayashi’s gaze moved back to Juvaszt. “Well, Captain, you leave me no
choice. Please stand by.”

“By no means,” replied Juvaszt quickly, his uncertainty
evaporating. “We will not stand by while your lances attack the Mandala. We
will discuss terms after we have dealt with them.” He motioned decisively and
the image flickered and froze.

Gelasaar’s eyebrows lifted fractionally, and somehow the
gesture, freighted with meaning that no one else on the bridge could grasp,
left Anaris feeling even more alone than usual. For the one man who saw and
understood his coming triumph was one with whom he couldn’t share it.

o0o

The engines of the Falcomare groaned on a rising note,
accelerating the ship into a yawing spin that was taking it dangerously close
to the stress limits imposed by its elongated form.

On the viewscreen the image froze. The Panarch looked out of
the screen directly at Hayashi, his gaze as compelling as if they were still in
contact.

Metellus Hayashi laughed, a savage sound; his bridge echoed
his emotions.

“Skipmissile charged and ready,” reported Lieutenant
Ushkaten.

“Engage,” Hayashi said.

There was a fractional pause—the computer would actually
decide the moment of skip. Then the fiveskip burped, taking them out from
behind the moon on the first leg of the skip that would hurl them in for the
attack. It ceased, and the stars whirled madly across the viewscreen. The ghost
of inertial pulled at Hayashi’s inner ear; the gravitors were not designed to
compensate for this dramatic a rotation.

The fiveskip burped again, not so harshly. They couldn’t
afford too high a real velocity, since they’d emerge headed at the planet. The
lower speed would leave them exposed to the enemy’s ruptors all that much
longer, but Hayashi was counting on the Dol’jharian inability to believe that
they would fire on a ship carrying their liege.

Fools! Juvaszt—
not purged, dammit
—would be shot, if
he was lucky, for doing so.
I’d be shot, and rightly so, if I didn’t.

“Emergence,” sang Navigation.

Arthelion was too close behind them, fleeing across the
screen as the ship yawed, and then the bright star of the
Fist of Dol’jhar
came into view. The screen flickered to maximum magnification.. The vast
battlecruiser began to come about for its second skip to deal with the fourth
lance attack. Its radiants flared brightly, then were overlaid by the reddish
pulse-wake of a skipmissile. A gout of light briefly blackened the screen.

Then, as the nose of the
Falcomare
swung past their
enemy, the computer engaged the fiveskip, launching them away from the
engagement.

o0o

Coolness wrapped Ivard round as the light dimmed and
changed, echoes pressed on him, a sweet scent clanged in his skull—where were
the cymbals, then?

... love is stronger than death...

One had sung that.

And then there was a woman’s face, gray-haired, kindly.
Ivard tasted love, felt coolness, delicious, on forehead, lips, and chest. The
blue fire leapt up, delighted, and withdrew a measure, and he returned to
himself.

“... find your heart’s desire... ”
He smiled at the
woman. Then the haze returned, blue and smothering. Ivard struggled against it.
The woman caressed his cheek and stepped aside, so Ivard moved on, hating the
worm-like movements of his body. He was glad Greywing couldn’t see him.

Anger doused the blue fire, leaving him aware of the
vaulting space around him. But the blue fire flared up insistently, conjuring
crowds of ghosts around him: he could see them—or was it smell? taste?—moving
in patterns of grace and courtesy, centered on the white table at the other end
of the long room, where he beheld a glint of silver.

He was drawn along with the ghosts. The air around him felt uncertain,
as if the boundaries of the now had bled away, leaving him walking in past,
present and future, all three suffused in the light from the colorful windows,
under the vaulted ceiling so high above.

A swell of music freshened the air. Somewhere ahead a man
sat at a tall console raised above the floor, his hands playing over the keys.

As Ivard neared the table, the splendor of his surroundings
reminded him of the palace and all the beautiful things they’d taken. They were
going to be rich, until the nicks caught up with them. He saw Greywing’s face
again, and the little metal disc with the bird on it, that he’d lost.
Heart’s
desire...

The music broke into a discordant series of tones as Ivard,
alone and lonely, limped up the steps of the dais on which the
white-and-gold-clad table stood. His crewmates had vanished. Even the ghosts
were gone.