The Rifter's Covenant (15 page)

The remaining time
passed swiftly until the Kelly captain signed off. ZiTuto led his squad through
the litany of diagnostics and preparation.

On their displays,
the thirty men and women of his lance could see the pitted surface of Avasta
skimming past as the Kelly Intership vectored in on the penetration. The other tesla
mole approached in similar fashion on a different course, while the standard
lance headed straight in at the massive lock doors of the ship bay.

Despite the
countdown, the release took ZiTuto by surprise, for the grapples didn’t let go
with a clunk, like human tech. In fact, he caught a glimpse of the lashing
simply separating and whipping back into the Intership as the lance fell away
under its own power.

A low range of
mountains loomed ahead; the horizon tilted down and back up again as the lance
bobbed over them in terrain-following mode. The spidery line of a massdrive
feeder seemed to sweep in from the right, crossing their course to terminate in
a lazplaz aiming tower on their left. Sweat prickled in ZiTuto’s armpits as he
watched the tower dwindle swiftly behind them. It didn’t appear to be moving.

Then the surface of
the moon swiveled around dizzyingly as the lance pivoted up, flipped over, and
dove toward the rugged surface of Avasta, angling steeply toward the deeply
buried control center.

A flare of light
blanked the screen, and the roar of disintegrating rock past the hull of the
lance took his thoughts away as they bored into the heart of Avasta surrounded
by a flaring bolus of rock-turned-plasma.

The harsh buzz of
the seismic alarm jolted Cuonn tar-Fennyn out of a pleasant daydream into
alertness. Then he felt the shift in the rock under his feet.

Tidal stress. But
it didn’t die down, and the trembling that followed was too fast, more like a
groan or roar.

“Marshal?” one of
the monitors queried as the sound grew. “Two point sources of seismic activity
approaching.”

A screen sprang to
life, modeling the Barcan weapons station enwrapped in the darkness that was
the system’s symbol for the safety of deep rock. But in that darkness there now
flared two blurred points of light: one aimed at the station proper, the other,
coming in from 180 degrees to the first on a somewhat higher course. Jagged
lines of color flickered out like lightning along faults revealed by the energy
being liberated.

“Sources
identified,” interrupted the smooth voice of the Servant. “Tesla moles, most
likely mounted by Arkadic Marine lances. Estimated arrival four-point-five
minutes.”

Cuonn punched the
redsquirt and the siren yodeled Situation One. While he waited through the
light-speed delay from the CCI center, the green light indicating the ship bay
suddenly flared red.

“Ship bay not
responding,” said the Servant.

The response from
CCI arrived as another quake shook the center. “Nuclear detonation in ship bay
consistent with standard Arkadic Marine lance attack,” the smooth voice added.

As the face of the CCI
watch officer windowed up, Cuonn forced his voice under control and delivered a
brief précis of the situation, then bent over the tactical plot of Barcan space
while waiting for a response.

That came sooner
than expected. “We can’t know yet which Rifters they’re from. You’re going to
automatic installation defense. Confirm targeting of Rifter ships, by fleet,
and hold.” The image blanked.

Cuonn stared at the
screen, then at the tacplot again. But it was obvious. Anger blazed the higher
at the contemptuous nature of the lie. What was CCI up to? Then he shivered,
remembering the shuttle descending to Barca from the
Flower of Lith
. It had only recently returned. Had the Matria
allied with that ship’s captain to eliminate the other Rifters, sacrificing
Avasta to convince the Dol’jharians they were blameless victims? An expensive
ploy, but he’d seen the vids relayed by both Rifter fleets. The new masters of
the Thousand Suns were not given to half measures if betrayed.

But Barca was not
given to half measures either
.
Rapidly,
Cuonn issued the few necessary orders: they’d be ready to switch the lazplaz
aiming points to ships of either fleet but he left them targeted on the five
most distant of Neyvla-khan’s ships. If he’d guessed right, it would save
retargeting time.

“Assuming
defense-control status,” the Servant stated as soon as Cuonn ceased speaking.
“Niches activated. Antipersonnel systems activated. All tags Class Two and
below to safety recesses.”

Cuonn fingered his
Class One tag, which identified him to the Servant, and shuddered at the
thought of being caught without it when the Black Ones emerged from their
niches. The thought of the invaders meeting the Black Ones caused him to smile
with anticipation as he settled back into his command module to await further
orders.

A Kelly ship materialized
dead ahead.

Cameron’s neck
prickled. He couldn’t get used to the lack of an emergence pulse; it made him
feel myopic and defenseless. He sensed the same tension in the rest of his
primary bridge crew, freshly returned from the truncated Z-watch he had ordered.
Though he could not rest himself, he wanted them alert and ready.

Ensign Rincon’s
fingers sprang into action on the communications console. “Signal to flag.”

“Put it on.”

A Kelly appeared
on-screen. “Attack has commenced. Squirt incoming.”

“Got it, sir,” said
Rincon as the Kelly sketched its tripled version of a salute and vanished.

The little ship
yawed and blinked out, its departure as invisible as its arrival.

A whirl of tactical
updates propagated through the
Claidheamh
Mor’s
systems, and thence to the rest of the fleet. As he studied the
evolving situation, struggling with the new Tenno, Cameron wondered how
Lochiel’s antiquated destroyer was handling the downloads. Antiquated, with
more of a punch than all three of ours combined, he thought.

“I wish I could be
sure that Neyvla-khan will recognize what’s going on, if he even sees it.” From
her nearby pod, Kor-Mellish gestured at a screen showing only the Rifter
vessels positioned to see the rock-flares of the lances on Avasta.

“He’s been on the
bonus chips long enough to make me think so,” replied Cameron. “But he’ll
certainly interpret it differently.” He nodded at the tactical plot. “Hreem’s
taking up pretty much the orbits we assumed he would, which’ll have the
majority of his ships hidden from Shimosa right when Lochiel told him she’ll
skipmissile Avasta. There’s no sign Neyvla-khan has seen that pattern yet, but
he will. What the Barcans are thinking is anybody’s guess.”

“Depends on who
they’re thinking of backing, I suppose.” Kor-Mellish ran her fingers over the
inlaid keys of her console, a purposeless gesture that Cameron couldn’t
interpret.

“Right.” She was
grabbing at what they could predict, same as he was
.
“The sneak-missiles, leeches, and gee-mines the Kelly ships have
launched into the resonance field will certainly mess up the Rifters’ plans.”

“And the Rifters
and the Barcans have got their own dragon’s teeth out there too, aimed at
everything.” Kor-Mellish flashed a humorless smile. “Oh, if everything goes perfectly,
it’ll be one for the sims. How to destroy two Rifter fleets without firing a
shot.”

Her grin vanished.
From Cameron’s other side came an intake of breath, and he knew everyone was
sharing the same thought: How long before we stop making careless references to
the Academy that doesn’t exist any more? And then what, forget it was ever
there?

Cameron forced a
smile, and a bantering tone. “If only their aim were that good,” he said.

The responsive
laugh was fierce, as were the comments in return.

No, they would
never forget
.

Leaning back in
his command pod, Neyvla-kahn sought out the screen with the
Flower of Lith
pinned in its center. A
fierce surge of satisfaction confirmed the pleasant sight: Hreem was losing the
lower orbits to him.

“Captain, energy
flares from Avasta.”

The triumph
abruptly evaporated. He sat up and gestured at the screen. A window expanded to
show the limb of Avasta, with two small jets of flame darkside of the terminator.

“Spectrum gives
vaporized rock.”

Were the Barcans
launching something? But why the wasteful display of power?

Rock! Lances
?
Neyvla-khan’s jaw tightened; were
there more lances out there, targeted on him?

“Other traces?”

The scantech
responded with gratifying alacrity. “None, cham.”

Now he knew without
any doubt Hreem’s story to be a lie. The pattern confirmed his suspicions.
First, the resonance trap after a shuttle from the
Lith
. Now, a few hours after the return of the shuttle, this. He
must be in communication with the Barcans via his computer tech Riolo, whom
he’d claimed to have yielded to justice on the planet.

But as he glared at
the screen, his tactical vision shifted, the plot on-screen abruptly different.
Hreem’s retreat to higher orbits was clumping his ships inside the penumbra of
weapons fire from Shimosa, while leaving them vulnerable to Avasta.

Hreem wasn’t
worried about the weapons on the outer moon
.

Had his secret
negotiations with the Barcans merely been a delaying tactic? If so, where had
he gotten lances? They had to be from Hreem’s ships;
Scorpion
would have detected emergence pulses if they were coming
from outsystem.

Neyvla-khan
remembered, then dismissed, the RiftNet rumors of stealthed fiveskips. He was
convinced those rumors—and many others—were planted by Panarchist sources just
to keep the Syndicates guessing.

Neyvla-khan began
snapping out orders, for relay to his fleet. He had to get as many ships as
possible shadowed from Avasta—more difficult with the outer moon—or as far from
it as practicable. Fortunately the preparations were well advanced for a
sneak-missile attack on one of the generators that had trapped them. Now,
however, it would cost more ships.

And then, to deal
with Hreem. Neyvla-khan had sneak-missiles shadowing his enemy still, despite
his apparent retreat. Just as Hreem had doubtless targeted him.

Nonetheless,
Brother, he thought: I will consign you and that vile mindsnake of yours to the
fire. He sighed with regret, but too fast was better than not at all.

He motioned to his
communications tech, relishing the burn of pleasure at the way the crew obeyed
his wordless commands. “Hreem,” he said.

But first, to cloud
Hreem’s mind with anger.

The roar of
ablating rock dwindled away into ringing silence.

“Eyes out,” ZiTuto
commanded, activating their servo-armor. A sharp bang: the tip of the lance
blew off. His screen windowed up a view of a corridor from the spy-eye, then
extruded, and he caught a glimpse of a bulky, dark humanoid figure before the
screen flared and blanked.

“Ogres. Punch-out,
Octo.”

Dyarch Meenhyr
acknowledged; a muffled roar rocked the lance as the tesla field propagated
outward in destructive overload.

ZiTuto tapped a
control in the tank, triggering a much louder, final explosion as the whole
front of the lance blew off. His tank dumped him upright and he approached the
opening cautiously as his squad assembled, two pushing past him to secure the
adit.

Despite his book
and sim knowledge, ZiTuto was stunned at what he saw. The momentum conversion
of the tesla overload had simply dissolved rock and dyplast into a bubble of
emptiness fully ten meters across, with corridors and smaller cannulae exposed
in various cross sections. Imagination supplied an image of the pyroclastic blast
of plasma and shattered rock that must have swept through them, destroying
everything in its path.

Uneasy shadows hung
everywhere in the glare of the lights deployed by the Marines. Something long
and red dripped out of one of the small openings and sizzled messily on a torn
flap of hot metal far below.

“Deploy scuttlers
and the . . .” His mind groped for the name they’d tagged the
Kelly weapons with. “. . . triskels. Now we find something live
and get directions.”

Panarchic
intelligence had been limited to the adits that covert operations had detected.
They knew nothing of the interior, except by analogy to other Barcan
installations that had been compromised.

The little
machines, taking their directions from the Marines’ suit computers in a
distributed array, picked their way down the wreckage, disappearing into
various openings. The scuttlers were general-purpose vermin: they could relay
data through repeaters they emplaced, interfere with communications, manipulate
controls, and so forth. The triskels were more focused. They dealt with one
thing only: Ogres.

But there hadn’t
been time to learn all the options of a weapons system the Panarchy hadn’t
known about. All they had to handle them was skull-knowledge rather than the
settled muscle-wisdom that practice brought, even in a sim.

As the tactical
picture grew clearer, Meliarch ZiTuto hoped that would be enough.

Another tactical
update rippled through the screens as the Kelly ship awaited Cameron’s reply.

“Neyvla-khan is
moving,” he reported. “Time to give him something to think about.”

He issued commands
to the Kelly courier, which promptly vanished.

“But not Hreem.”
Kor-Mellish thumped her fist on the edge of her console, sparking a laugh from
the rest of the bridge. “Cameron, I love your twisted mind.”

Hreem watched the
flares on Avasta hungrily. Time for mind games now.