Under Strange Suns (34 page)

For a moment it actually seemed Ghemel would protest. If so, Vongük’s options would be limited. Duty was a hard master. But the joon, after a fraught pause, saluted and left in the company of Captain Akhistal.

Vongük considered his campaign. To date, the loss of Ghemel’s patrol had been the only significant setback. Oh, there had been deaths during the ascent of the Wild Wall, more crossing through the pass, and two just today during the final leg of the descent when a pair of porters lost control of a baggage cart and it careened into the cart carrying the portable forge and other armorer’s tools. In all, fewer than ten casualties during the march. Vongük viewed that as a sign that the Watchful God had blessed this campaign.

Still, Ghemel’s report disturbed him. And earlier today advance scouts had returned bearing word of earthen barricades under construction upon the army’s intended path. Vongük preferred to believe the savages were merely engaged in simple flood control works or canal building. If they were instead throwing up defensive works, that would indicate they’d had warning of the advance of the Army of the Northern Protectorate. He hated to speculate upon the implications.

However, the Watchful God did not reward those who eschewed distasteful tasks. And so Vongük mused upon the possibility of spies within his ranks, or perhaps incompetence on the part of Captain Akhistal’s scouts. Perhaps Lieutenant Ghemel’s–the erstwhile Lieutenant Ghemel’s–patrol had been spotted. Or perhaps he had deliberately allowed it to be spotted. Perhaps he had led it purposefully into an ambush.

Again, Vongük reminded himself not to hold to the comfortable path. It was easiest to assume treachery, to blame Ghemel. No, he must at least consider the possibility that the evidence of demons–sporadic and uncertain as it was–was grounded in fact. That such powerful enemies of the Watchful God might be aware of his approach through their diabolical arts and had alerted the savages. If so, it would not do to underestimate the difficulties facing the Army of the Northern Protectorate.

* * *

Aidan woke in the familiar bedchamber within the Esaul’s Hall. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering how long he had slept, hoping both that it had not been too long and that it had been long enough. Deciding to put his body to an immediate test, he sat up.

And found himself face to face with Checkok.

The Esaul sat upon a stool gazing at him. To Aidan he looked expressionless, though that meant nothing. That particular curve of the mouth might indicate murderous rage in a joon for all Aidan knew.

Aidan swung his feet to floor, sitting almost knee to knee with Checkok. He covered his face with his hands. It made him vulnerable, he knew that. But at the moment he didn’t care. If Checkok wanted to punish him, wanted a pound of flesh in recompense for the death of his son, Aidan felt little compulsion to stop him.

Aidan was tired. Weary in body, weary of fighting, weary of death. He knew he should care, that Girdled-by-Fields was depending upon him to defend it, that Yuschenkov and McAvoy would probably need his help to return to the ship. But right then he didn’t care. It all seemed so futile. Right then all that mattered was a father mourning his son, a son entrusted to Aidan’s care.

A trust he had failed.

He raised his head. Then he spread his arms wide, palms open.

“Checkok, I am so sorry. I failed Echeckok. I failed you.”

He saw then the knife clenched, blade down, in the Esaul’s hand. Checkok rose to his feet, a slow, controlled movement. Then the joon turned and walked out of the bedchamber.

Aidan began to shake. He covered his face again with his hands and rocked back and forth, a low, strangling sound rising from his throat, muffled by his palms.

He looked up, dry-eyed, to see Yuschenkov in the doorway. The physicist was leaning upon a proper cane now, the scabbarded sword no longer in evidence.

“I spoke with Checkok a moment ago,” Yuschenkov said. “He told me to tell you that there is a battle to win, that now is not the time for self-pity.”

Aidan stared at Yuschenkov for a moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet, muscles initially protesting, then relenting. He stretched, working out the stiffness.

“How long did I sleep?”

“About six hours.”

“Shit. I hope we could afford it. Come on, let’s talk to McAvoy, then call the ship. We’ve got plans to make.”

* * *

Brooklynn Vance smiled as she viewed one of the monitors in the command center. Aidan had switched on the video feed of his datapad. There she saw, for the first time in decades, the face of her uncle. He was leaning in, smiling through a thick growth of beard. Opposite him, almost touching foreheads, was McAvoy. Aidan’s chin, sporting thick stubble, was visible beyond the heads of the other two men.

“Look at you, all grown up,” Yuschenkov said without any preliminaries.

“Hello again, Uncle Brennan. I hope Sam brought down a razor.”

“No time for personal grooming, I’m afraid. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“No question there,” said McAvoy. “Doctor Yuschenkov tells me this little world didn’t evolve the proper strain of yeast to convert sugar to alcohol. We have to get back to the ship ASAFP.”

Aidan’s face now filled the screen. Brooklynn was unprepared for the response his appearance triggered. She felt flush, then momentarily light-headed. Either of those reactions should have been unpleasant. Neither was. But this wasn’t the time for - for whatever this was.

“Brooklynn, what’s the ETA on the Lhakovi army?”

“Judging from their position last orbit and their speed of march, we estimate thirty hours. They appear to have slowed a bit.”

“Probably got strung out crossing the mountains, taking some time to regroup. Wait, did you say ‘last orbit?’”

“Yes. Why?”

“So we don’t have continuous, real-time eyes on them. I thought you’d dropped some relay satellites in geosynchronous orbit. Can’t you rig a spy-sat and hang that over our position?”

Brooklynn heard the sound of flesh striking flesh and turned to see that Matamoros had actually slapped herself in the forehead.

“Of course,” Matamoros said. “Why didn’t I think of that? Because I’ve got the brains of a chimp, that’s why.”

“Because you’re my coms officer and not a soldier,” Brooklynn said. “And I didn’t think of it either, so stop beating yourself up–literally or figuratively–and see if Park and Foster can make it happen.”

“ASAFP,” came McAvoy’s voice.

“Right. Okay, Aidan, we’ll get on that.”

“Have it send a feed directly to my datapad,” Aidan said. “And have the computer send me some topographical maps. I need to figure out the best locations to employ Park’s pyrotechnics.”

McAvoy said, “I’ll get you copies of maps. My datapad is rotten with them. ‘Course most of them are geological surveys and won’t help you much, but I’ve got your back, mate.”

Aidan must have moved his arm, shifting toward McAvoy, because his datapad camera now picked up a metallic lobe. The three men must be outside the mining craft, Brooklynn realized. In the distance she could see what appeared to be buildings. And in the mid-ground she saw movement. She wanted to ask Aidan to magnify. She wanted to see the aliens. But she had to focus on the mission. She was the captain. All these people were her responsibility. She didn’t have the luxury of gawking at the natives.

“Speaking of geological surveys,” Aidan said, sounding to Brooklynn’s ears weary, almost despondent, “I hope one of your maps shows a palladium deposit nearby, because we’ve got less than thirty hours to get you there and back with the goods.”

“No worries,” McAvoy said. “There is a deposit within spitting distance. I can hop over in the mining craft, employ the laser drills, and be back before happy hour.”

“Except you need to leave it here,” Yuschenkov said. “I’m going to need a good portion of those thirty hours to install the Y-Drive.”

“Maybe you ought to explain this plan of yours, Uncle Brennan,” Brooklynn said, cutting off McAvoy as he started to splutter a response. It was, she thought, time to assert her authority, get these men working together before they started butting heads like stubborn animals.

“No great complexity involved, Niece Brooklynn. The mining craft may not have the thrust to reach escape velocity. But it should have the muscle to get us two or three miles up. At that point–if I’ve been allowed the time to jury-rig the Y-Drive onto this wallowing pig–we can simply pulse the drive once and you can come collect us somewhere in-system. Then we remove the Y-Drive, pop it into the tastefully named
Yuschenkov
, and we’re off to–wherever.”

“I thought the plan was to fix the Y-Drive on the ship,” McAvoy said. “Mine the palladium, fix the Y-Drive.”

“Plans change,” said Yuschenkov. “Travel and mining take time, and both are uncertain. We have a functional Y-Drive. Let’s use it.”

“And what if the Y-Drive conks out once we’ve left this moon?” McAvoy sounded pugnacious. “Without the palladium, we’re back to square one.”

“Then you’d better hope it continues to function, as–I think I am qualified to point out–it is mathematically likely to do,” Yuschenkov said. “Balance of probabilities. We can pick up a supply of palladium elsewhere, sort out your Y-Drive at our leisure. Beats waiting for you to dig the stuff out here, hoping you get back before the fighting starts.”

“After what we’ve been through, the ‘balance of probabilities’ is not bloody comforting.”

Brooklynn cleared her throat loudly. Obviously her assertion of authority hadn’t come off as intended. Time to put her foot down, remind everyone–including her uncle–who was in charge. “It isn’t very comforting, Sam. So let’s hedge our bets, bring up the Y-Drive
and
the palladium. You should probably get moving sooner rather than later. You’ve got the mineral maps. Let me know where you need to go and we can tell you if you have a clear path. And meantime Aidan can get to work buying both you and Uncle Brennan time.”

“What about Girdled-by-Fields?” asked Aidan. “Are we supposed to cut and run?” He now sounded as if he had added bitterness to despondency. These aliens must have made quite an impression in a short period.

“Of course not,” Yuschenkov said. “That’s not what I’m suggesting, if I’m allowed the courtesy of finishing my suggestion without interruption. If the mining craft has sufficient fuel, and if Brooklynn’s spy-sat is up and can pinpoint the greatest concentration of Lhakovi, then we’ll make a low pass, roast as many of the fuckers as possible before ascending. Efficient. Send the survivors home scorched and terrified, not lose a single Girdled-by-Fields defender.”

“We’ll get that spy-sat positioned,” said Brooklynn. “Okay?” Enough talk. She waited a moment then, putting an edge to her voice, “Okay, gentlemen? Get to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aidan said.

“Yes, my dear,” Yuschenkov said.

“Humph,” said McAvoy.

She motioned to Matamoros to cut transmission, then leaned back in her seat, rubbing at her eyes. Everything seemed to be coming to a head. She had a lot to oversee. She puffed out a breath.

Aidan did look good with that week’s worth of scruff, didn’t he?

Not now, damn it
, she thought.

She sat up, punched at the coms panel on the armrest. “Park, I’ve got another job for you and Foster.”

A
IDAN FIGURED HE WAS STALLING, BUT
he wanted to be sure Yuschenkov had arranged an escort for McAvoy before he commenced his own preparations. Master Smith Khorknevot sent five of his forge workers to accompany the geologist. Sam McAvoy’s geological survey indicated a possible pocket of palladium in the vicinity of a hillock about a ten-hour walk south south-west. A small electric vehicle, slaved to McAvoy’s datapad, accompanied the prospectors. It wasn’t well suited to the task, a simple utility wagon intended for carrying small loads within the narrow, smooth floored confines of an orbital station or–with the electro-magnets in its tires activated–within a spaceship, in zero-g or held in position by centripetal force.

Aidan wasn’t sure if the cart would be more help or hindrance crossing rutted grasslands. But he couldn’t afford the time to worry about it. McAvoy knew what he was about.

Instead, he worried himself with the care package Park had assembled for him.

The case McAvoy had insisted Aidan unload himself did not contain military grade ordnance. Too much to ask for. The
Yuschenkov
was a merchant ship, after all. But Park was certainly innovative. He had prepared components for what should be very lethal packages. They’d been packed separately, the components kept a substantial distance apart in padded compartments. Always a good idea with explosives, even though probably unnecessary with these.

The plastic jerry cans were full of ammonium sulfate, which was pretty much chemically inert by itself. The note Park had included in the crate indicated that he had–ironically enough–isolated the ammonium sulfate from flame retardant agents that made up a portion of the stuffing in many of the seat cushions aboard the ship.

Park had punctured the caps of the jerry cans and covered the holes with a plastic film that was easily pierced by the metal nipples threaded onto canisters that had once contained lubricants. These had been emptied and repacked with solid propellant used to power the
Yuschenkov’s
attitude thrusters. The nozzles of the canisters had been removed and replaced with the nipples. Couple the canister with a jerry can and you had the bulk of a bomb.