Plan B (33 page)

"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."

"I'll just take your word for it," Dustin said. "Sir." He chewed his lip. "Shouldn't there be a safety trip, so you don't overload by accident?"

Shan looked at him. "There is."

"Right." Dustin sighed. "Yxtrang armor?"

"I'd wager a cantra, if I had one, that the Yxtrang armor is not going to be a problem, Corporal. They were stopping to inspect my boat as I fled . . . What's the situation here?"

"We're pretty scattered. Got seven, eight, within sight. 'Nother half-dozen down along the stream. Gin's got fifteen to the rear and hugging the hill."

Twenty-eight soldiers.
Seasoned
soldiers, Shan corrected himself. Soldiers who knew their business and operated like professionals. He looked at Dustin.

"We should consolidate, sweep in toward the quarry and secure the ground."

"Yessir." Dustin reached to his belt, pulled out the comm and flicked it on.

"Traffic Two, captain's gonna swing us back the way we come."

There was a moment of startled silence, then Sub-Commander Kritoulkas' voice came from the comm, very distinctly.

"Put the captain on."

Dustin handed the unit over. Shan found the talk button on the side and depressed it.

"Good evening, ma'am."

"You." Her tone was not cordial. "You happen to know anything about that lifeboat?"

"It seemed expedient to dispose of the object of the quarrel," Shan told her earnestly. "Especially as there was Yxtrang armor approaching."

"Great. Tell you what. Have Dustin move the crew—they know the drill. We're getting some help down from the house that'll make up the second hand. You stay pegged right where you are and wait for them. Keep the comm and tell me what you see. Can you do that, Captain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then do it," she said, and the line went dead.

They flushed two pockets of Yxtrang on their way down toward the quarry. They took an anti-air tube from the first bunch and a couple more casualties from the second before Winston got close enough to lob in one of Val Con's homemade Grenade Surprises.

From the second bunch, then, they got two Irregulars dead, five of what Beautiful identified as Troopers Regular Field Long Arms, and the ammo belts that went with them. Miri sighed. The dead now numbered twenty, all greenies. The injured numbered slightly more, with five or six needing a 'doc pronto two hours ago.

The sweep went on, with the Irregulars and the bits of Kritoulkas' crew they picked up along the way hopefully pushing what Yxtrang were left down toward the quarry and into the second sweep line of seasoned mercs.

Some would get away, of course, running ahead of the closing jaws to regroup and—maybe—await pickup. The object wasn't to kill every Yxtrang in the park. The object was to secure the area to the old quarry and hold the line.

Miri scanned the terrain ahead. They ought to be coming up on the Eyes Kritoulkas had posted at the hinge-point pretty soon. When they hit that point, they'd swing south a little to close the loop, then squeeze back in toward the quarry.

"Captain," Beautiful said from behind her, but she'd already seen him—a lean figure in battle-leathers, ammo belt slung bad-ass style across his chest, a rifle—correction, an Officers Personal Duty Long Arm—held ready, but not threatening anybody.

It wasn't until she'd left the line and gone closer that she saw the white hair under the helmet, the winging eyebrows and the silver eyes she'd seen once before, in a dream that was true.

She stopped, pushing her own helmet up with a fingertip, saw him look first for the insignia, then back, for her face. He recognized her with a lift of white brows.

"Captain—Robertson?"

She sighed. "It'd have to be, wouldn't it? With the kind of luck I've got?" She ran her eyes over him again: dinged up helmet, filthy face, scuffed leathers and that damned bandoleer. And the rifle. Where the hell had he gotten that rifle?

"I haven't been having the best day myself," Val Con's brother told her in a voice that had probably been real pretty, fifteen bad frights ago. "I do think I ought to mention, however, that there is an Yxtrang standing behind you."

She turned her head enough to glimpse Beautiful out of the edge of her eye.

"Get used to him," she said. "His name's Nelirikk Explorer and he's sworn to Line yos'Phelium." She pointed.

"Beautiful, this is the scout's brother, Shan yos'Galan."

"I give you good greeting, Shan yos'Galan," Nelirikk offered in High Liaden.

The silver eyes closed, as if maybe Val Con's brother had just gotten a bad headache. Not that Miri blamed him. His eyes opened and he inclined his head.

"I give you good greeting, Nelirikk Explorer, oath-bound to Korval." The eyes moved to her. "Where is Val Con," he asked, back in Terran. "By the way?"

She shook her head, briefly flicking her attention to the pattern of him inside her head: busy, concentrated,
intent
. Aware of danger, but not in trouble.

"'Nother part of the woods. He's doing just fine, and he'll be real glad to see you, when we're all back in camp."

He held still a second, like maybe he was considering how much profit would come to her from lying to him. She didn't blame him for that, either, but waited until she had his nod before pointing at the comm on his belt.

"Kritoulkas says to pick you up for the sweep and leave Scotty here on comm-call," she told him, jerking her head to the Gyrfalk leaning heavily on the rough crutch.

He nodded again and pulled the unit free. Miri took it and handed it to Beautiful, who carried it over to Scotty and bent to help him settle into cover. The silver eyes followed him, face displaying a sort of wry resignation.

"You do get used to him, after a while," Miri said, and Val Con's brother looked back to her.

"I'm certain that one does," he said politely.

The worn red counter was in her hand, hot with Shan's presence. Shan's living presence. She was aware of it, and then not, as the demands of defense claimed her attention.

"Gun Teams Three and Five, fire at will."

The
Passage
shuddered. Her screen showed a brief blaze of clean space in the wake of the charge, filling as she watched with the mushy nothingness that was the fleas' signature.

Mother, how many can there be?

The red counter flashed in her fingers and there was a wrench and—
she stood high on her toes, craning over the cornstalks, staring down the blue sky to the ragged black horizon, and the wind of their coming was a furnace blast and where they passed, nothing was left alive. . .

Her hand swept across the control board, struck one toggle: "Engineering, half-power to main engines, on my mark. Mark." Another: "Piloting, on my mark accelerate ship's rotation to plus fifty percent." And a third: "All crew, strap down! Repeat. All crew, strap down!" She took a breath and touched the last toggle.