“We’re down!” Coborn shouted into his pickup. “We’re down! Get your tail out of here! If you puke in this cockpit, you’re cleaning it up!”
Tristan groped for his hatch handle and popped it. Wet wind struck him cold in the face. He gasped. Tore his cockpit straps loose and his helmet off. Stumbled on the mounting ladder. His legs gave out. He caught himself on his hands on the hot tarmac and gave in to the heaving.
From the corner of his eye he saw the IP standing over him, watching him spit and wipe at his mouth. Tristan didn’t meet his gaze.
“And you’re Lujan Sergey’s brat?” Coborn slapped his gloves against his leg, and the wind laid bare his disgust like a knife cutting to the bone. “He’d probably disown you if he saw you puking all over the bay like that!”
Tristan’s head jerked up at last. His throat went tight.
“Don’t keep me waiting for debrief,” Coborn said.
Tristan spat again and didn’t answer. He watched Coborn walk away.
Pulou slipped up, crouched beside him, stroked his pressure-suited arm with curled fingers. Then, abruptly, those fingers closed about his arm. Tristan wrenched around, looked up.
He found himself face-to-face with his crew chief. Humiliation burned his cheeks, ached in his chest. “Leave me alone,” he said.
“It happens to more of them than it doesn’t,” said the sergeant, and held out a drinking bottle. “Here now, wash out your mouth and don’t take it so hard.”
Tristan eyed him briefly before he accepted the bottle and took a mouthful of water.
“How’d the bird go?” the crew chief asked, still crouched beside him. “Any problems?”
Tristan swished the water around in his mouth and spat it out on the tarmac. “No.”
“We’ll give her a look. You hit a nasty bit of weather.”
Tristan raised the bottle again and felt the sergeant still studying him. “What’s wrong now?” he asked.
“Your mother, Tristan,” said the crew chief. “Where is she?”
Tristan slammed the water bottle down and shot to his feet, abruptly angry. “On Ganwold!” he said. “Dying—if she’s not dead already! What does it matter to you?”
“She’s my sister,” the sergeant said.
Tristan stared at him. Drew back. “How do I know you’re not just telling me that?”
The crew chief made a helpless gesture with both hands and rose, too. “I can’t prove anything to you,” he said. “You probably don’t remember living in Elincourt before you were lost on Ganwold.”
Suddenly subdued, Tristan said, “I remember some things.”
“Do you remember the boy named Dylan who used to pack you about piggyback?”
Tristan studied him, cocking his head, recalling distant images of a solemn boy with a crooked leg, dark hair, gray eyes. . . . “You’re—Dylan?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Help her!” Tristan said. “Tell my father! The governor won’t let me go!”
“Your father knows,” Dylan said. “But he’s concerned about you, too.”
Tristan’s vision dropped to the vomit splattered on the tarmac at his feet, and Captain Coborn’s parting words burned through his mind again. He said nothing.
“It may get worse before it gets better,” Dylan said. “Will you be able to trust me if it comes to that?”
Tristan looked up. The steely eyes held him, dangerous as the eyes of the black man in Issel’s Communications Center. He swallowed. “Yes,” he said at last.
“Right then,” said Dylan, and forced a smile. “You two—” he glanced at Pulou, “—better get going now before Coborn’s back out here looking for you.”
* *
Tristan dropped to his heels before the artificial fireplace in the sitting room and chewed at his lower lip. His mind kept skipping back to that morning, to the conversation with his crew chief in the landing bay. At last he sighed and shoved himself to his feet again and paced back to the table where Larielle sat.
They were alone in the sitting room. He glanced around to be certain of that before he leaned on the table with both hands and said, “I talked to Dylan this morning.”
“Dylan?” Larielle looked up from her studies. “Who’s that?”
“My—mother’s brother. He’s my crew chief. I—think he’s talked to my father.”
“What?” Larielle straightened, looked him hard in the face.
“I knew my mother’s family was here somewhere,” he said. “We lived here—for a while —when I was little. I remember Dylan.”
“You’re very sure this is the same person?” Larielle asked. “Not just someone telling you this?”
“Yes.” Tristan said. “He told me some things that only Dylan would know.” After a pause he added, “He asked me if I could trust him if it came to that.”
“Can you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said again. Firmly.
Larielle reached out and placed her hand over his, but her eyes were serious and her voice only a whisper. “Then, Tris, if he suddenly tells you to go with him, do it. This is probably what I’ve been telling you to be patient for.”
Her gaze softened. She let go his hand to stroke his hair back behind his ear. “I’m so relieved—but I’ll miss you, Tristan.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, but she didn’t give him a chance to think of something before she pressed her mouth to his.
In his dream later, their mouths melded again and again, and her hand roamed lightly down his chest and belly, heightening his breath to hyperventilation. He reached out for her . . .
“Get up, Tristan,” said Rajak from somewhere over his head. A boot toe nudged his shoulder. He rolled over in a tangle of blanket, sweating, and flung up an arm against the sudden glare of lights.
He pushed himself up, blinking, and squinted at the timepanel on the wall: 0214. “What are you doing, Rajak?” he demanded. “It’s two and a half hours before I have to get up!”
“Get dressed,” said the servant. “The shuttle is waiting. There’s trouble on Issel and we have to go back right now.”
* *
Lying propped against a rolled peimu robe, Darcie watched listlessly as Shiga stirred the cooking pot. She couldn’t smell whatever was in the pot, but it didn’t really matter; she had little appetite anymore.
She had forced herself to eat at first, trying to keep her strength up, but the illness was too far advanced for that to make any difference now. She could no longer get to her feet without assistance. Couldn’t walk more than three or four yards without tiring.
She had pain now, too, in her spine and shoulders and legs, aches that seemed to throb from the very marrow of her bones, and she had nothing to deaden it but herbal remedies that made her dizzy and lightheaded. She would welcome death when it came, would open up her arms to it as it embraced her. Perhaps it would be Tristan who would come through the light to guide her. Perhaps it would be Lujan.
A change in Shiga’s posture, a sudden stiffening of her frame, brought Darcie out of her reverie. Shiga had stopped moving the ladle in the cooking pot and sat staring past the doorflap, head cocked. She sat motionless for several seconds, nose wrinkled with her sniffing.
“It’s what?” Darcie asked, watching her. The question came in a bare whisper; she could manage nothing more.
“Something comes, mother,” said Shiga.
Darcie turned her head slightly and listened.
She heard only twilight sounds at first: crickets trilling in the grass, a baby wailing somewhere, the first stirrings of activity among the lodges. Then she heard a throbbing sound, a long way off but coming gradually closer. Engines? She couldn’t be sure; it had been almost seventeen years since she’d last heard engines.
Within minutes it became unmistakable. The thrumming stilled the crickets, overpowered the music of the creek, made the ground tremble.
Shiga moved to the doorflap i
n a silken motion, pushed it aside—and recoiled as brilliance flashed across her face. Darcie saw how her eyes narrowed to slits, her lips drawing back in a silent snarl.
Outside, the engines cut to an idle. Darcie heard bootfalls and shouts. Human shouts.
“Shell people!” said Shiga. Mounting tsaa’chi turned her voice to a hiss, made her mane stand on end.
Shell people? Darcie thought.
Humans in armor.
Legionnaires!
Her heart contracted. “No!” she whispered, and struggled to sit up.
The effort shot pain through her body, took her breath, made her cough. Eyes closing against a wave of dizziness, she gulped for air like a swimmer too long submerged. “They—do what?” she asked Shiga.
“They hunt,” said Shiga. “They go into lodges.” Still crouching, she reached for the work basket beside the door. Her clawed fingers found the hide fleshing knife and curled around it.
“They hunt—for what?” Darcie asked.
“I don’t know,” Shiga said.
Sudden screams mingled with shouts over the explosive roar of a lodge on fire. The evening wind abruptly turned heavy with ash and heat.
“No!” Darcie gasped. She choked on smoke; its bitterness brought up involuntary tears. She squeezed them back, blinked away the burning.
She knew what they were hunting for. Knew there was only one way to keep them from burning the entire camp. She reached out for the lodge’s nearest support pole. Her hand—her whole arm—shook; there was no strength left to pull herself to her feet. “Shiga, help me!” she cried.
Shiga only hunkered down, gathering herself for a spring. Firelight emphasized her taut muscles, flashed off the fleshing knife in her hand.
A rifle’s muzzle tore back the doorflap. Darcie saw the glint of a sooted shoulder plate, a helmet—and the swift shadow of Shiga’s attack.
Fleshing knife drove at throatpiece. The soldier staggered back, swinging his weapon up like a club. Its stock struck Shiga’s face with a noise like a nut cracking and she crumpled, overturning the cooking pot, scattering coals across the floor. Emberlight briefly showed a long gash in her forehead before blood obliterated it.
Gasping, Darcie crawled from the sleeping hide on hands and knees that barely supported her, reached out for Shiga—but a human wall moved between them. Her breath stopped in her throat. Reflex brought up her hand against the hot armor of his chest to hold him off.
His gauntlet closed around her wrist, dragged her to her feet. She sagged, bracing herself to avoid contact with him, as over her head he shouted into his helmet’s pickup, “Captain, I have her!”
Seventeen
“According to a message received at oh-eight-hundred local,” said the briefer from Spherzah Intelligence, “Governor Renier’s personal voyager left Adriat a few standard hours ago. Though the stated reason was to settle factory strikes on Issel, the actual destination is believed to be the Command Post on Issel’s second moon. The passenger list included the governor’s highest level military advisors from Adriat, Issel, Na Shiv, and the Bacal Belt as well as his immediate household. The ship is expected to arrive in the Issel system in seven standard days.”
Around the table in the command conference room of the Unified Worlds Tower, the members of the Defense Directorate exchanged glances. Lujan tapped a note into the microwriter under his hand: Notify Ches.
“In possibly related activity,” the lieutenant continued, “a transport left Adriat for Saede a few hours before Renier’s departure. A military exercise is slated to begin in Saede’s western hemisphere this week. Indications suggest it will be small, but this is outside the normal Saedese training cycle and the participants will consist mostly of Bacalli surface forces. Imagery received at oh-four-hundred this morning revealed two Bacalli troop ships in synchronous orbit over the Unkai peninsula.”
The holo changed from a map of Saede to a view of the vessels, and the lieutenant said, “On the ship in the foreground you can see that all eight launch bays are empty of their landing craft.” He drew his finger across the video repeater on his podium and an arrow moved through the holotank behind him. “The absence of the shuttles suggests that a full troop complement has been transported to the surface. Each of these ships is capable of carrying two thousand heavily armed troops, plus surface assault vehicles and weapons.”
The lieutenant scanned his audience. “Coinciding as it does with other indications briefed in the last two weeks, we believe this exercise possibly could be cover for a forward deployment. Our patrol craft are closely monitoring all activity in the Saede system.” He paused. “This concludes my briefing. Are there any questions?”
“Yes.” The Commander-in-Chief of Jonica’s space fleets raised her hand. “What led to the factory strikes on Issel, and how are they affecting its military production?”
“Production in heavy industry has fallen twenty percent short of quotas in the past week, ma’am,” the lieutenant said. “The strikes began with the diversion of transports from public commuter systems. One report states that some workers have been unable to leave the industrial centers for several days because there aren’t enough seats available on the limited number of transports still operating.”
“Where have the transports been diverted to?” CINC JONSPAFLT asked next. “Are you seeing any deployment support activity?”
The briefer said, “Not yet, ma’am, but we suspect that’s what the transports were pulled for. With minor work they’re capable of transporting armed troops, heavy equipment, or a combination of both.”
Silence settled over the head table, emphasizing narrowed eyes, taut jaws, concentrated features.
The Commander of Sostis Surface Forces leaned forward. “When the exercise begins on Saede,” he said, “I want to know what kind of training the Bacalli are conducting, what weapon systems they’re using, and how well they’re accomplishing their objectives.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant keyed some notes into his microwriter. “Are there any more questions?”
“Yes.” An admiral from Mythos gestured. “In the event of an Isselan offensive, what do you see as the probable course of action?”
“Sir, we expect an attack on the Sostish Protectorate of Yan first,” the lieutenant said. He touched a button. A constellation like a kite with a tail appeared in the holotank. “Sostis would be the real objective, but Yan is nearer the Issel and Saede systems.” He moved the arrow over the map. “Control of Unified early warning and communications complexes on Yan would be vital in a campaign against Sostis. It would give Issel a forward staging area and reduce our opportunities for isolation of enemy forces or interdiction of their supply routes.
“With Yan secured, Renier would probably move against Sostis in a two-pronged attack.” The arrow traced flight paths from Yan and Saede.
Lujan straightened in his chair, eyes narrowed, to study the diagram.
After several silent moments, Sostis’ Chief of Planetary Defense said, “How soon could the Issel Sector be prepared to launch such an attack?”
“At their present level of readiness,” the lieutenant answered, “we believe they could possibly do so within a month.”
There were no more questions after that. The briefer left his podium and the audience dispersed in a murmur of subdued discussion. The Sostish Defense Committee withdrew to a smaller conference room and turned to the representative of the Triune at the head of the table.
Pite Hanesson, arms folded over his chest, said, “You may proceed, Governor.”
Kedar Gisha made a slight bow in his direction and addressed her Chief of Planetary Defense. “General Choe, I need a list of requirements for putting Sostis and Yan into wartime postures and an estimate of how long that will take.”
“There are sufficient ground troops and equipment already on Yan,” the Defense Chief said, and the Commander-in-Chief of Surface Forces confirmed it with a nod. “But
,” he went on, “there’s only one space fleet based there.”
“What will we need?” Gisha asked.
“At least two numbered fleets, Your Honor.”
Gisha looked at CINC SPAFLT. “What have we got?”
“Ch’on-dok’s Eighth Fleet is at dock at the Shinchang, Ro, and Qarat orbital stations,” the space fleet commander said, “and several carrier groups of the East Odymis Sixth have just returned from nine months of out-system patrol.”
Gisha said, “How quickly could they be prepared to launch again?”
“Not in less than a week, Your Honor.”
Gisha considered that. “Start making the preparations,” she said. And then, “What of Sostis?”
Defense Chief and planetary commanders made their statements, laying out numbers and proposing strategies, and Hanesson moved impatiently in his chair. “This is beginning to suggest a pre-emptive strike.”
“No,” said Gisha. “It’s a demonstration of commitment. By the time our defenses are mobilized, I will have prepared a statement advising Sector General Renier that we’re watching Issel’s activities closely, that I am concerned about it, and that actions perceived as threatening will not be tolerated."
Hanesson pursed his mouth. “And if Issel fails to be impressed by your commitment, Kedar?”
“Then we’ll be prepared to fight.” Gisha paused. “Should it come to that, we’ll need the support of the Unified Worlds.”
“That must come through the Assembly,” said Hanesson. “The Triune cannot commit the forces of the other worlds without the consent of their governments. We can only call up the Spherzah.”
Gisha met Lujan’s look across the table. “That will be enough,” she said.
* *
“Sir,” said Jiron as Lujan crossed the outer office, “the Isselan ambassador requested a meeting with you today.”
Lujan checked his stride. “Isselan. Did he say what for?”
“No, sir, except that it’s extremely important.”
Lujan let his eyes narrow. “Schedule him in—and inform Governor Gisha and the Triune’s offices of it. I’ll meet with them at their earliest convenience afterward.”