A Prison Unsought (78 page)

“Skipmissile away,” said Kedr Five
at the weapons console. “Skipmissile charging.” Eight seconds later a gout of
light erupted, washing out the flaring star that announced the battlecruiser’s
headlong flight toward them.

“Course 20 mark zero,” Fasthand
snapped. “Skip five light-seconds on acquisition.”

“The asteroid is breaking up,” Moob
put in. “The next shot’ll probably punch right through.”

“There won’t be anything behind it
by then,” Fasthand snarled as the fiveskip burped. Then he paused.
Unless that’s what they want me to think.
He cursed silently, feelingly. He hadn’t bargained for this kind of fighting
when he joined Eusabian’s forces. Bad enough facing a cruiser alone; to have to
do it in two dimensions . . .

“Ivo! What’s happening with the
Knot?”

A simulation popped up on a secondary screen, vibrating weirdly.

“Flattening out, Cap’n. We’ve lost
about five percent of the margin, what with the skipmissile and all.”

“Skipmissile charged,” Kedr Five
said.

Fasthand gnawed at his thumb. He couldn’t take the chance.
“Bring it about and fire at the asteroid. Might still be there.”

The stars, those visible through the flaring shields and the
flickering lightning-like discharges of the Knot, swung across the screen. A
targeting cross sprang up and centered on the spreading asteroid rubble. The
red wake-pulse of a skipmissile washed over it; four seconds later the blob of
light flared brightly and exploded outward, dissipating into separate points of
light like fireworks in atmosphere.

“No cruiser.”

“Tactical skip, now.” The fiveskip
burred again. “Course 270 mark zero . . .”

Fasthand looked up, continuing his orders. The two Tarkans
Anaris had left behind still stood to either side of the hatch, their jacs
ready.

The Rifter snarled noiselessly. No choice. Never had been,
he decided, once he signed on to Dol’jhar’s Rifter fleet.

The squeal-rumble of a near-miss ruptor bolt snatched his
attention back to the battle, and he forgot Anaris, forgot the Dol’jharians,
forgot everything except the fact that he was going to die, and soon, if he
didn’t kill this cruiser.

Mortan Kree’s gut tightened at the expression on Matilde
Ho’s face when she looked up from the engineering console.

“The core regeneration is slowing
down. The shields and refrigeration units are drawing too much power.”

Nobody spoke, but they all saw a similar comprehension in
one another’s faces.

For years they had argued and negotiated and compromised in
turn around the gleaming table at Lao Tse. All those years of working together
had knit them together while imprisoned, and that bond continued now. The only
noise was the mutter of the distress signal spooling out over the com.

Then another muffled crash resonated through the ship. On
the screen the sun glared through wreaths of oily smoke, which opened up
momentarily to reveal burned ground and shattered trees.

“We can’t cut refrigeration,” Caleb
murmured. “It’s already almost forty-five degrees in here.”

“We certainly can’t cut the
shields,” Yosefina put in.

“That’s exactly what we have to do.”
Matilde held up her good hand, forestalling their objections. “Correct me if
I’m wrong, Mortan, but the hull metal will stand up to at least a few impacts
even from five-hundred-kilo rocks?”

Mortan considered. He’d been a Centripetal Gnostor, one of
only thirteen in the Thousand Suns, for over fifty years now; but nothing had
ever stressed the fund of general knowledge that was his calling like their
present situation. “I would say so; the center of gravity of this type of
shuttle is too low for there to be any risk of tipping over. But that’s not the
worst that could happen.”

Gelasaar chuckled. “No, I’m sure it’s not.”

Mortan smiled. “I assume, Matilde, that you propose cutting
the shields to give us sufficient power to lift off.”

She nodded and tapped her console. The screen switched to a
diagram, which Kree studied. “That will expose the outer lock door to direct
assault.” He motioned at the screen. “From that, I’d say it’ll take about an
hour to lift after the shields power down.”

“That’s my estimate.”

Mortan shook his head. “Iffy. Very iffy. If they damage the
lock sufficiently, the loss of streamlining, in the absence of shields, will doom
us.”

“Do you think you can regain
control of the lock?”

Excitement thrilled through Kree—excitement and fear—at what
that question portended. A lifetime of habit urged him to exert every nerve to
preserve the life of the Panarch. That was his oath, and with every passing
hour the meaning intensified. “We can certainly crack it manually, but doing so
will make it impossible to reengage the hatch motors.”

“In other words,” the Panarch said,
“we can open it, but we can’t close it again and hold it against a determined
assault.”

Mortan nodded.

“We’ve no choice,” said Gelasaar.
“If the damage makes it necessary, we’ll have to open the lock and let them do
their damage inside until we can lift off. But I’m guessing that they’ll want
the ship intact.”

“Whoever possessed it would rule
this world.” Mortan spread his hands to take in all Gehenna. “But the interior
hatch won’t hold anywhere near as long. They’ll undoubtedly use some sort of battering
ram.”

“That’s no problem,” Caleb said.
“Two people with jacs can hold the corridor once the hatch fails. There are
some breathing masks in the locker.”

“This all assumes we can convince
the Rifters to cooperate,” said Yosefina.

“They can’t prevent me from
shutting down the shields.” Matilde grinned. “And maybe it will hurry their
surrender.” She sent a questioning glance at the Panarch, who gestured, palm
up.

“Do it.”

Tat opened her eyes
and shrank back against the deck when she saw Morrighon bending over her, his
hands on his knees. Then her eyes managed to focus. Lar and Dem stood behind
Morrighon, looking anxiously at her over his shoulders.

He’s going to have all
of us killed.

Morrighon straightened up and stepped back. Lar knelt beside
her and lifted her head. “You all right, Tat?”

She levered herself up on her elbows, watching Morrighon’s
twisted smile warily, and groaned as the cabin lurched. The last remnants of
the brain-suck in her system lent the scene an aura of unreality; she kept
expecting Morrighon’s teeth to fly out of his head at her, or Dem’s head to
flit away like a deflating balloon.

Lar murmured, “It’s all right, Tat. They won’t space us.”

Morrighon added, “Your cleverness has saved all your lives.”

The deck canted and the air rang with a squealing rumble.
Morrighon set his feet more firmly and continued. “This ship is presently
engaged in battle with a Panarchist battlecruiser. It will be destroyed
shortly.” He turned away and walked to the hatch, speaking over his shoulder.
“Come. Now. We are preparing to debark.”

Lar and Dem lifted Tat to her feet and she staggered out of
her cabin and down the corridor after Morrighon and the two gray-clad guards
with him. He took them to the port landing bay. They saw no other crew on the
way; the gravs had been set at normal gee, which enabled the Bori to run, Tat
stumbling in exhaustion, her cousins holding her up on either side.

As they stepped through the hatch, they heard the whining
rumble of engines warming up, emanating from the deadly, thorn-studded shape of
a small warship that practically filled the bay. Morrighon chivvied them up the
ramp, which began to retract almost on their heels.

Tat’s heart squeezed her throat when Morrighon pushed her
through the hatch ahead of him onto the bridge, and Anaris swiveled around in
the command pod to transfix her with an unwinking gaze of cold appraisal. She swayed
as she glanced to either side, but her cousins were no longer with her.

Morrighon grabbed her arm and pulled her to a console as
Anaris swiveled back and raised his head to watch the main screen. It was
slaved to the bridge of the
Samedi
;
Tat saw the wake of a skipmissile dissipating in the midst of a flaring chaos
of energy. The blacked-out limb of the system’s primary loomed huge to one
side. Anaris tapped at his console. Another screen lit, showing the bridge of
the
Samedi.
Even from here, Tat could
see that Fasthand was almost out of control—and the rest of the crew very
little better.

“This console is linked to the
Samedi’s
computer,” Morrighon said,
pulling her attention away from the fearful chaos on the bridge. “We do not
wish to give Fasthand warning of the exact moment of our departure, lest he
bring weapons to bear, despite the presence of two Tarkans on the bridge. Can
you momentarily cut the ship’s shields from here?”

“Think so. Will take a moment to
check.” She shut her eyes against the pounding of a headache, then opened them
slowly. Breathing deeply, she thought,
I
can do this
. Her fingers danced over the console as she queried the system.
Awareness gradually widened, and she listened to the feed from the bridge.

“Captain,” said Cefas on screen,
who’d taken Lar’s position at Damage Control. “That corvette in the port bay is
warming up.”

Fasthand looked over his shoulder to address someone Tat
couldn’t see—the Tarkans, she guessed. “You hear that? Your master’s leaving
you to die.”

A voice replied in surprisingly clear Uni, “That is our
function and our honor.” It added with heavy irony, “You are fortunate that we
are here to ensure that you, too, die with, honor.”

Fasthand turned back to the main screen with a wordless
snarl, as Tat’s console bleeped.

“I can do it,” she reported, her
head panging every time she moved.

“I set a tractor to restrain this
ship,” Anaris said. “Release it at the same time.” The sound of the engines
rose to a grumbling scream. “On my mark, then,” he continued.

The main screen switched to a view out the bay lock. One of
the secondary displays showed the interior of the bay, its fittings melting and
boiling away as the radiants of the ship blasted sun-hot plasma into its
interior.

“Three. Two. One. Mark.”

Tat slapped the go-pad on her console, canceling the ship’s
shields for a few seconds and cutting the tractor beam.

The edges of the bay abruptly vanished as the warship
exploded from the doomed destroyer; the head-bloating lurch of skip transition
followed almost instantaneously.

Tat let her breath out in a gusting sigh as Anaris dropped
the ship back into real-time and brought it about with sure motions of his
hands. Then she watched in amazement as, rather than setting course out of the
system, he merely pulled them back behind some debris and began to watch the
battle.

She risked a glance at Morrighon, whose face showed nothing.

Tat crouched down in her pod, ignored by all on the bridge.
Her head ached, her throat was dry, her guts churned. But she dared not even
ask for water, not with Anaris as company. Only one of the Catennach Bori, she
decided, could understand the Dol’jharian mind, and for that knowledge, the
price was far too high.

A runner pounded up beside Londri and flung himself flat
next to her, tear tracks marking pale paths down his soot-coated face. “Aztlan
reports he’s holding the Tasuroi. His elite guard is in position for an assault
on the ship, in concert with Gath-Boru and the Ferric Guard.”

She nodded—that was the last of the forces she needed—then
snapped her head back as something caught her attention. She watched carefully
as another massive rock hit the shuttle.

“Stepan!” she shouted. “The rocks
aren’t bouncing anymore!” This was what they had hoped and prepared for.

He wriggled up beside her, and they both squinted through
the haze of smoke. A short time later another massive rock smashed into the
ship; a shallow dent appeared in the hull.

“Have them stop the heavy
artillery,” he said urgently. “They’ll damage it beyond repair. And have them
aim for the cannon with the light artillery before you begin the assault.”

Londri dispatched a runner and motioned a herald over. He
listened to her instructions and then raised the war horn to his lips. A
glissade of notes ripped out of the wooden bell.

The battlefield quieted. She could clearly hear the crackle
of flames and the distant shouts of the fight with the Tasuroi. Sweat trickled
down her back inside her armor; the long summer day was waning, but it would be
hours before the air began to cool—and far longer for those inside the ship.

Then, nearby, she could hear the creaking of a catapult
being made ready. Their lighter payload would necessitate a flatter trajectory
to inflict meaningful damage—they would necessarily be exposed to return fire.
Fresh billows of smoke began to roll toward the ship as the returning horn
calls began to signal the readiness of the other artillery.

Inside the ship, An’Jayvan Neesach watched horrified as
Kaniffer pounded on the console, his eyes bulging. “You’re bugchatz crazy!” he
screamed. “Those rocks’ll tear the ship apart!”

The reasoned reply of the little nick woman didn’t make any
impression on Kaniffer. He slapped the com off and spun around to face Neesach.
“Why didn’t you hardwire the shields, you stinking blit?” he yelled. Sweat
dripped from his scanty hair.

“It’s not like that Morrighon
chatzer left me a lot of time,” Neesach screamed back, noting with satisfaction
how Kaniffer winced. She’d always hated her voice, but it made a fine weapon at
times like this. “I worked on the stuff we’d need to be safe from the Tarkans.
How was I supposed to know . . .”