Korval's Game (34 page)

“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.

“Piloting, you have my mark.”

The ship paused, gathered itself and began, slowly, to spin.

“Engineering, when we achieve plus fifty percent on spin, increase power to main engines to three-quarter.”

“Engineering. Aye to three-quarter on plus fifty.”

“Priscilla,” the voice was very soft. “What do you?”

She turned toward Ren Zel, strapped in as ordered at the auxiliary board, caught the edge of his fear with that sense that wasn’t Healer sense at all, but a far more frightening Sight, which was the burden of those who had been to the Hall.

She took a breath, banishing her knowledge of his secret terrors.

“The fleas,” she said to his worried eyes. “Long-range weapons are useless. We could empty everything we have and still not stop them all. And we don’t know how many have managed already to get inside the watch-points. If we increase ship’s spin—”

He inclined his head. “Those which have not yet anchored themselves shall be thrown off and those who approach will have difficulty matching vector. As well as gravitational problems.” He paused, frowning past her shoulder as the
Passage
tumbled around them.

“If the captain will allow me, there is another item of close-in defense which may be utilized.”

She waved a hand for him to continue, saw the flash of the red counter along her fingers.

“The meteor shield. Should we adjust spin to opposite—matched as close as we are to a planetary gravity field, a charge will be built . . .”

. . .and the space between ship and shield would be filled with an effect not unlike an intense aurora. Which would fry everything in its field.

Priscilla looked at her first mate, past the properly expressionless Liaden face to the horror and the resolve within him.

“Necessity, Captain,” he said, softly.

She nodded. “Necessity, First Mate.” And touched the toggle for Piloting.

***

A halt was called
when they reached the southernmost point of the sweep. Shan bent carefully, set the box between his feet, straightened, and closed his eyes. His bruises had stopped bothering him some time back, swallowed up in a weariness so vast that he considered it perfectly possible that he would fall asleep where he stood.

There were others on the march in worse shape than he—walking wounded. He could see the blood-red glimmerings of physical pain amid the larger matrix of the unit, as well as every conceivable shading of terror, stress, and anguish. Eyes closed, he shifted, thinking muzzily that he should do something about that. He was a Healer. People needed him.

He took a breath, ran a rapid exercise to energize himself—and saw the brilliant pattern of Val Con’s lifemate very near at hand, attended by a massive calmness of mauve and mint.

Shan opened his eyes.

Val Con’s lady was less than an arm’s length away, the tattooless Yxtrang at her back. She was holding out a canteen.

“Thought you might could use a drink,” she said. “Since you lost your own jug.”

Water
. The thought woke a torment of thirst. He took the canteen and put it to his lips. The water was warm, tasting faintly of plastic, and he savored it more than the most precious wine in yos’Galan’s renowned cellar.

He allowed himself two exquisite swallows.

“Thank you,” he said, offering the “jug” back to her.

She waved it away. “Keep it,” she told him, the wave turned into a point at the scratched and dented stasis box. “What’s in the keep-safe?”

He looked at her. “Seedlings.”

“Seedlings,” she repeated, expressionless, then nodded. “Beautiful here can carry that for you.”

Shan froze. “I beg your pardon,” he said carefully. “I may not have made myself clear. This box holds half-a-dozen stasis-bound seedlings from Jelaza Kazone. It’s my duty, as a pilot of Korval, to carry them to safety.”

Val Con’s lady held up a small hand. “I
said
,” she repeated firmly, “Beautiful can carry the box for you.”

It was, in any light, an order. She was Val Con’s lifemate, and Nadelmae Korval could certainly order mere Thodelm yos’Galan as she chose in matters of Tree and clan. And in all good soldier-sense, the box was weighing him down, slowing him down, making him a less effective soldier. As commander of this particular military action she could just as easily order him to leave the box, as hand it over to . . . He looked up into Nelirikk Explorer’s face, gathered himself for a deeper looking—and saw the big man bow his head.

“Be at ease, Shan yos’Galan,” the Yxtrang said in High Liaden. “I am of Jela’s own Troop. The seedlings of his Tree are safe with me.”

“
Jela’s
Troop?” Shan repeated.

Not possible
, he thought first.
After all these years
?

If that isn’t like Val Con’s damnable luck
, he thought second, with a touch of what he suspected was hysteria,
to pick
up this particular Yxtrang, of all possible
—He snapped off that thought as a third occurred to him.

“Do forgive me if I raise a painful subject,” he said to the Yxtrang, in Terran. “But I wonder if you had previous acquaintance of my brother. Perhaps eleven or twelve Standards ago?”

“Yes,” Nelirikk said.

“And you’ve sworn yourself to his line?” Shan demanded. “I’d have rather thought you’d try to murder him.”

“He tried,” Miri Robertson broke in. “But the deal was that whoever came out winner in armed combat between the two of them would be boss, and Val Con won.” She jerked her head. “Time to move out. Give Beautiful the safe.”

He did as he was told, but it was with a definite pang that he saw the big hands close over the Dragon seal and lift the box away.

***

He was beyond
weariness,
into a state of hyperaware numbness, where every leaf-twitch abraded and the taste of emotions around him seared.

It was Healer sense that saved him.

The emotive grid was alien, dark with blood lust, dank with deep-held horrors. Shan felt it in the instant before the twig snapped under the force of the Yxtrang’s charge.

There was no room to bring the rifle up, no time to go for the knife. The axe blade descending toward his head was black, light absorbing and wickedly sharp. Shan shouted—what, he had no idea—and
reached
, grabbing for the shield he had used to save him from Priscilla’s wine-shower, a far-away lifetime ago.

The axe sang downward. Bounced. Broke.

The Yxtrang screamed rage and Shan
reached
again, into the dank undergrowth of horror, snatched up a squirming, squealing nightmare and threw it with every erg of his will into the Yxtrang’s waking mind.

The scream this time was not rage. The Yxtrang threw away the axe haft. Hands clawing at his eyes, he whirled, crashing back the way he had come as gunfire exploded on all sides.

Shan sprang to the left, fell heavily behind a log, brought his rifle up and fired into the Yxtrang charge.

It was a quick, dirty fight, the Yxtrang being armed with nothing more than the standard long-arm and apparently without an officer to command them. The charge into the sweep line was ill conceived—or the last valiant act of desperate men. In either case, there were twenty of the enemy counted dead among the trees when the noise was finally over.