The Phoenix in Flight (29 page)

The tall woman who had replaced Alluwan turned back to her
console and began speaking urgently into it, the deathsnake tattooed on her
neck writhing as her jaw worked.

Hreem looked up at Norio. “You’d better get below.”

The tempath inclined his head. The fine hairs on the back of
his neck glinted in the light, and Hreem felt a hollow sensation in his chest
as the image of Norio lying dead, seared by jac-fire, flitted through his mind.
The tempath paused and looked over his shoulder at Hreem, and a corner of his
mouth quirked upward. Then he left the bridge, his robe swirling out and
whispering against the edge of the lock.

Moments later there was a clatter of activity just outside
the bridge as crew members began setting up the tripod-mounted jacs in the
corridor.
Should be in their suits, too.
Hreem hesitated, then decided
that the crew was hair-trigger enough as it was. There’d be time for that if
anything happened.
They’d get crazy-bad wrapped up all the time.

The decision didn’t ease his mind, and he let the anger grow
in him, relaxing as it washed out the anxiety, as it always did. He’d have that
Faseult blit talking out of the other side of his mouth...
Mumbling, after I
finish smashing his teeth down his gullet.

Hreem turned back to the screen as another ripple of light
spread out across Charvann. The Archon was probably pretty worried by now,
despite his fancy talk. Hreem wondered if he should have flamed off about the
Krysarch. Now that Faseult knew he knew, would he try to hide the nyr-Arkad or
shoot him off to safety?
Better make sure.

“Dyasil, get me Y’Marmor and Kherrimun, conference.” While
he waited for acknowledgment, Hreem wondered if there was any way to intercept
the Krysarch’s ship, if he did try to flee, without likely blowing it and him
to gas. Probably not, he decided as the captains of
Satansclaw
and
Esteel
appeared on the screen. Eusabian would just have to settle for dead. At
least there was no problem deciding where the Krysarch would lift off from:
according to the
Handbook,
Charvann had only one boost field, and only a
booster would be fast enough to get him away, especially with the Shield under
attack.

He gave intercept instructions to the two captains, then:

“If you can put a lazplaz through the drive and nab him in
one piece, fine—but if one of you lets him get away, I’ll nail your balls up as
a wall decoration and give the rest of you to Norio to play with.” Hreem
brought one foot up onto his knee, flexed out the heel claw, and began cleaning
his fingernails on it, enjoying the way the other men’s eyes fixed on the
gleaming steel tines. “If there’s anything left for him after I get finished.”

Hreem aimed an especially nasty glare at Tallis, who tried
unsuccessfully to look simultaneously nonchalant and innocent—the net effect
being merely that his eyes bulged as his head hunched down on his shoulders. He
reminded Hreem of a tube-snake one of the crew had kept for a while: it used to
snap at the man and then withdraw into its cemented-pebble armor.
Until it
made the mistake of snapping at me.
He flexed his leg, the claw sliding
smoothly in and out.

He was about to continue when a thought halted him.
If I
warn them, I’ll lose half my forces. Y’Marmor sure won’t hang around once he
thinks there’s lances out there. Besides, I can use some decoys.

Hreem laughed, knowing it would be misinterpreted to his
advantage, and disconnected. Relaxing back into the command pod, he savored the
deadly doppler-moan of another missile launch, feeling the shudder of the ship
when the accelerator discharged its deadly load as a warm thrill deep within
him. He reveled in the odd, not-to-be-analyzed meld of revenge, lust, and the joy
of destruction that bathed his mind in a hot, red haze as he watched the doomed
planet below.
Eight hours...

o0o

Watching closely, Deralze followed Brandon, Osri, and the
guard through the corridors. Osri had the look of a man in shock, and he walked
as though someone else were moving his limbs. Brandon’s gaze stayed on his
hand, his fingers spread slightly from the Archon’s ring as if it felt hot. His
thoughts were impossible to guess from his face, though tension and tiredness
had pulled the skin taut, making him seem older than his years.

Outside in the courtyard, the auroral glare painted the
waiting ship in flickering blood tones. The air bulged with an oppressive sense
of weight. Though they had left the storm behind in their flight from The Hollows,
Deralze sensed the jaw-aching taste of thunder under every sound.

The splendor of the sky made real what he had seen on the
viewscreen—a shimmering archipelago of colors, colossal banners fluttering in
frenzy. A vast sweeping bow of light sped overhead from the southern horizon,
followed by fainter, concentric arcs behind it. The light, though not bright,
made the lamps of the Enclave seem small and useless.

The power beating down from space transformed Charvann into
a small and fragile bubble of life, and Deralze felt even more helplessly
entrapped. He almost wished that those Rifters above would land. An enemy
facing him he understood, and was equipped to fight, but this kind of battle—

He swayed dizzily, as though the planet under him had
flinched away from another blow from orbit, then he recognized the rolling
motion of a mild quake. A muted comment from Osri brought a fragment of the
leading guardsman’s explanation as he waved Brandon through the hatch of the
ship: “... faults are well lubricated, but there are always some undischarged
tensions...”

The planet was beginning to ring in a resonance excited by
the near-cee impacts of the Rifter missiles. It had taken the Shiidra more than
two weeks to get this far in their siege of Alpheios.
What do they have on
that ship up there?
He watched the sky a moment longer, then, sensing the
pressure of the guard’s impatience, followed Osri onto the ship.

The craft’s plasma jets burped to life even as the hatch
closed, and by the time Deralze had strapped himself into his seat, they were
already crossing the outlying suburbs of Merryn. The ship shuddered as they
entered transonic flight and then the only sound was the faint whine of the
jets.

The trip to the booster field was accomplished in silence.
Deralze sensed that Omilov’s son was trying to justify leaving his father, and
having no success. Brandon watched the pilot handling the small ship, his face
blank.

How long would the flight to Ares be? Except among those in
the very highest levels of state, the location of the Naval Station was found
only in coded chips like the one that would be installed in their escape craft,
and not only did the codes change, but from time to time, Ares moved. As a
major deterrent to real and potential enemies, the uncertainty of Ares’
location was an important asset of the Navy, and jealously guarded. Deralze,
remembering that the last time Brandon and Osri had seen one another was right
after Markham vlith-L’Ranja had been formally cashiered from the Naval Academy,
braced himself for a grim trip.
And at the end...

—Arrest and trial, for himself and his charge.

Deralze wondered if Brandon had looked that far ahead. Again
the Krysarch was contemplating the Archon’s ring, his profile closed.
He
has.

The lights of the booster field streamed below them, and
Deralze forced his attention away from the future. First they had to live
through the launch. Unless a miracle happened, that destroyer up there would
zap them the moment they boosted past the Shield.

At the field the techs fitted them for suits while they
waited for the final checkout on the escape craft to be completed. The
directional-stress dyplast that would brace him against the savage acceleration
and protect against possible air loss was cool against Deralze’s skin, until
the thermal sensors stabilized. Then he could no more feel it than his own
skin, until he moved, when subtle pulls and checks of his motions announced the
suit’s function.

After his fitting, Brandon stood at a window facing the
field, watching the preparation of the module.

Behind him Osri fretted, demanding adjustment of this and
that segment of his suit. From time to time the queasy motion of a temblor
manifested the tensions building in the planet’s crust. Like all machines, the
teslas were not one hundred percent efficient: the Shield, which translated
momentum through ninety degrees, could withstand the pounding of the missiles
far longer than the fragile human-built cities could withstand the effects of
the energy its losses were coupling into the crust.

Finally a small maglev whisked them to the ship, accompanied
by a single technician, and a small platform lifted them to the hatch. Deralze
watched their distorted reflections in the shiny black metal of the towering
booster as they ascended—the crimson glare from the heavens made it look as if
they were in Hell. The inside of the escape module was claustrophobic: two
acceleration pods were embayed side by side in a wraparound console, an arm of
which jutted aft between the two seats. There was no viewport, only two
screens. Behind these pods was an even smaller passenger pod, with no screens
or controls.

Deralze recognized the vessel from the Academy simulation
chips that Brandon used to study so intently: an Ultra Class courier skiff. He
remembered the lecturer-voice describing the ship:
Just imagine two
overstuffed chairs sitting on top of a fiveskip big enough for a frigate.
No
matter where Ares was, nothing could get them there faster, which was good,
because comfort was not part of the design.

Deralze climbed into the tiny passenger pod. He forced
himself to relax and submit to the ministrations of the tech as she showed him
how his suit connected to the ship, and helped him adjust his helmet. The
woman’s quick, precise motions and her intent concentration on her task were
oddly comforting.

“When you boost, try to relax,” she said in a quiet, husky
voice. “Don’t try to hold your breath, and don’t worry if you feel you can’t
breathe—your suit will see that you get enough oxygen. You’ll be under ten gees
only about five seconds, then you’ll zero out under geeplane.” She smiled. “It
will probably seem like hours. After you reach radius the computer will take
you from there, but I’ve programmed genz Omilov’s console for manual piloting
if something happens.”

Deralze fought a surge of panic which was not helped by the
closed-in dimensions of the passenger pod. Whatever happened, he would be
utterly helpless to do anything about it, strapped here without any kind of
control in reach.

The tech activated the ship’s console and then left with a
soft “Good luck.”

Osri nervously set up his side with slow, fussy movements of
his hands—Brandon’s side, identical to Osri’s, was dark except for some
communications functions. Deralze watched Brandon tune in to the field-control
frequency as he braced himself for the boost ahead.

Boosters were an ancient technology originally used to
eliminate the need for high acceleration during takeoff by drawing their thrust
from ground-based lasers: only the military used them at the limits of human
endurance, and then only under the lash of desperate circumstances. Deralze had
experienced a maximum boost once, during his early training days. His and
Brandon’s boost from Arthelion had been compensated to an undetectable one gee;
the Krysarch had probably never experienced ten gravities for more than a brief
moment, in the mock dogfights that had eventually terminated his and Markham’s
careers at the Academy.

Reminded of Markham, Deralze wondered where Markham
was—whether he knew about the firefight going on above them, or not—and then
the raspy voice of Field Control interrupted. “Shield Control, this is Laggam
Field. Ready to boost.”

He couldn’t hear the acknowledgment. A red light illuminated
the interior of the courier, instructions scrolled up the screens, and moments
later soft padded restraints pushed his limbs into the proper position for
launch and his helmet snapped shut.

Now the voice came over their helmet intercoms, to give them
psychological space to prepare themselves. “Timing sequence initiated...”

They were waiting until just after the next skipmissile
impact, when the Shield would be safe from another for a period.

“... four... three... two... one... Boost!” The last word
blurred in Deralze’s ears as the entire universe sat down hard on him, and his
vision went gray.

o0o

Tallis chewed morosely on his thumb while watching the
tactical display. On the viewscreen the northern hemisphere of Charvann rippled
with light, waves of iridescence marching northward from the equator.

The
Satansclaw
was under power in a forced orbit, its
accelerator tube oriented on the coordinates Hreem had given them. Several
windows on the screen showed a scan of surrounding space, with data overlays
displaying objects too faint to see, and indicating velocity, mass, distance,
and other computer-generated information. The
Esteel
was a bright blot
nearby, the
Flower of Lith
a fainter one past the limb of Charvann.
Smaller blotches denoted various communications and weather satellites, as well
as debris from the recent battle. It was the debris, with its random mix of
velocities, that worried Tallis: a perfect screen for unpleasant Panarchist
surprises.

What had that quickcode meant? Who, or what, had received
it—and answered?
They’re on about something. There’s something out there in
all that junk.
A cold finger wormed its way down his back as he envisioned
trying to fight off a lance contingent of Marines.

“Report,”
he subvocalized.
“Tactical.”