The Phoenix in Flight (31 page)

“Get off the bridge,” Tallis muttered, and then raised and
harshened his voice. “Anderic...”

“It’s coming, Captain.”

Tallis felt the quiet precision of his voice as a veiled
insult and threat, and he turned his attention to Ninn, whose pleadings had
degenerated into a sickening melange of baby-talk and curses, accompanied by a
weird little bobbing dance in his chair. Tallis had never seen him with a
partner, and at times like this he could see why.

“Ninn, what’s taking that blunge-suck of a fire console
long?”

He was answered by a rapid series of chirps from Ninn’s
console. The tech turned to glare at him in triumph and crow, “Got ’em locked!”

“Well, fire, maggot-brain!” Tallis’s voice broke on a
scream—the escaping booster was practically at radius. Then he remembered he
had the override on and, face crimson with rage and embarrassment, slammed his
fist down on his fire pad.

o0o

“Eyes on, Bikara!” the Archon stabbed a finger at the main screen.

Omilov peered past his shoulder , watching as targeting
darts appeared around a faint point of light in its upper left corner. A blue
line darted from the point to the enhanced image of the
Esteel
at the
center of the screen. The view shrank as three more windows swelled onto the
screen. Now both remaining Rifter destroyers could be seen, along with a view
of the planet’s surface.

“Closing at point-one, along with a lovely trash-reef from
BahnUtulo.”

Omilov smiled at the pride in Bikara’s voice. He suspected
from occasional remarks that Bikara had let fall at private dinners hosted by
the Archon that the BahnUtulo Highdwelling was still home to her, for all that
she’d been downside for twenty years now. Her loyalty, and the backing of the
Utuloa Family, had been an early and welcome gift to a too-young Archon, Tanri
had once confided to Omilov. He had said, laughing, “
Sixteen years ago, at
my accession, a journalist had said rather pompously, ‘The fealty of a
Highdweller to a Downsider Archon’...
but I’m not, anymore.”

This was a subject that Omilov had often canvassed with
Tanri in private conversation. How far Tanri had changed from the decidedly
geocentric Archon of his teens was underscored yet again by Omilov’s
bewilderment. Omilov knew that he saw the universe from the perspective of a
Downsider. Highdweller slang was still incomprehensible to him.

The Archon must have perceived his lack of understanding,
because he said, “A surprise for that Rifter frigate. It’s hiding in a cloud of
debris released by the sync.”

“The last of the surprises you mentioned earlier, prepared
by a not-so-trusting ancestor? Humor and paranoia would appear an unlikely
combination.”

“True!” The Archon chuckled. “That’s probably why he’s known
to this day as Glefin the Sour—the only Faseult Archon who lacked a sense of
humor. He was quite proud of that particular weapon.”

Another soundless impact shook the defense room, accompanied
by a wave of visual distortion. A surge of nausea boiled through Omilov, who
saw the same discomfort reflected by the others, Highdweller and Downsider
alike. .

A flicker from the screen announced a screen update. The
data lag was almost six seconds—the interference from the Shield was making
heavy demands on the computers.

“Too bad we can’t give the
Satansclaw
more than just
a poke in the eye,” the Archon continued, “but there isn’t as much debris near
it. Still, we should be able to blind him long enough for your son and the
Krysarch to get away.” He pointed at the other window, where the
Flower of
Lith
hung menacingly. “That’s where the main action will take place.”

Even as he spoke, a brilliant point of light flared near the
Lith
and darted toward it. Its apparent impact, and the excited shout
from the monitors on the floor below, followed almost simultaneously, so fast
did it move.

“Lance impact on the
Flower of Lith.”
Bikara’s voice
held controlled excitement as her hands moved with unhurried precision across
her console. “Com relays report negative so far.”

“They’re no doubt far too busy to worry about warning the
other Rifters,” the Archon commented.

For a time there was silence, broken only by Bikara’s
occasional status reports, but no word came from the Marines. If the lance
attack failed, Omilov wondered, how would they know? Then he remembered the
Rifter’s face and knew.
He’ll no doubt inform us—with an ultimatum.

“Laggam Field reports ready to boost,” reported Bikara
finally.

“Commence,” the Archon said.

A faint sparkle of light glimmered quite near the other
destroyer that the Archon had identified as the
Satansclaw
, but before
Omilov could ask the Archon about it, the window relaying a view of the frigate
was swallowed by a fierce blast of light and went black for some time. The
Esteel
.
When that view came back, the frigate was gone, replaced by a misshapen cloud
of light.

“Glefin the Sour laughs last!” exclaimed Omilov. “Whatever
was that?”

The Archon grinned. “That, my friend, was a
four-hundred-fifty-year-old gigaton fusion bomb—and an old promise come true.
Old Glefin was bitterly disappointed that he never got a chance to use any of
his clever traps, so he ordered that he be embalmed and sealed up in that
weapon when he died, declaring that he’d put a lot of work into it and he
intended to be around when it was finally used. That’s why my third greatfather
left it up there when he cleaned up inner space back under Burgess II.”

Omilov laughed aloud, in more relief than humor. The Archon
beamed, then laughed, too, as a message scrolled up the now-empty window:
Glefin
1 Rifter 0
, accompanied by whooping cheers and catcalls from the floor.

Bikara’s thin face lightened briefly, then she nodded at the
screen. “Shield dilating.”

In the window displaying the vast curve of Charvann they
could see a vast whirl of light, with the booster the bright head of a
brilliant green pin piercing its center. Then the green thread winked out. The
hole in the Shield dwindled and was gone, just before another impact shook the
room. The room became silent as the booster climbed steadily toward freedom.

“Twenty seconds to radius. No response from
Satansclaw
.
No word from the Marines.”

“Why don’t they fire?” asked Omilov, staring at the
destroyer lying quietly in space.

“They’re blind—no targeting data.”

Omilov sensed that his questions were distracting the
Archon, and he suppressed his next question.

The next fifteen seconds passed with glacial slowness, the
little point of light that the Archon was risking all for climbing too slowly,
the destroyer hanging apparently unmoving, unseeing, but still deadly.

A great groan rose from the monitors as the chain-of-pearls
wake of a skipmissile finally streaked toward the booster from the
Satansclaw
,
ending in a flash of light at the base of another, more diffuse and
intermittent chain of light spheres. The groan cut off, was replaced by
murmurs, and at last a ragged cheer rising in volume as they realized what had
happened, but Omilov stood still in shock, his left hand tingling again as he
contemplated his son’s death, and Brandon’s.

The Archon saw his expression. “Sebastian, it’s not what you
think! That’s them, they’re away now, with some damage, I’d guess, but unless
that Rifter captain is very good, they’ve got an excellent chance.” He turned
to Bikara. “What can you see?”

“Cerenkovs are out, so they can be tracked, and I’d guess
their high end is gone.” She grimaced. “It’ll be a long trip to Ares.”

The Archon gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,
Sebastian. Those couriers are equipped for trouble. They may not enjoy the
flight, but they’ll get there.”

Dyarch Tepple swallowed painfully and triggered another dose
of nonauz with his chin console, not taking his eyes from the little screen
that displayed his lance’s prey. The destroyer was almost close enough—only a
few seconds more until he triggered the overload that would take them through
their target’s shields.

With sixteen effectives out of thirty, and no backup.
The
explosion of the
Korion,
whatever the cause, had destroyed the other
lances and inflicted severe damage on the
Diggerwasp
and a withering
blast of radiation on its thirty Marines. Almost half were dead now, baked
alive in their gee-tanks, and the rest knew they had only hours left before
collapse.
If that,
he thought, as an agonizing cramp gripped him. He
tried to double up to ease the pain, but his heavy battle armor wouldn’t budge.
Good thing the servos weren’t engaged... I’d have ripped the tank right out
of the deck.

An overlay flashed on the screen to warn him that the
garbage drift they were using for cover would take them out of optimum range if
he delayed any longer. Well, they’d made their plans as best they could. Even
as sick as they were, he figured they had about an even chance against a
five-hundred-year-old destroyer manned by Rifters. He tried out his
voice—hoarse but serviceable—and triggered the intercom. “Time to shut your
face or suck vacuum, Mary. Prepare for gees.” The ancient insult which had
prefaced boarding sallies for a thousand years brought a spate of equally
traditional replies, which died away when several Marines began to retch and
hurriedly shut off their comms.

The dyarch closed his own faceplate and engaged the attack
sequence. He was stirred yet again by the pealing trumpets of the Phoenix
Fanfare, the theme of every Arkads’ ship going into battle across the Thousand
Suns since Jaspar I imposed his peace on human space. Then the computer
triggered the engines, and there was no more time to think or hear or speak.

o0o

Despite his watchfulness, Hreem almost didn’t see the
boarding lance that took the
Lith
just under the base of the bridge,
cutting it off from the missile and power rooms. An especially thick drift of
battle debris had afforded it the cover it needed to get close enough for its
final lunge. He caught barely a glimpse of a long, dark needle, its deadly
symmetry marred by a melted streak along its back, before its nose burst into a
flare of light and the screen window blacked out.

The
Lith
juddered. The floor slapped up at his feet
as the shaped nuclear charge ripped through the destroyer’s shield, followed by
the lance, its contingent of Marines protected by a destructive overload of its
geeplane. Hreem fell back into his pod. His ears popped as the hatch slammed
shut, sealing the bridge, followed by the chilling cyclic whoop of the pressure
alarm. A muffled bang rattled up through the deck, bringing a vivid image to
his mind’s eye, from the serial chips of his youth, of the front of the lance
blowing off to disgorge a wave of heavily armed and armored Marines.

“Dyasil—gimme windows on the jac crews,” bellowed Hreem,
“and track those chatzing Marys! Pili, status!”

“No problems, missile charging... discharge.”

The screen rolled up four windows at the bottom. Three
showed the firejac crews outside the power and missile rooms and the bridge;
the fourth grabbed the attention of all on the bridge. It showed a file of
bulky figures in iridescent-blue armor emerging from a gaping hole in a
bulkhead, the corridor around them warped and melted, and littered with
fragments of metal. Then the scene flared and blanked.

“Lost ’em, the logos-chatzing blunge-eaters,” swore Dyasil.
“Firejac!” He tapped at his console while Hreem yelled commands at the firejac
crews, who were already struggling into light armor. It wouldn’t save them from
a direct hit from a jac, like the Marines’ servo-armor, but it would keep them
from being fried by energy reflected from the corridor walls.

“There they are!” Dyasil yelped, and an image of the Marines
popped up on the screen again. Now there were only four: one of them was
kneeling in front of an open inspection plate, probing at something inside with
a delicate feeler extended from a gauntlet. “Wait a minute!” screeched Dyasil.
“No, you chatzer, get out of there!”

He slapped frantically at his console but was too late. A
jeering chatter swelled from the com, followed by a flood of gibberish on all
screens. All the data overlays and windows vanished, as well as all internal
views, leaving only the main view of the flaring limb of Charvann. The Marine had
crashed the bridge computers.

“Pimma morushka hai datsenda nafar!”
Hreem’s voice
cracked with fear and rage. They were pulling the
Lith
apart around his
ears. If he got out of this he’d feed that Barrodagh slug his own tongue for
promising him an easy target.

The sight of another hypermissile impacting the Shield
mollified him only a little; the backup fire-control had taken over without a
hiccup, but precious little good did that do him, isolated on the bridge with
no way of knowing what was going on. The only comfort, and bare comfort at
that, was that there was only one lance.
And it was damaged, too.

“Dyasil, you stinking blit, get me through to the jac crews
now! Erbee, get the computers back up!” Hreem was too worried to add a threat
to the commands. His hand paused over the com keys, then he remembered he could
not check on Norio’s safety. Cursing on a rising note, he ran over to the
weapons locker and tossed two-hand firejacs to those of the bridge crew that
could be spared from their consoles, taking one for himself.

Erbee hunched close over his screen, the knobs of his
backbone showing through his thin shirt, his fingers almost blurring. A moment
later he turned to the communications tech, who was swearing helplessly at his
console as the screen remained obstinately empty of windows. “Got you some ears
back, Dyasil. Comm’ up on one, two, and three.”