The Rifter's Covenant (17 page)

A breathless heartbeat,
then, with a soundless crash that slapped up through the ground at him, the
lazplaz discharged. A lurid sheet of light shot overhead, threaded with
brilliant lines of light as the backblast tore rocks off the top of the ridge
shielding them and hurled them away—probably into orbit. He caught a glimpse of
a seemingly solid bar of energy spearing up; a few seconds later a coin of
light blossomed above the limb of Barca.

“That’s one!”
Ra-Tremon exulted, her voice high.

“You gotta let us
watch the next one,” Norski added.

Sussonius grinned,
needing no urging. He extended the spy-eye again. The crater around the tower
glowed dull red, a hellish foundation to the white-hot glare from the
refractory electronic alloys of the lazplaz tower. As the Marines watched, the
mechanism elevated a new mirror into its yoke. The mirror pivoted, taking up a
new aiming point, and a new disc of the ultradense matter that sustained the
momentum-converting tesla effect slid into place above the mirror.

The laser would
fire straight up, deflected by the aiming mirror through the tesla lens, which
would deflect the plasma delivered by the massdriver along the axis of the
laser beam. The lens lasted scarcely a nanosecond, the mirror not much longer,
but that was enough to deliver a three-hundred-meter-long slug of plasma whose
intersection with the beam of coherent light could punch through almost any
ship’s shield.

The massdriver
began outgassing again, but this time the light was harder to see.

“I’ve got the sequence
decoded,” Byrd reported.

“Four . . .
three . . . two . . . one.”

A beam that looked
like a solid bar of white-hot metal snapped into existence, linking the mouth
of the massdriver with the tesla lens, intersecting a scarcely less violent
cylinder of coherent light, revealed by the gases released by the last
discharge, lancing up from the laser. At their meeting point, hell blossomed
and leapt hungrily into the sky at an acute angle. Then the spy-eye flared and
evaporated as the ground shook once again. The deathly light of the backblast
scythed overhead. Sussonius heard a gentle tinkling from his armor—little
spheres of rockglass blown upward by the first discharge, only now falling back
in the gentle pull of Avasta.

“Telos,” someone
breathed.

“More like
Haruban’s style, I’d say,” put in another.

“That’s it,”
Sussonius said. “Show’s over. Byrd, set up the intercept on the fiberlink. When
the signal comes to disable, we’ll turn off the tesla generator and cripple the
failsafes.”

He looked back at
the ridge, whose edge still glowed. Without the tesla generator, when the
weapon fired, several kilos of plasma would impact the ultradense lens at near
lightspeed.

“And we want to be
very, very far away by then. Move it!”

“Weapons fire from
Avasta,” reported the Kelly. “Five Rifter ships hit. Three destroyed, one dead
in space, one severely damaged but under power. Barca has Shielded. No activity
from Shimosa.”

Cameron watched,
gut gnawing with tension and disappointment as the tacticals updated.
Scorpion
was not among the ship kills.
He forced himself to shrug it off. ZiTuto no doubt had his reasons.

“Communications,
flag to fleet,” he said. “First battle group to Position Two, proceed with
infiltration. Second and third groups, stand by for fall of resonance field,
then proceed.”

The first wave—
Claidheamh Mor
and
Shiavona
—would skip to just outside the resonance field and then
attempt to join Hreem’s fleet, disguised by ECM. When cis-lunar space was again
open to fiveskip, the other two destroyers, also disguised as Rifter craft,
would commence a slashing attack on Hreem’s fleet, hoping to be taken for
elements of Neyvla-khan’s forces.

“Time to take the
gloves off,” he said to Kor-Mellish. “Activate all dragon’s teeth within range
of any Rifter vessel.”

The Kelly
acknowledged and its ship vanished.

“Navigation, take
us in. Tac-level two.”

“Now to see what
the Barcans have decided,” Kor-Mellish said, but Cameron just bared his teeth
humorlessly as the fiveskip thrummed, hurling the
Claidheamh Mor
out of fourspace toward Barca.

Hreem was looking
right at the moon when Avasta opened fire. Norio’s knees buckled under the
impact of Hreem’s savage, gloating joy as five threads of light leapt outward
and terminated in bright discs of light.

A few seconds
later, Dyasil announced another communication from Neyvla-khan.

Hreem laughed. “Put
it on.”

The other captain
no longer looked so elegant. His eyes were dilated with rage, his beard wild,
as if he had been tearing at it. “I piss on your open grave,” he shouted. “I
will preserve your shriveled nacker as a plaything for pigs, and your
mindsnake’s skull as a spittoon. I will put your head on life support and fill
your mouth with—”

The bridge of the
Scorpion
lit up with a fearsome light. Flame
washed across Neyvla-khan’s back as the man ululated in agony.

Norio watched
avidly as Neyvla-Khan’s ears melted and the skin on the backs of his hands
blackened and peeled away. He’d have it on a chip! He exulted; the intensity of
Hreem’s emotions was almost unbearable, ensuring that this memory would be
among the most vivid of his treasures. As Hreem climaxed, his wash of pleasure
hurled Norio into a storm of emotional feedback that made him dizzy enough to
clutch at the pod for support.

After the second
discharge, the lights in the control room of Avasta Station failed and the
consoles went dark.

“That’s it!” ZiTuto
shouted. “Barcans got control back. Set demolition and withdraw.”

The second lance
detachment had joined ZiTuto’s shortly after they took the control room; he had
dispatched them to secure the route up to where the third detachment had cut
off the control room from the landing bay, which it now held. Both detachments had
also taken heavy casualties from the Ogres.

They were several
levels up by the time the floor slapped at their feet, announcing the
transformation of the center of Avasta Station into a plasma-filled cavern.

On the surface,
Byrd announced, “No data.”

Sussonius waited. The
lazplaz cycle time passed. No discharge. Twice cycle time. “That’s it. Byrd,
intercept and jam it. Begin withdrawal.”

Byrd worked
feverishly as the squad began to withdraw, impelled by their servos in swift,
low arcs across the moon’s surface toward the waiting ship.

Sweat beaded on
Sussonius’s forehead. The Barcans had cut off Avasta Station. How long would it
take them to reestablish control from the alternate site?

“Got it!”

They bounded after
the rest of the squad. Sussonius could feel on his mind, like an almost
physical pressure, the weight of the blast their sabotage would ensure.

And that’s more than you’ll feel if the
Barcans fire it now.

Hreem didn’t
notice Norio’s hands pull away from his shoulders as the image flickered out.
The aftermath of the orgasm left him, not weak with lassitude but charged with
energy.

The ship rocked
again to a missile strike. “Impact, aft upper quadrant. Minimal damage. Shields
holding.” Metije’s voice thinned with tension.

The acceleration of
the
Lith
was leaving Neyvla-khan’s
sneak-weapons behind. Hreem scanned the tacticals.

“Pili!”

“Three minutes to
first sneak-missile acquisition on resonance generator.”

“Emergence pulses,”
Erbee said. “Signatures match
Shiavona
and one Alpha.” He tabbed his console. “They’re heading in to join us, staying
in the shadow.”

“Good,” Hreem said,
though he might not even need Lochiel and her crew, if Avasta kept up its rate
of fire. If not, then the two additional destroyers would make mopping up
Neyvla-khan’s fleet a snap. And he’d let them take it up the ass.

“Signal from
Barca,” said Dyasil.

“Now they want to
talk,” Hreem said, hearing the hoarseness of his own voice. “Go ahead.” He
looked at Riolo, back on the bridge. The Barcan looked back at him steadily,
his expression masked by his red goggles.

Avasta hadn’t fired
again. Hreem’s back prickled as the dim image of a Barcan official windowed up.
“We have reestablished control of Avasta.”

Hreem’s
disappointment was mild. Ten ships destroyed or damaged and Neyvla-khan himself
dead! His heart still pounded.

He shrugged, trying
to project the air of a man whose plans are proceeding as expected. “You told
my emissary that you would not interfere.” He gestured grandly. “And I have
eliminated my rival. I now represent Dol’jhar.”

The response
astonished him. “We have identified the intruders. They are Arkadic Marines.”

Right. Well, what
else would they look like, in lances?, he thought, laughing. “Sure. And the two
destroyers joining me are Navy ships.”

“No, only one.”

Hreem stared, then
flared up. “You little blunge-sucker. You’d just love to see me fire on my own
ships.” But suspicion soured his gut. Servo-armor was custom-fitted, and pretty
high-tech—who in Charterly’s fleet would have had the know-how to refit it?
Could they do without refitting? What kind of deceleration did a tesla mole
impose? He’d made some very dangerous assumptions.

The man gave him a
disgusted look. “We have very good arrays.” The image that replaced his face
shriveled Hreem’s nacker instantly: the deadly, ultramodern thorniness of a
Manta-class destroyer, gleaming silvery in the light of Barca’s primary, a
basket-hilted sword emblazoned on it under the Sun and Phoenix.

“. . . and you can even blame
it on the Navy . . .”

“Chatz,” Hreem
shouted. “That blunge-eating Lochiel betrayed me! Dyasil, notify all ships.
Pili, target those ships! Throw everything we have left at the chatzers!”

“Fifteen seconds to
lazplaz range, missiles away,” Pili replied as Hreem looked back at the Barcan.

“Cancel the
resonance,” he said.

The man smiled.
“How would that look to the Lord of Vengeance? No, you do it. It will only take
you—” He looked away briefly. “—two minutes.”

The image dissolved
into fractal garbage as Riolo screeched a shrill Barcan curse. “They ate it! It
was an infected transmission and it’s gone.” He slapped at his console.

Damn! No evidence
of their little games for Dol’jhar
.

“I stopped it from
going any further,” Riolo said. Then the little man looked up at Hreem, his
face terrified under the goggles.

“Or they let me.”

“Avasta has
ceased firing,” Siglnt reported.

“Communications,”
said Cameron, “squirt the courier. Commence action against resonance
generators.”

“That may be
costly,” Kor-Mellish crooned, her fingers working steadily over her console.
“They’re both open to Shimosa.”

“Missile release on
Flower of Lith
,” reported Siglnt.
“Strike estimated in two-oh-five seconds. Estimate lazplaz range in twelve seconds.”

“He’s figured it
out. Weapons, shields up. Siglnt. Activate all tacponders.” I wish we’d had
more of them to sow with the dragon’s teeth; they’d be more useful, he thought,
suppressing useless regret.

“Communications,
signal the squadron to maintain ECM. All ships to execute tactical skip on
resonance failure. Prepare for general engagement. Get me
Shiavona
.”

Lochiel’s face
popped on-screen.

“They’ve seen us.
Weapons incoming.” The old Alphas didn’t have sensors as good as his Mantas;
she might not know.

“This far out?”

“The Barcans,
probably.”

The almost
elliptical exchange carried a wealth of overtones for Cameron. He thought he
saw them reflected in his cousin’s eyes.

“Stand by for an
attack on Avasta,” he continued. “We think the Barcans are regaining control.
Commence when the Marines signal they’re off.”

She grinned.
“Permission to chatz with Hreem’s skull a bit, cousin? Maybe I can buy us a
little time, a few thousand klicks. Maybe even enough time for one shot with
the hyperrelay before we turn back into a pumpkin?”

A what? Then
Cameron chuckled, remembering the ancient story. “Permission granted.”

Lochiel sketched a
salute with a wry smile and signed off.

“Navigation, full
acceleration. Prepare to engage.”

Cameron remembered
that he hadn’t ever actually seen the new weapons possessed by the Rifters,
only terse reports of their effect.

Unless Hreem acted
very swiftly, that would change momentarily.

Hreem glared
madly at her from the screen. “You’re vat-meat, bint. I’m gonna have Barrodagh
shut down your power, and then I’ll have some fun.”

“What are you
talking about, you piss-witted chatz-head!” she shrieked, launching into what
Bayrut called her madwoman imitation.

“The Barcans showed
me your Manta.” Hreem sneered the last word. Another window popped up with an
image of Cameron’s destroyer, the blazon of the sword clearly visible.

Lochiel slapped at
her console, keeping her eyes locked with Hreem’s. “You nackerless idiot! How
do you know that’s not just some leftover novosti-feed?” She watched Hreem’s
eyes crimp in doubt just as her fingers found what she needed.

“Look,” she said,
her voice laden with as much sarcasm as she could muster. “We’re being attacked
by an alien space weapon!”

Another window
dilated, revealing a pastiche of an ancient steam-powered transport from Lost
Earth gliding through space with a planet in the background. It was a long
metal cylinder with a cabin at the back, with rows of wheels under it linked by
metal rods rotating frantically, a cloud of smoke blasting out of its top.
“It’s a chatzing steam engine, and it’s coming right at you!”