Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 24

Strange. And disturbing. He tried to ignore the sensation, focusing his attention on the display and its meaning. The Conqueror had sent a single fighter to accompany the Venture's pilots . . . why? Because the new s.h.i.+p was technologi- cally superior, and would give Azea the advantage? Because it was still experimental, and needed to be tested in the context of a traditional battle?

The Conqueror: what role did it play in all this? He called up a list that Herek had compiled, an a.n.a.lysis of the enemy's hierarchy in each of the battles that had been lost. No pattern. Here the Destroyer had been in command, there it was the Venture . . . the Conqueror wasn't even listed in the command sequence. It was extremely active, though; he noted its presence in each of the crucial battles.

And stopped, chilled.

"Computer?" he asked softly.

He had programmed it to answer him aloud, in the manner of his House.

RESPONSIVE.

"Speculate. Odds of a starcommander being given authority over those with higher rank and/or greater seniority. Current Star Empire, War Border."

There was a moment's pause as it chose its data.

.000012 + , it answered. UNLIKELY, BUT POSSIBLE.

"Data?"

PRECEDENT. ONE: PERIA LI UZUAN, a.s.sIGNED THE VENGEANCE 8194- 8240 A.E. TWO: TAEN ER KALLEDAS, a.s.sIGNED THE GUARDIAN 9056-.

9099 A.E. THREE: TABYA ZI OKROS (LATER EMPRESS), a.s.sIGNED THE.

DESTROYER-.

"Enough. Other data?"

CURRENT DIRECTOR TORZHA ER LITZ NOTED FOR NONTRADITIONAL.

ORIENTATION REGARDING STAR-CONTROL POLICY. SOURCES:.

a.n.a.lYSES, PRECEDENT, STATEMENT OF POLICY. REQUEST SPECIFICS?.

"No." The feeling that had bothered him was growing more intense, but it was not enough to distract him. What if a single mind had masterminded Herek's recent defeats? That made the problem finite, thus correctable. He was on to something. "Other data?"

SPONSORs.h.i.+P BINDING DIRECTOR ER LITZ AND STARCOMMANDER.

LYU MITETHE, a.s.sIGNED THE CONQUEROR. CLOSE PERSONAL INTEREST.

INCREASES ODDS OF FAVORITISM.

Sponsors.h.i.+p. It had no parallel in the Braxin system, so his understanding of it was limited. Unless one compared it to the Kaim'erate tradition of having an established member bring forth the name of an aspirant for consideration . . . yes, and in that case there was often favoritism. How much more so among the Azeans, who had no reason to fear a protege's treachery?

So there could well be one mind behind it all. One single mind: eccentric, unpredictable, capable of second-guessing the Talon-Commander with rare ac.u.men. And dangerous- very dangerous. There was a pattern in the very oddity of the engagements. In how often the enemy would initiate a confrontation in the open Void. In how this Starcommander seemed to know certain details of Herek's planning-details that should never have gotten out-and yet was unaware of others, as though a supreme effort of will might net him one or two secrets, but no more.

Here was a pattern that could be a.n.a.lyzed-an enemy that could be defeated.

He had rendered the problem finite, and thus were his goals defined. To understand the enemy, so that he might neutralize and destroy him. To restore Herek's reputation by giving him the key to victory. And to set his own mark upon the Border fleet, so that the name of Zatar became synonomous with triumph. That was the most important goal, which had brought him to the Border in the first place.

Circ.u.mstances were playing right into his glove.

It was while they were astrogating the long, empty stretch between Irya and Zeliash that Herek's optimism began to return to him. Perhaps that was because the Lord Commander made such a show of confidence; genuine or feigned, it was rea.s.suring. Perhaps the promise of battle was awakening the warrior in him, driving out his lethargy and the doubt that had accompanied it. Perhaps it was simply that the Braxana's presence was a constant reminder that the Holding had chosen to support him. Whatever the reason, as he slipped the contact band over his head and prepared to launch his senses into the Void, it was with a more positive att.i.tude than he had felt in many months.

Before he could lose himself in the talon's contact network the door slid open. It was Zatar. Herek tipped the contact band back on his head, out of its proper alignment. And waited.

The Braxana looked around the room, at the dozens of men who were carefully not watching him, and nodded. "How is our contact network?"

"Good; not without holes, as you see," he indicated the screen, "but it is extensive."

Zatar studied the display, nodding as he did so. A wars.h.i.+p's scanners could only accomplish so much; in order to detect fine detail at great distances, it was necessary to send out a portable scanner bound in relay to the mothers.h.i.+p. Thus a hundred scouts, perhaps more, were presently combing the Void for data, each of them forwarding their readings back to the Sentira for coordination and display. The trouble was that such a widefaring network as this one was, by definition, thin. There were areas of darkness which no scanner could reach- holes in the net, they called it-and these were dangerous weaknesses. The contact periphery, however, was solid, and extended far into the Void on all sides of the mothers.h.i.+p. That was what Zatar wanted. That was what would keep them from being surprised again.

"The Dar'mat should be in position by now."

Herek nodded. "Hand in glove so far. Do you mind if I take a look?" He indicated the contact band.

Zatar motioned for him to proceed.

He settled the band back in place about his head, felt the click of its sensors as they locked into position over the implants within his skull. Now: he relaxed, letting the inner vision come. A normal man was limited to flatscreens and starmaps if he wanted to view the Void. The flatscreen, of course, was two- dimensional, therefore of limited value in battle. The starmap was better, but a man was still limited by the senses he used in viewing it. You could only be on one side of a starmap at a time-even if you stood in the middle of the display, you could only see in one direction without turning. Man had no eyes in the back of his head . . . until science created them.

It had taken him years to adapt to the band, long zhents of hypno-treatment designed to teach him an alternate mode of vision, while keeping it distinct from his regular sight. It gave him an advantage no unaugmented man could equal.

Now, as he looked out into the darkness, he saw s.h.i.+ps on all sides of him. He was their center, their focus, their guardian. There was nothing they could do that he would not see, no data coming in through their scanners that he would not share.

Nor would there be a delay while he translated flatmaps into starfields in his mind; science and the strength of his will had made that unnecessary.

Carefully he looked over the network, dictating orders which would close up too large a hole here, extend the periphery there. Balance was crucial, as both Commanders knew. And this was more than mere exercise. Though their next objective was a day's flight in the distance, this was the time when their risk was the greatest-the time when the Conqueror usually chose to strike. If Zatar was right, they could expect action soon-if not an attack, at least a scouts.h.i.+p. For which reason the swords.h.i.+ps were already out, ready to move at a moment's notice.

Almost in answer to his train of thought, a signal came speeding in over the network. AZEAN SCOUTs.h.i.+P, it said. IDENT CON419:FA12. TRANSMITTING VECTOR COORDINATES.

"Lock onto it," he ordered.

The Master of Armaments determined its course, set up a firing sequence that would intercept it. And was ready to fire when the scouts.h.i.+p disappeared, swallowed up by a long stretch of scanner-darkness.

"Ar!" Herek's hand hit the console in frustration. "Proceed with attack," he instructed his men. "Determine all possible course adjustments, points of exit.

Get them covered."

There was a hand on his shoulder.

"What?"

Zatar's eyes were fixed on the central display. "That isn't a scouts.h.i.+p," he muttered.

He understood at once. "Sezal's fighter. . . ."

"It has to be taken.We have to have that s.h.i.+p."

He shook his head; taking a fighter alive was a next-to-impossible task, all the more so when it could easily outrun its attackers. "Not possible. We'll get it when it's back in range; that's the best I can do."

Zatar's hand on his shoulder tightened. "The secret of that s.h.i.+p is worth more than a single battle."

"We know the Conqueror is in this vicinity. Any attempt to run down one of its fighters would be a study in suicide, nothing more. Especially this one." He looked up at the Braxana. "I can't risk my pilots against such odds."

The Lord Commander regarded him with what should have been anger. Instead his eyes were calm, his expression determined.

"Quite right," he agreed. "I'll go. Which swords.h.i.+p?"

He answered before the magnitude of the situation struck him. "Take Twelve, Dock Four. But you can't-"

He did. There was the swirl of his cloak and that crisp, determined stride, and then he was through the door and gone. Herek might have followed-what he was planning was insane!-but at that moment the Azean came back into live s.p.a.ce and he had to focus all his attention on trying to keep it there.

It was too fast, too far away, too lucky. They missed it by inches, but inches were enough. The computers had not been prepared for such erratic flight, could not make the leap of imagination required to find the s.p.a.ce the fighter would occupy. Mere seconds after it had emerged from the region of dead s.p.a.ce it had broken through the periphery, and was out of range of all his scanners.

"Sezal!" he ordered. "Zatar's coming out in Twelve to run down our visitor. Go with him. Take five other fighters. See that he comes back in one piece-"

Or you might as well not come back at all, he thought grimly. Not with what the Braxana would do to them.

Lord Commander Zatar . . . I hope you know what you're doing.

He refused to think about what he was doing. If he did, he was likely to stop.

The job needed doing and no one else could handle it, so there was no question of turning back . . . but if he thought about the risk he might, and so it was that Zatar kept his mind on other things as he ran through the Sentira's halls, acting on a warrior's instinct.

That fighter was the key to everything. They had to have it, had to understand it, if they were to defeat a dangerous enemy. He kept repeating that to himself as he ran across the floor of the central dock, shedding weight as he did so. First the sword, its scabbard loosed from his belt, fell clattering to the floor. Then his medallion, the heavy cloak, his sash and sword belt, all stripped from him as he ran. Once he was in the swords.h.i.+p, every extra ounce he carried would cost him dearly. Would that there was time to strip off the heavy Braxana costume, to slip into a featherweight, formfitting pilot's uniform! But he settled for removing his gloves and then vaulting over the swords.h.i.+p's low side, giving no thought to his manual nakedness. In the face of what he was doing, concern over sartorial tradition seemed ludicrous.

Into the formchair, pull the ends of the forcefield harness forward-so!-and lock them across the chest. Personal field, recycler, it was all ready for him, and even as the Sentira drew his swords.h.i.+p into launch position, he was pulling on the gauntlets and halfhelm that would allow him sensory access to the outside world. A glance at the control panel, verifying that all was well. Yes; he was ready.

A whispered command, voiced before doubt could take hold of him, and the Sentira's launching mechanism had control of his s.h.i.+p, and- Voidflight.

He let out a sigh of relief, stretched his hands in their heavy gloves, and let his fingers wander over the controls. The gauntlets magnified sensation so that microscopic differences in pressure supplied volumes of information; he tried to remember his training, a.s.signing meaning to each of the two dozen priority controls resting beneath his fingertips. These were for velocity, and these for computer access, and these for communication . . . he depressed a series of shallow b.u.t.tons, saw the contact display fill his flatscreens with data.

"Fighter twelve, this is Sezal in One. Acknowledge."

He spoke softly, counting on the helmset to magnify and transmit his voice.

"Zatar in Twelve, coming into line now. Do you have verified trail?"

"Seventy-one percent certain, Commander. That's not bad," he added, probably for the benefit of Zatar's inexperience. The Braxana smiled grimly. He would chance single-digit certainty at this point, if he had to; they needed that fighter too badly to let mechanical speculation scare them off. "Transmitting now."

He watched as the data filled his screen, the curve of the fighter's known path combined with its likely course and probable velocity . . . he looked at the figures and shuddered. It was going to be a bad trip. "Locking in now."

"Swords.h.i.+ps One, Two, Eight, Ten, and Fifteen will follow. Locksync established-unity automatic. Acknowledge."

He did so. "Wide field, maximum scanner sensitivity. We need to confirm that trail."

"Acknowledged." They spread out around him, maximizing the distance between them. It was bad for defense, not good for offense, but it gave them the greatest chance of picking up the Azean's trail. "Your lead, Commander."

With no hesitation he set his course and committed his s.h.i.+p to full acceleration.

His compensation factor was good but not unlimited; in that he was carrying extra bulk, it would probably not be sufficient. He tried not to think about that, focusing on his screens instead. Stars: the computer suppied them, placing them in appropriate formations in an illusionary Void. He was tempted to banish the display, to witness the superluminal night in all its unnatural glory, but common sense got the better of him and he moved his finger away from that control. It was a wholly unnatural region, a world that man was never meant to see, that the magic of technology had finally disclosed. The sight of it had turned men toward G.o.ds-or away from them-and it could drive even the strongest of warriors insane. Zatar did not understand the phenomenon; no man could, who had not opened himself to the superluminal night. But now was not a time to risk madness, and so he let the display remain.

"s.h.i.+psign!" Sezal announced. Sure enough, their outermost s.h.i.+p had picked up the residue of a fighter's pa.s.sage. From that almost nonexistent trail, course and speed could be determined. Zatar waited, breathless, as the computer did its work. At last the long-awaited data filled his screens, and he quickly worked out an intercept course.

When he transmitted it to his companion s.h.i.+ps there was a moment's silence, then Sezal protested, "This exceeds your parameters, Lord Commander.

Remember that your personal ma.s.s- "

"I'm aware of the mathematics," he said dryly. "The choice is mine to make, is it not?" As the one most likely to suffer, he would be the first one to give up the chase. Or so they thought. "We can't overtake this fighter if we don't push for it, Sezal. I understand the risk. Course acknowledged?"

The answer came: affirmative.

And then the chase began.

Fools! he thought.When your ancestors first gathered themselves in cities, building walls to protect themselves from the violence of nature, my people were hunters and warriors in the northern steppes. While your people developed civilization, we developed Man. When you made it possible for the weak and the crippled to endure, encouraging them to reproduce, we killed any child who showed sign of weakness in body or mind, lest they taint future generations with their incapacity. We are superior, in strength and endurance, to any people your tribes have ever produced. We are the children of Taz'hein, the warrior-G.o.d-and the strength of his bloodline will persevere, in the darkness of Voidflight as well as on the plains of Kurat.

The G-count rose steadily, but he had yet to feel its effects. The same gravitic control which had made interstellar flight possible protected man from the worst of its effects; within the limits of his compensatory system, he could travel with- out discomfort. Unfortunately, he needed more than that system allowed for.

With steady fingers he set new accelerative parameters, and any fear he might have had was banished by Braxana stubbornness. There was no other way to have what he wanted; therefore he must endure.

"Speculate," he ordered the s.h.i.+p. "Time to interception. Odds of mothers.h.i.+p contact."

5.4 STANDARD UNITS TO VECTOR INTERSECTION, informed him.

CURRENT CONTACT RISK 05%. And it added, CURRENT POSITION OF DESTROYER AND MESSENGER 95% CERTAIN. RISK FACTOR MAY RISE.

ABRUPTLY.

He could feel the pressure now, the first gentle promise of pain. He looked at the G-scale-MAX + .255, it said-and then turned it off. What good would it do to know the figures? If he pa.s.sed out, the s.h.i.+p would stabilize velocity, allowing him to recover. What did numbers matter?

"Status report," he transmitted.

Three of the swords.h.i.+ps were hitting their limits, as he was; two of them had yet to do so. Sezal was well within his safety zone. None of them were running figures as high as his, which was understandable. His basema.s.s exceeded theirs by a considerable amount.

The pressure was greater now, a weight upon his chest that pressed against him when he tried to breathe. He concentrated on taking deep breaths, slow breaths, on building up the strength of the muscles that he needed to expand his ribcage.

But each breath was harder to take, and he found himself hoping that the enemy would come into range before the forced gravity proved too much for him.

5.0 STANDARD UNITS TO VECTOR INTERSECTION, the computer informed him. He refused to look at the risk factor. What number would be enough to turn him back-ten percent? Twenty percent? Only a fool, it was said, would push two digits. He had a feeling that by the time this chase was over, they would have come close to pus.h.i.+ng three.

And he was pus.h.i.+ng himself, perhaps too hard. Breathing was a fight against unbelievable pressure, each breath coming harder than the last. His heartbeat echoed within his ears, labored and irregular. He toyed with the idea of adopting a gentler pursuit, then forced his hand away from the controls. It was clear, now, why the key controls were situated in the arms of the pilot's chair, beneath his fingertips. Struggling against the pressure of unnatural acceleration, he could not have managed any adjustment that required him to move his arm.

There were spots before his eyes as he looked at the computer display-4.6 units left. And that was to probable interception; nothing was guaranteed. What if it took longer? He tried not to think about it.

What were the others suffering? He checked his screens, noted with some surprise that their numbers had been diminished by one. Swords.h.i.+p Fifteen was gone. Its pilot must have lost consciousness, cueing the program for pilot safety.

It would return to the Sentira on automatic, at a pace that would do no further damage.

It had not occurred to him before that by the time he caught up with his prey, the others might not be able to help him. If he made it himself, that was. He could no longer fill his lungs, could only gasp for shallow breaths as the pressure squeezed him with crueler and crueler power, forcing his flesh back from his face, turning every wrinkle of clothing into an instrument of torture. 3.4 units left.