Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 25

Should he level off now, adopt a less painful course? Your ancestors never feared pain, he reminded himself. And answered: My ancestors never had to face anything like this.

"Lord Commander Zatar, please acknowledge."

Sezal. His voice was strained, his own endurance pushed to the limit.

"Acknowledged," Zatar managed. Ever the slave of image, he managed to sound stronger than he was.

"We've lost Two, Eight, and Fifteen. Estimate .25 before Ten is forced to drop back. Recommend course adjustment now, while there are still three of us."

He did not mention his own situation; that was clear in his voice. He was suffering terribly but he would endure. He was stronger than the others, and his swords.h.i.+p was the best. His compensatory system would be the most effective, and his basema.s.s was nowhere near Zatar's. He would keep up, Zatar knew-if it killed him.

"Maintain present course," the Braxana managed. He tried to look at the computer display, saw only spots and flashes of light. Or perhaps a number, dimly lit: 2.5. It took all his effort just to live now, and all the strength he had to forget such possibilities as heart failure, asphyxiation, the collapse of his ribcage.

If Sezal could make it, he could do no less; the fact that the pilot had an easier ride than he did was barely compensation for Zatar's physical advantages. The Braxana were known for their stamina.

Swords.h.i.+p Ten was gone. Had he heard Sezal announcing it, or had he caught sight of some display, picked out a number from between the swimming lights that blinded him? He could not tell, and it did not matter. There was only raw endurance now, the darkness of pain and an eternity of waiting, which was measured in breaths and heartbeats and accompanied by the roaring of his blood in his ears, louder than any other sound in his universe. And darkness creeping in, around the corner of his vision- -got to hold on!

the spinning of lights, the pounding of blood in his veins, his heart all but bursting- I am Braxana!

and then sudden release, a ringing in his ears, the display screen flas.h.i.+ng VECTOR STABILIZATION-and Sezal was still with him. He allowed himself a second in which to recover-no more-then checked the countdown. .05.

"Prepare for enemy contact," he managed.

.03. .01. -And there it was, right where the computer had said it would be.

The enemy.

Stronger than his s.h.i.+p, faster, and desperate for time; as soon as it saw them it shot forward into the darkness, leaving them behind. They adjusted their own speed and followed. The Azean was outnumbered, was close to home, would avoid a confrontation; they were at risk every moment they followed it, must force it to face their fire or accept certain destruction at the hands of the Conqueror.

Against his better judgment, Zatar checked the risk factor.

Thirty-two percent.

He turned off the display.

The pressure was building again, but this time he was prepared for it. The pain had taken out four of Sezal's best men without conquering him; how well would the Azean fare when put to the test? True, his compensatory system was better than most-but he was Azean, and that race had been designed to resemble Zatar's in all but coloring. The enemy would be tall, solidly built, lacking in a warrior's heritage. His ma.s.s would work to negate his advantage, making it a contest of endurance. And in that arena, if no other, Zatar knew himself unequaled.

Turn and fight, he thought to the alien s.h.i.+p, but instead it tried to outrun him.

A bad sign. It should have taken advantage of its heightened maneuverability; they would have been hard put to follow it through a series of sharp course adjustments. That it was continuing straight onward implied that it was close to home, and that meant- But he had turned the matrix off for a reason, and now he forced himself to consider other things. Such as whether they dared open fire, when the enemy had proven that it could antic.i.p.ate such action. They needed a better position first, but they would not have that until the Azean relented. . . .

The pain did not bother him as much, this time; the heat of battle dispelled the discomfort, the act of breathing was as natural as the thrust of a sword. He was distanced from his own agony, was aware of the suffering of his body but was disconnected from it, as though his corporeal form was no more than a burden he had to drag with him, only partially connected to his person. A warrior's strength, or the harbinger of dissolution? He never had to decide. The empty flesh that sat in his s.h.i.+p s.h.i.+vered in pain for a long, long time, and then suddenly it was over.

The enemy had stabilized and his own s.h.i.+p, locked insync, had followed suit. He had survived.

He took a moment to catch his breath, then dared, "Sezal?"

The First Sword took a moment to answer. "It's a trap, I think."

He didn't agree-but that was instinct, not reason. How did he know that the enemy had succ.u.mbed to the pain of the chase? How was he so sure that the Azean's consciousness had flickered slowly out, encased in a body that could not stand the pressure? There was no time to wonder; every minute wasted ran the risk count even higher.

"Let's take out its field," he told Sezal.

There was silence. Then: "That takes time."

"I'm aware of that."

"What do you mean to do?"

He smiled, but did not answer. You'll see.

He opened fire upon the enemy, testing it for opposition. There was none.

Given that the Azean fighter had proven itself capable of taking out a swords.h.i.+p in the moment that it fired, its inactivity was reasonable proof that its pilot was no longer in control. Excellent.

The field absorbed his fire, glowed briefly, then dispersed the energy.

Dismantling it would require extreme precision. Too weak an offense, and the forcefield would simply disperse it. Too sustained, and it would overload. They needed that perfect balance: enough to damage the generator, not enough to make it self-destruct.

The pilot, of course, could awaken at any time.

And then there was the mothers.h.i.+p. . . .

"Go," Zatar said, transmitting an attack sequence.

Carefully, carefully: fire just so, this strength, this rhythm, a little bit more than the forcefield can handle and then ease up, ease up quickly! and feed ever so little energy in for the final blow- EXTERIOR FORCEFIELD DISPELLED, the computer informed him.

"Well done," he whispered.

"What now, Commander?"

He noted that Sezal's voice was unsteady; either he had been badly damaged by their flight, or he had looked at the rising risk factor. It could have been pain or fear in his voice; the result was the same.

"Now we take him," Zatar said lightly.

Silence. No comment was necessary. He knew the pilot's thoughts as well as if they were his own. He must be crazy. He can't mean what he said.

But he did. They had to have that s.h.i.+p in order to know what they were fighting, and therefore it had to be boarded. While in Voidflight. At a risk factor so great than any sane man would have turned back long ago, under circ.u.mstances that would render the boarder defenseless.

He hesitated only a moment, then shut down his outer field.

No response.

With steady hands he checked the controls of his personal forcefield. In theory, it would protect him from the Void; in practice, it paid to make certain. But everything appeared to be in order. He reached across to his s.h.i.+pseal and unfastened it, letting the air bleed out. A tingling on his skin: that was the forcefield, using his body's conductivity as a template for activity, stabilizing itself against the pull of vacuum. The recycler clicked into Voidmode; now it would not only supply fresh air for him to breathe and maintain his body temperature, but it would monitor his infield pressure as well.

He thought of all the things that a nonpermeable forcefield might accomplish, and wondered that man had ever braved the Void without one. To face the Void with nothing but a layer of matter between one's self and the killing vacuum-that was a terrifying thought. He checked the controls one last time, then cracked the c.o.c.kpit open- And chaos, black and malignant, a.s.saulted his eyes and mind.

The superluminal Void. A secret world which nature had not meant man to see, it was a reality no human mind could grasp. An infinity of darkness in which reason defied observation-an emptiness so absolute that the mind fought to deny its existence. Where movement was lacking, the unconscious mind created it. Darkness crawled, writhed, twisted across the eyes and pierced the unwilling brain, driving back rational thought in favor of sensory chaos. There was noise, but it defied description-noise that blinded, noise that choked, a black, hollow sound that filled the universe with its emptiness. The senses mixed and merged, each seeking in the other some genuine stimulus to serve as an anchor in the eternal Nothing-and failing. The mind floundered, lost in chaos . . . and welcomed fear as a concrete thing, a familiar sensation in a universe gone mad.

"Commander?"

Zatar closed his eyes, tried to focus on the sound coming from his halfhelm.

"Commander. Do you require a.s.sistance?"

He managed to find his voice. "No," he murmured. No one must see him like this. "I'm all right." I must be. "Cover me: I'm going."

By feel alone he found the safety line; he hooked it to the harness of his forcefield as the computer brought him closer to the enemy. LOCKSYNC, it informed him at last. The Azean s.h.i.+p was an arm's length away, and appeared to be hanging motionless beside his own. He tried not to look at the chaos which surrounded it as he set his own s.h.i.+p for thrust compensation. It would do what it had to in order to maintain its position relative to the Azean vessel; if luck was with him-and if the enemy pilot did not recover too soon-he would be able to board the enemy s.h.i.+p and lock its computer insync with his own. That was the theory, anyway. How few times had it been done?

Focusing his vision upon the enemy's hull, he eased himself out of the swords.h.i.+p. He had Voidwalked before, but never at such speeds; the theory was the same, but the risk was much greater. He was careful not to look into the Void as he worked his way over to the enemy s.h.i.+p, ran a support line over one of the fireports, and anch.o.r.ed himself to it. If the pilot comes to now . . . not a pretty picture, he thought. He searched for the s.h.i.+psh.e.l.l release, panicked for a moment when it wasn't where he had expected to find it. Wasn't Azean technology supposed to be the mirror image of his own? Then he remembered the reverse principle, s.h.i.+fted to the far side of the hull, and searched there. After a moment he had it. Application of pressure, just so, released the safety catch . . . it was similar to the s.h.i.+ps he had trained on. There was a moment's delay, then the fighter split open. And he had access.

The pilot was slumped against the far side of the s.h.i.+p, blood staining his face around the eyes, ears and mouth. The bioscan indicated recent death. Zatar looked closer, realized that he was in fact a she-and then saw something which made his blood freeze in his veins, which did more to unnerve him than all the powers of the Void combined.

With a trembling hand he touched the cord which was wound around her helmet. Since the forcefield ended at the helmet's surface, he was able to lift it without difficulty.

Red and silver. He looked at it for a moment, then tucked it into his harness.

Then, trembling, he turned his attention to the computer. The implications of what he had seen were sunshattering in magnitude; it took effort to push them aside for the moment, to fix his attention on what he was supposed to be doing.

He knew computers-he was fluent in Azean-he had trained for such a moment and was as prepared as a man could be. Still, it took long minutes for him to convince the fighter's guiding brain to accept locksync with his own s.h.i.+p, mostly because he did not know the pilot's security code. But eventually he had it.

The fighter accepted his guidance-or rather, Sezal's-and even as he worked his way back to the welcome security of his own tiny vessel, they began to turn away from the enemy, lowering the risk factor considerably.

When he was safely ensconced in his swords.h.i.+p once more, Zatar broadcast an ALL'S WELL to Sezal. And put his hand to his forcefield harness, where the cord was safely hidden, and wondered if he hadn't lied.

The First Sword's voice was strange; he seemed stunned by what had happened.

"Prepared to intercept the Sentira, Lord Commander. I have a course vector ready for you."

He reviewed it-and flinched. Yes, they would have to endure considerable deceleration. Not as bad as the trip out, to be sure, but no pleasure cruise.

"Acknowledged," he told him. "Initiate."

This time he had much to think about.

First there was pain. Then light: shadows against a brilliant background, slowly resolving into color and form. Gradually his sense of self returned to him, and with it the omnipresent Braxana concern.

"Where am I . . . who is with me?" His throat was raw, and pain consumed his speech; the most he could manage was a whisper. Red-hot needles were piercing every limb, fires raging in every joint. He had thought, in his last conscious moments, that he could not possibly suffer more. He had been wrong.

"Fevak, son of Seras, chief medic of the Sentira." The voice was low and even, with just a tremor of nervousness. Didn't the Braxana kill those who witnessed their weakness? "You're in Surgical, in a private chamber. Can you see?"

He took a deep breath before answering, and forced his voice to be strong despite the pain. "Yes."

"Good. There was some superficial damage to the eyes; I believe we corrected it."

He recalled bursts of random light that had almost restored him to consciousness, and nodded. It hurt to move. "Anything else?"

"Minor internal damage. It's all been taken care of. Your eyes were the last, and the hardest. I'd like to test you for sensory reception as soon as you feel up to it."

It was acceptable for a Braxana to be wounded in battle, and there was no shame attached to medical treatment, but the battle was over now, and it was not acceptable to indulge in convalescence. Gathering his strength and his courage, Zatar forced himself to sit up; the agony was such that a return to darkness would have been welcome. But he could make out the medic's face, and was pleased to note the look of astonishment his movement had inspired. "What's my present condition?" he asked.

"Frankly, incredible. You shouldn't even be alive, much less conscious." There was awe in his voice. Good, Zatar thought; from here it would spread through the s.h.i.+p. "Your body is a ma.s.s of bruises, inside and out. I think we fixed up the worst of it, but you're going to be uncomfortable for a good long while."

"I am a warrior," he answered. Let him make of that what he wished.

He could see the room now, hastily rearranged for his comfort. His clothes had been cleaned and were laid out beside him. Behind them, on a hook, was a loose black robe of some soft-surfaced fabric.

"Your clothing took its toll," the medic explained. "There's a reason that pilots dress as they do. Under pressure such as you experienced, every fold of cloth is hyperabrasive. I recommend some more moderate attire until you're done healing."

Now that his vision was finally in focus, he could see the damage the medic was talking about. Dark purple stripes scored his legs, arms, and torso, and b.l.o.o.d.y lines-now bandaged with clearflesh-marked the places where folds of thick woolen cloth had been driven into his skin. He would have to spend some time undergoing forced regeneration if he wanted to recover without scars.

Drawing a deep breath for strength, he forced himself to his feet. Alone, he would certainly have fallen; in the presence of another man, he could not afford to do that. It took all his strength to maintain his balance while the room swirled around him at dizzying speed. "How is Sezal?" he asked.

"In bad shape, but he'll live. He was dressed for the ride, and we got to him in time. Some damage, but nothing we can't correct. I restricted him to bed for the time being. In your case," he said dryly, "I lack that option."

He focused on reaching for his clothing-hands burning, room swaying, but image was the ultimate master. Then he had it, and somehow managed to get himself into the tight gray garments without help. It would have hurt a lot less to wear the robe, but that wasn't an acceptable option. "How long since the battle?"

"You've been out for two days," the medic said quietly. "Some of that because of sedation. Herek's been asking after you at regular intervals. He'll want to see you as soon as you're up to it."

"Of course."

There was a gla.s.s jar by the side of the bed. The medic picked it up and opened it. "I thought you might need this."

Skinwhite. Opaque-that was good. He normally used more translucent cosmetics, but this would hide the discoloration. A glance in the mirror told him just how bad his condition was, and he applied the thick white cream as much for his own peace of mind as for anyone else's benefit. Perfect: between that and his clothing, he appeared remarkably undamaged. "You'll tell Herek I'm ready to see him."

"Here?"

"In my quarters."

"But the healing-" Zatar's glare cut him short. "Of course, my Lord. May I recommend that you schedule some time for regeneration? The damage is not yet fully corrected."

"Your advice is noted," he told him. "For now, have Herek meet me in my quarters. And inform Sezal that he is welcome, as well."

"He's in very bad shape," the medic protested. "He needs rest."

"All the more reason to invite him. The choice must be his. You understand me?"

"Of course, Lord Commander." The look in his eyes spoke volumes. You should not be walking. You should not even be moving. There is a strength in you beyond what is rightfully human. "As you wish."

Two days of constant worry had taken their toll on Herek. The color of his face had yellowed, giving his markings an even more animal cast. There were lines about his eyes and mouth that had not been there two days before, which spoke of sleepless nights and endless tension. Had he feared that Zatar would die? It would seem so, for his face as he entered the room was a mask of utter astonishment. "My Lord," he muttered, and he lowered himself to one knee, in ritual homage. "You are well?"

"It would seem so." He allowed a moment for that to sink in, then asked, "You've studied the fighter?"

Herek stood. "We have. It wasn't what we expected-or rather, it was, but more.

It wasn't just the grounding equipment that had been removed."

"Communications," Zatar mused.