George Zebrowski (25 page)

Poincaré was silent.

“Well, Julian?”

“Just think if we hadn’t been able to knock out their big artillery. They might have destroyed one or more of our ships, you know. We didn’t have the troops needed to fight a whole division.”

Kurbi looked into Julian’s face. The stocky man was right, of course, up to a point. Kurbi felt a small measure of relief. A part of him was searching for a way out of blaming himself, he knew, and Poincaré’s argument seemed convincing.

Gorgias turned off his screen and listened to the silence inside the dome of force. He stood up, lifted the now useless tripod and hurled it down the hill. The projector assembly tumbled, gouging clumps of grass and dirt out of the hill, coming to rest finally near the gray wall of the canopy. Gorgias turned and walked back into the house.

Myraa stood in the middle of the room.

“Ten thousand lives,” she said.

“Without me,” he said, “they would not have lived again, ever.”

“They had no chance,” she said. “I can hear them dying out there in the darkness, as once I listened to them perish in the Magellanic Cloud.”

“Save them, then,” he said. “You want us all to die anyway. They died in battle.” He turned away from her. “If only I could have gotten the ship out to support them!” His voice echoed in the room.

“There is no war,” Myraa said, “no home worlds to defend, no Empire. You might have let them live, to prepare.”

“
I
am the Empire!” he shouted and whirled around to look at her. She came toward him, her eyes soft and caring, and it seemed suddenly that she could restore everything that he had lost.

“We’ll have to lift the canopy and draw him out,” Poincaré said, “before he gets any more bright ideas.”

“He can’t overrun us now,” Kurbi said. “It’s surrender or a fight.”

“We’ll send twenty men,” Poincaré said.

“I still don’t want to kill him. We haven’t had any fatalities yet.”

“He’d laugh in your face if he could hear you, Raf. Look how many of his own he’s led to death today. How did he hide them on this world?”

Kurbi looked up at the screen. The force field seemed almost metallic in the glare of lights. He had the illusion of being in a large interior space, a titanic auditorium under a black ceiling.

“He still thinks that he can hurt us,” Poincaré said. “He won’t come out when we lift the canopy. We may have to go in and get him. Maybe we can taunt him?”

“We’ll both lead the soldiers,” Kurbi said. “I don’t want the woman hurt. Maybe we can trap him.”

“Calm down.”

“I’ll shoot the first man who disobeys an order! Tell them, Julian, tell them all very clearly.”

“You tell them. You’re still in command.”

Kurbi remembered his visit to the large ship, where he had found Captain Kik still at liberty. The confrontation had shaken Kurbi. The memory of his own futile anger underscored his obvious loss of authority. The officers pitied him, he knew.

“You don’t think we can take him alive, do you, Julian?”

“Does it matter? It will happen as it will. I know your feelings, Raf, but we both of us have lives to live, other things to return to.” Poincaré stood up from the adjoining station. “We’ll do it your way as much as possible. Now let’s get going. I can almost hear him scheming up there.”

“I’m sorry, Julian,” Kurbi said, but the sense of hopelessness persisted. He spoke the words and tried to brighten his expression; a smile would have been unimaginable.

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HE CAME INTO HER BODY seeking peace. He was strong, but a few times he trembled and was forced to stop. She kissed him and tightened her arms around his chest, and they floated in a timeless sea.

She opened her mind and felt her ache for him. It was also his own and he rushed to seize it. He knew that she had entered his mind to give him this double awareness, but it was unimportant beside the gift.

He melted into her, his self-consciousness dwindling.

He was afraid suddenly that he would dissolve and be absorbed into her. His nervous system was made of glass; in a moment it would shatter into a fine dust and be blown away by the wind.…

He rushed upward, broke through and her pleasure was his own.

Myraa drew the dead into herself, pulling, coaxing, pleading for them to come before the darkness claimed them. They flowed in a stream from the battlefield, finding rest in the force-center of her will.…

The stars shone through the skylight. Gorgias lay on his back next to Myraa, her long hair covering his belly, his rage spent.

“Gorgias — the canopy is down!”

He rolled off the bed and clutched at his uniform on the floor. He stood up and stepped into it, put on his harness, checked the hand weapon and put it back into its sheath. He rushed out to the east window. The large warship now sat a thousand meters behind the three smaller craft, its lights sweeping the smoking, body-strewn ground with a nervous rhythm, as if fearful that at any moment the slain might rise to fight again.

There was no sign of survivors.
They killed them all
, he thought, and the anger rose inside him again, renewed and strong, preparing him.

Twenty armed soldiers marched down the ramp from the large ship and fanned out into a slowly advancing half-moon. They looked stocky and machinelike with their huge clear-helmets, backpacks and laser rifles held across their chests. He could not see if Kurbi was leading them.

Gorgias wondered if Crusus had survived. It would be better to kill him than to give him the news that the war was long over.

The small force was halfway to the hill now. Gorgias imagined meeting Crusus, and having to explain to the General. The thought angered him; it was the kind of thing that Myraa would place in his mind.

He turned away and ran to the back door. It opened and he scrambled down the hill toward the ship. He leaped into the open lock and rushed forward into the control room.

The screen showed that the canopy was up again. He cursed as he sat down.

“Into jumpspace!” he ordered.

NOT ADVISABLE UNDER THESE CONDITIONS.

“Do it! Get us out of here!”

As he wondered if the ship would obey him, the world outside blurred.

He was falling. The hull became transparent and he saw bright stars rushing toward him from every direction. He heard a scream. In a moment the hot stars would crush him.

Blazing suns passed through the ship, blinding him.

A rotting smell reached him.

His sight returned. He turned around suddenly and saw a decomposed body on the floor. He got up and crept toward it.

He saw himself.

As he watched, the corpse faded away. He staggered back into his command chair.

He looked around. The ship was locked in a solid gray substance.

“Back!” he ordered.

The hill reappeared.

He left the ship and clambered up the hill to the back door. He ran through the rooms and stepped out in front of the house.

The soldiers were almost halfway up the hill. He turned on his screen, drew his weapon and started down to meet them.

His anger began to throb with his pulse. He could not let them reach the house. His pace quickened.

The canopy went up behind them. They were trying to trap him inside. He aimed carefully and fired at the center of the advancing line. A screen flared harmlessly.

The sight of their confident march up the hillside infuriated him. He fired a bolt into the slope in front of them, exploding grass and dirt. The line stopped and regarded him.

He could retreat to the ship; nothing would ever be able to pry him out.

His screen flared as four beams converged.

He did not return fire; they were waiting for the instant when his screen was down.

The line started upward again. He retreated a few steps and halted. The line kept coming.

He fired and went forward. Three lasers converged on his screen and he felt the air grow warmer on his face. He pressed his energy feed to the highest setting, waited and fired.

A soldier toppled and rolled down the hill. Gorgias swept the line from right to left, channeling all his power to heat the confined spaces within the enemy’s screens.

They moved toward him as his fire cut off, concentrating their beams. He stood his ground, joined to them by nineteen arteries of fire. His screen flared and held. He waited, raging inwardly.

Their beams winked out and he fired. Another soldier fell and rolled down the hill, disappearing into the darkness beyond the reach of the house lights.

The line retreated to the bottom of the hill. Their lances blinked, as if their packs would soon be exhausted. Gorgias moved forward.

The line moved back toward the canopy.

They’re stupid
, he thought.
At this rate I’ll pick them off one by one
.

“Gorgias!” a voice shouted through his communicator. “This is General Crusus.”

“Are you a prisoner?” Gorgias asked.

“You might have let us live, given us a chance to go home and rebuild.”

“Nothing is left …” Gorgias started to say.

“You’re incompetent! Who are you, anyway?”

“You don’t understand, General.…”

“So much time has gone by. You didn’t help me understand … an unsupported division against ships that could have destroyed three times our number.”

“They’re making you say these things to distract me. I’m fighting alone!”

“Have they lied?”

The canopy disappeared and the soldiers retreated.

Lasers touched his screen and died. Gorgias moved down the hill. Maybe he could kill a few more before they reached the ships.

Retreat to the ship
, he told himself.
Your screens will not hold against a ship’s artillery
.

“
Coward
,” his father whispered, “
you’ve lost and don’t know how to die
.”

The grass was black in the harsh lights. He reached level ground and fired a burst into the ground before the retreating soldiers. They stopped and stood their ground, waiting.

“Gorgias …” Crusus said.

“General — shut up! They’re using you.”

Gorgias moved forward, angry that the line had stopped its retreat.

A bolt reached out from the right end of the line. Gorgias turned and saw a tree in front of the house catch fire. He turned back as his screen flared. They were telling him that they could destroy the house.

Gorgias hurled two bolts at the center figures, with no effect. His screen flared, but he held back, waiting for the right moment.

He touched the control over his heart. A small window opened in the screen. He hurled three light-scatter bombs and closed the opening. His screen flared on two sides as the bombs rolled on the grass and exploded. Black smoke veiled the half-moon of soldiers.

Slowly, ghostly doubles of himself appeared, twenty twins who would mirror his every move. Gorgias marched through the smoke, waiting for his doubles to draw fire.

Lasers reached out to his doubles. Gorgias swept the field from left to right, hoping to find a screen down long enough to permit a kill.

There was a sharp flash at his right. A soldier fell forward through the roiling smoke. Gorgias paused and waited for the beams to sweep across his illusory line.

The beams cut through the smoke from right to left. His screen flared and they passed. He fired again and waited.

The smoke thinned. At his left and right, his force of illusory figures was fading. One was only a floating torso now; another lacked a head, and still another had no arms. “
You did no better with them
,” his father said within him, “
than with a real force
.” Gorgias shrugged. He had masked his position, had taken two lives and wasted Federation power. The fight was not over yet, he told himself as he moved forward.

His screen flared without pause. The last smoke cleared. All the remaining beams were concentrating on him. His screen began to glow, increasing its strength as he stood his ground.

He was close enough now to see faces. At the very worst, he reminded himself, he would retreat to the ship. There was nothing they could do. Even their shipboard lasers were not powerful enough to penetrate his armor, which could draw as much energy as it needed to withstand an ever-increasing concentration of force.

Suddenly the enemy lasers died. The figure in the center was holding up his hand, signaling for a cease-fire.

Kurbi. Gorgias felt a sudden anxiety. The enemy stood still, waiting, their long shadows reaching toward him across the floodlit ground.

The tall Earthman’s shadow lengthened and touched Gorgias’s feet. Kurbi was pointing at the house.

Gorgias looked back.

The canopy hid the hill again.

Fear cut his guts as the implications stabbed into his mind. He was separated from his ship, trapped inside the screen. The air would go bad within the field unless he blinked it to let some in. They would be waiting, weapons ready. He saw himself unconscious within the bubble; there would be no time to tear it apart. He would die, triggering the destruct cycle in the ship.

He raised his weapon and fired from left to right across the line.

What were they waiting for? Why didn’t they open fire?

He swept the line again, but they did not take advantage of his vulnerable moments.

He heard a rush of air. His screen was gone. The Earthmen’s shadows were spears, readying to transfix him.

His will froze; a massive weakness invaded his limbs. They had increased the strength of the siege canopy to cut him off from his shipboard power.

He pointed his weapon and fired; it sputtered and died. The ship, he knew, was trying to get power through to him. He stood perfectly still, listening to the night breeze. There was a smell of burnt flesh in the air. If the Earthmen hesitated too long, his power might come back on.