Korval's Game (38 page)

AWAITING TARGET.

***

The scout’s plan
was simple: Steal three fighter-bomber craft from those grounded at Field Headquarters, lift and destroy planes, ammunition, armor, and similar other targets before they could be brought against the defenders.

It was a plan somewhat short on detail, but Nelirikk never doubted it would succeed, to the glory of captain and Troop. It was much too audacious to fail.

For this venture, Nelirikk had sacrificed the mustache and the unsoldierly hair, and stood once again in Yxtrang uniform, the officer to whom it had belonged having no further need. He had modified the rank-marks, so that he became an Adjutant of the Inspectors Office, and the scout’s brother had with wonderful skill painted the appropriate
vingtai
on his face.

“Remember to clean this nonsense off once you’re safely away,” Shan said, standing back to admire his handiwork. “You do look fierce, if I say it myself. One might very easily mistake you for an Yxtrang.”

This was a pleasantry, such as Nelirikk was coming to expect from the scout’s brother, who was by no means as imbecile as he sometimes spoke. Accordingly, he bared his teeth in a grin, displaying the
vingtai
to best effect.

“Terrifying,” Shan announced, his face betraying no noticeable terror. “I may swoon in fright.”

“Why not sit down, instead?” the scout asked from the doorway. “And allow Nelirikk to decorate you?”

“No need of that,” Shan said, turning to put his brush by. He turned back and Nelirikk gasped, hand slapping his sidearm even as his brain told him that it was impossible that a major of inspectors should be standing before him when only a moment ago—

“
Hold
!” And that quickly it was the scout before him, face full of danger, poised on the balls of his feet, having taken up the position of shield to—

To who other than Shan yos’Galan?

Carefully, Nelirikk moved his hand from his gun. Carefully, he inclined his head.

“Forgive my error,” he said in the full formality of the Liaden tongue. The scout settled, head cocked to a side.

“And yet it was not an error,” he murmured in Terran. “Your whole body screamed astonishment and alarm. You went for the gun as defense. But, enlighten me—what did you see?”

Shan cleared his throat. The scout spun on a heel to face him.

“I suspect he may have seen a Inspector Major here among us. At least, that was the impression I was trying to convey.” He looked up, silver eyes catching Nelirikk’s gaze. “I gather the illusion was convincing? How gratifying.”

“Convincing,” Nelirikk agreed, hoarsely. The scout shook his head.

“I saw you turn to put the brush away,” he said to his brother. “I saw you turn back and Nelirikk reacting to threat. There was no inspector major here.”

“Ah.” The silver eyes widened slightly. “Perhaps now?”

Nelirikk gulped, but this time managed to stand calm as the major loomed over the scout, face pitiless behind the tattoos of rank and accomplishment.

The scout shrugged, read Nelirikk’s face with a quick green glance over the left shoulder, and looked back to the major.

“Nelirikk is convinced, in any case. I see only yourself.”

Shan smiled and became once more a slim man of slightly less than middle height, slanting white eyebrows showing pretty against the smooth brown skin of his face.

“Recall that you were the only one of us who could curb Anthora when she was in a mood to have her way. It’s doubtful that we’ll meet with an Yxtrang of such discriminating will. And if we do,” his mouth tightened. “If we do, I’m afraid I have other defenses.”

“Do you?” The scout sighed. “These are new abilities, brother?”

Shan nodded. “I warn you that the explanation will be a thing devoid of sense. Though I am, of course, willing to try.”

“Leave it for the present,” said the scout, “if it’s nonsense. When this is over, let us share a glass or two and tell each other fantastic stories.”

“Done.”

“Done,” the scout echoed and stepped aside.

“So the two of you, fine-looking pilots, both, will proceed boldly across the field, pausing only to distribute explosives at likely looking Communications centers. You will then claim your planes and board. In the meantime, I will advance by a more circuitous route and stealthily steal my own. We will then proceed as discussed, each making at least one pass over the airfield before peeling off in his assigned direction. Questions?”

There were none. They had been through this before. And, after all, the plan was simple.

The scout nodded. “Good. It’s time we were gone.”

DUTIFUL PASSAGE:
Lytaxin Orbit

In one hour,
Standard, the Yxtrang Eye would be fully open, at once clearing a firing path from the battleship to Erob’s House and placing the thickest layer of shielding ships between the battleship and the
Passage
.

Priscilla had run the math a dozen times in the last few hours, assigned the tactical comp to find the means by which the
Passage
could divert, prevent, or minimize the Yxtrang’s beam.

The answer came back negative.

She had copied their situation files and downloaded them to Pod 77. What, if anything, that ancient non-sentient made of those facts, she had no idea. Subsequent efforts to engage it in dialog had met with no response. Perhaps it had simply stopped functioning.

Ren Zel, hastily briefed on his return to the bridge, stood silent, his eyes on the screen displaying the movement of the Yxtrang shield.

“No answer whatsoever?”

“Nothing,” Priscilla said. “I wonder if I’ve offended it.”

“Overloaded it, possibly,” he returned, eyes still on the screen. “You say it is very old, and a defense logic. It would perhaps not be equipped to sift through such levels of data as the
Passage
—” He stopped and drew a slow, careful breath.

“Or perhaps it is.”

Priscilla looked to the screen, saw the message window filling with words.

TACTICAL DEFENSE POD 77 ON-LINE.

DOWNLOAD DATA ANALYSIS COMPLETE.

DEFENSE PLAN FORMULATED.

PHASE ONE ENACTED.

UPLOADING TO MOBILE UNIT TARGETING COMP.

Ren Zel flung forward, clearing a tertiary screen and accessing the targeting computer in three rapid keystrokes. Priscilla sat rapt, the red counter in her hand, watching the words form on the screen.

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL OFFENSIVE ACTION: 43 UNITS.

SYNCHRONIZING MOBILE UNIT TARGETING COMP.

“It’s uploaded settings for guns seven and nine,” Ren Zel told her, fingers moving across the board, “and instructions to fire to those coordinates in forty Standard minutes.”

TACTICAL DEFENSE POD 77 ON STAND-BY,

CONDITION ORANGE.

The words stopped and Priscilla stirred at last.

“Remove Pod seventy-seven’s instructions from the targeting command queue, please, First Mate.”

He spun his chair around, showing her a face which was entirely devoid of emotion.

“I cannot,” he said quietly, and she read the effort he expended to hold to calmness. “The file is sealed.”

“Sealed, is it?” She reached to her own board. “I’ll pull them—”

Ren Zel cleared his throat.

“Forgive me. I should have said that the instructions and the coords are under the seal of Delm Korval.”

“Under delm’s seal?” Priscilla felt a thrill not unlike terror. Theonna yos’Phelium had left the power to implement delm’s seal resident in the ancient defense pod. Theonna yos’Phelium had been a far-seeing delm, indeed.

Or a frothing madwoman.

Priscilla took a breath, felt the red counter warm in her hand and looked to Ren Zel.

“So, we can see it, but we can’t change it.” As she said that her witch sense told her it was true: some ancient Korval necessity now ruled their fate. “Fine. To my screen two, please. Let’s at least find out what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

***

“Uncle Win Den!”
Alys ran headlong out of the house as he was preparing to step into the flitter for an inspection of the outer ring defenses. He waited, remembering to frown.

“Well, niece? I thought you on duty at the core-comm.”

“I was, Uncle. But there was a message . . .” she paused to gulp more air into her lungs. “A message on the telecoder—the old one, that never takes any messages?”

tel’Vosti froze, remembering late night fright stories told him by
his
uncle, too many years ago, and centering around that particular, always silent, telecoder.

“Go on,” he urged Alys.

“Yes. The message says it’s from the Planetary Defense Unit, and it—” her eyes lifted to his, baffled. “Uncle, it says that it’s activated the meteor shielding over Erob Central Control.”

LYTAXIN:
War Zone

Val Con melted away
at the edge of the field, taking his bag of cockpit adaptations and another, similar to the one Nelirikk carried with him. His target was the comm shed at the south end of the field, which housed the back-up space-link. After setting the charges contained in the second bag, he would choose a plane and lift. The mark was one-half-hour.

Shan and Nelirikk walked openly across the field, Nelirikk bearing his bag of explosives, the scout’s brother swaggering empty-handed, as befit the sort of officer he had found in Nelirikk’s undermind.
Their
targets were the radar support shack and back-up communications.

The field was busy, but not overly so. They had arrived, so Nelirikk thought, in the trough between the first wave moving out and the second. Those who were abroad had duty to attend. No one paid attention to two officers arrogantly and unhurriedly about their own duty. They marched directly up to back-up comm, Shan waiting with cold impatience while Nelirikk deftly jimmied the lock, pushed the door open, stepped back and saluted smartly. In character, he ignored the salute and stamped into the shed, Nelirikk in his wake, swinging the door closed behind them.

“Do not touch that,” he said, pointing at a green striped panel. “Alarm circuit.” He had dropped his bag and fished out two of the scout’s devices.

Shan took one of the explosives, moved to the left, seated it and armed it as his brother had shown him, while Nelirikk did his part of the work on the opposite side of the shed.

Two minutes later, they were once again striding across the busy field.

At radar support, the door was unlocked. Nelirikk paused, threw a worried glance toward his companion and was answered with a vicious glower from the inspector major.

Well enough
, thought Nelirikk.
We do what we have come to do.
He thrust the door open and brought his fist up in salute. The major tramped by him with no acknowledgment, into the radar shed.

A tech jumped up from behind the board, his face displaying surprise that quickly became chagrin as he read their
vingtai
.

“Inspectors . . .” The salute was hasty, the face pale behind the tattoos that showed him a specialist, confirmed twice at combat radar, a volunteer who had achieved success in a difficult mission, originally of Ornjal’s Tech Troop. “I was not told you were to be here. I—”

Shan frowned, and the tech gulped. Slowly, the gesture filled with such menace that Nelirikk felt his own heart stutter, the scout’s brother pointed at the door.

“Inspector Major.” The tech saluted. “I received no notice of your coming. Duty demands that I ask to see your passes.”

“We have no time for that!” Nelirikk snarled, moving forward. “There have been security failures at several locations! We must check this facility and certify it! Out, and leave us to duty!”

Despite the sweat beading on his upper lip and the definite paleness of his face, the tech was not so easy to rout. He took a hard breath and met Nelirikk’s eyes squarely.

“I need some ID, sir. You understand. I am required to . . .”

They had given the scout’s brother perhaps thirty words of the Common Troop, without ever expecting he would have need of them.

“Fool!” he roared now, thrusting a hard hand under the tech’s nose. “Papers, damn you!”

The tech jumped, saluted even more hastily, pulling his work orders, his day sheets, his meal cards, as the officer cursed him for a sluggard dog and seemed almost ready to strike him.

Shakily, the tech ordered his papers, offering them with yet another salute.

The scout’s brother snatched them, looked them over contemptuously, with a special sneer for the coveted meal cards. Abruptly, he turned, shoved the offensive papers into Nelirikk’s hands and stalked over to the screen bank.

“Troop!” barked Nelirikk. “Have you eyes?”

“Sir!” A shaky salute. “Yes, sir!”

“Good! Take them elsewhere if you ever wish to eat again!” He threw the papers and the tech caught them against his chest, his eyes on the meal cards Nelirikk still held in his hand.

“Yes, sir.”

“Put yourself on half rations tonight,” Nelirikk snapped, and pushed the cards into the tech’s sweating face. “Dismissed!”

“Sir!” The tech saluted, threw a terrified glance at the major, who was now inspecting the lateral board, and all but ran from the shed.

Nelirikk pushed the door shut, dropped the sack and yanked it open.

“Quickly,” he said, putting the bomb into the hands of the scout’s brother. “We are off the mark.”

***

Crouched
in scant cover, Val Con waited while an officer dressed in what he had to believe was the original of the uniform Nelirikk had approximated for himself, face bearing
vingtai
eerily similar to Shan’s artwork, performed what could only be an inspection.

Precious minutes ticked by and still the officer did not emerge from the comm shed.

Three minutes more
, Val Con thought, belly down under a cable lorry.
If he is not gone in three minutes, I will set the charges against the shed’s exterior and trust in the luck
.

Chancy enough under the best of conditions, the luck being notoriously fickle. Yet, what else could be done? This whole mad venture sat on the knees of the luck, born of the desperate necessity of success. They must succeed in routing the Yxtrang. Must. The cost of failure was too terrible to contemplate.