Plan B (13 page)

Ahead, Nova yos'Galan had checked; Liz came even with her. "Could be just a mistake," she muttered, but her gut didn't believe it, and her head was working the moves, given the three in sight; wondering how many were out of sight, around the other side; wondering if they were the fighting kind or the running kind. The Liaden woman didn't even spare her a glance.

One of the coveralls turned, started, yelled, hand snatching at belt. The shot sang past Liz's ear as the three of them bolted, fanning wide.

"I've got left," Nova snapped and Liz was spinning, target marked; gun out and up; spitting—once—and she kept moving, swinging back toward center, crouching, gun ready. A shot chewed gravel at her feet and her answer jerked the man's head up and back before he slammed flat and stopped moving at all.

The third coverall was down, Liz saw, straightening slowly: a huddle of blurred red in the leakage from the spot. Nova was running toward the ship.

The fourth one broke from behind the ship just as she came level with the spot.

Small, slim—Liaden, most likely; Liz thought, holding her fire—sprinting for the tunnel, no weapon out, no backward look.

Liz straightened. Scared stupid, she judged; might as well let her go.

By the spotlight, Nova yos'Galan spun, knees flexed, gun up and steady in a two-hand grip, picture-book perfect.

The slim runner was halfway to the tunnel, arms pumping.

A pellet pistol spat, once, and the runner stumbled, staggered another step forward.

The pistol spoke again—and the runner fell, arms flailing. Liz swallowed her yell; took a breath against the bile rising in her throat and walked, slowly, toward the spot.

Strapped into the co-pilot's seat, she stared at the perfect, golden profile; at the shapely hands, steady and certain over the unfamiliar board. Murder. Nothing but a senseless killing, no matter that Liadens rarely took prisoners.
Wouldn't done any harm to let that kid go
, Liz started to say, and forced the words back down her own gullet. Not her business.

Nova flipped a toggle. "Tower, this is KV5625, Solcintra. Lift initiates in five seconds. Out."

"Tower here, KV5625. I—umm—"

Liz kept the grin from reaching her face with an effort, trying to remember if she'd ever heard a pilot give the Tower clearance before.

"Is that a clear?" snapped Nova.

"I—yes," Tower managed, with belated decisiveness. "You're clear to lift, KV5625. Tower out."

"Recorded. KV5625 out." The toggle flicked off and quick golden fingers danced over the board, green go-lights glowing to life under the magic touch. Liz heard the teeth-aching screech as the magnetics kicked in; felt the pressure start—and was suddenly slammed back into her seat, shockstraps jerking tight.

"Ooof!"

Violet eyes flicked over her and the acceleration eased slightly. Liz took a hard breath against the pounding of her heart.

"You make that brother of yours look like a ray of sunshine," she snarled, and saw again the runner falling, shot in the back, and the woman next to her calmly holstering her gun and turning to inspect the hull for damage.

Nova yos'Galan barely smiled. "Only wait until you meet my elder brother," she said, hands flashing over the board. There was the barest shudder as the ship switched from magnetics to full power. "He takes an hour to say yes—and two to say no."

"Terrific," muttered Liz and tried to find a comfortable way to sit in the too-small chair. She gave it up about the time they achieved orbit and the power scaled down to maintenance; glanced over at the pilot's station and took a deep, careful breath.

Nova yos'Galan sat rigid in her chair, fists clenched on the armrests, eyes screwed shut, lips pinched to a thin, pale gash. She was shaking. Hard.

Liz cleared her throat. "You get hit?" she asked, knowing,
knowing
that there was no way—

Nova started, eyes opening and closing immediately, as if the sight of the pilot's board was too much for her to bear. She took a long, ragged breath and leaned woodenly back in the chair.

"I have never—killed—anyone before," she said, and tried another breath.

"Aah, hell. . ." Liz thought about that one, suddenly seeing the runner's death in a very different light. She unhooked the shockwebbing and pulled the flask out of her pouch; telescoped the lid to full extension and poured a healthy slug.

"Here you go."

Violet eyes slitted. Liz pushed the cup toward her, encouragingly. Nova closed her eyes.

Liz sighed. "When Redhead—Miri—had her first action," she said, keeping her voice conversational; "she had a slug outta here."

The eyes opened again; locked on the cup. "Did it help?"

"The shakes," said Liz, easily. "It helps with the shakes, girl. Ain't nothing except experience helps with the other."

One slim hand left the armrest, unclenched and took the cup. Liz nodded.

"You want to knock it back quick," she advised. "Don't go sipping at it like it's some fancy, hundred-year-old brandy. All it is is kynak. Go."

Obediently, Nova lifted the cup and threw it down her throat like medicine.

"Ah!" Tears started to her eyes, ran down her cheeks; she choked and Liz pounded her on the back, retrieving her cup in the process.

"Drunk like a merc!" she said cheerily and shook her head, abruptly more serious.

"Thing to remember is you don't have to kill everybody on the field," she said, keeping her voice easy, without judgement or condemnation. "Wasn't any real reason to kill that last one. She was just running to get away."

Nova shook her head, unlatched the webbing and sighed. "You do not understand."

"So explain it," Liz invited, still easy in the voice.

Nova sighed. "There is danger," she said. "I told you that there was danger. My brother—there are—persons—hunting him. These—they fired on the First Speaker. It is the First Speaker's duty to survive, to serve the clan."

Liz stared. "First Speaker? Girl, I'm no First Speaker—that was just what Redhead's Liaden—"

"
I
am First Speaker," Nova said, flatly; "of Clan Korval. I could not take the risk."

Liz thought about that one, too, as she unscrewed the flask and had herself a shot, and finally shook her head.

"I can see where you might think that. But you're saying this brother of yours has got trouble of his own—in addition to the trouble him and Redhead were trying to lose?"

Nova sighed again, and leaned forward to stare at the piloting readout. "Circumstances are not quite clear, Angela Lizardi." She glanced over, violet eyes bland and beautiful. "I have several matters to discuss with my brother, when I see him again."

"Yeah," said Liz, thoughtfully; "I can see that, too."

A certain awkward pride suffused the ship. Shan felt it as an electric undercurrent as he approached the tower.

The ship's mood disturbed him. Barely three hours ago they'd been escorted to their Jump point by Portmaster Vinikov's hastily cobbled armada, and the crew—his crew of mannerly merchanters!—was inebriated with the glory of it.

He'd called battle stations; and it had become immediately and painfully apparent that there wasn't a ship in-system that outgunned
Dutiful Passage
. Indeed, the ten military ships comprising their escort were badly outclassed: the
Passage
had three battle pods in reserve, with the others triple-targeted. They could have broken the system defenses, held the planet hostage.

Portmaster Vinikov and her fleet had held position until the
Passage
Jumped.

If he decided to turn rogue. . .

Shan shivered.

The problem was power.

Suddenly the crew was aware of the ship's power. Suddenly, they had an inkling of Korval's strength.

As would Korval's enemies, of course, for such an escort could hardly go unremarked. Within days the galaxy would know that
Dutiful Passage
had pulled away from Krisko, the Tree-and-Dragon at every name-point, and transmitting not the neutral ID of a freighter, but the strident warn-away of a battleship.

I dare
: Korval's motto.

Octavia Vinikov knew the motto; knew a thread or two of Korval history.

Octavia Vinikov had seen her old drinking friend and chess partner leave dock commanding a warship, and acted as a portmaster must, to ensure the safety of the port; though she must have known, canny tactician that she was, that her armada could never withstand an attack from the
Passage
.

Shan sighed. "Gods defend the innocent," he murmured, and pushed his palm against the comm-room door.

"Innocent? Who's innocent?" demanded the familiar voice of Senior Radio Technician Rusty Morgenstern.

Shan managed a wan smile. "We're all innocent, my friend," he said and nodded at the console Rusty sat before. "How fares the new set-up?"

"Almost done. Would've been done, if we hadn't got a lot of last minute stuff in code because of the farewell parade." Rusty grinned, soft, round face glowing with martial importance before he bethought himself of something else and rummaged briefly on the console's ledge.

"Got a couple here for you—"

He held out a sealed envelope with a holostripe across the seal.

Shan lifted his eyebrows.

"It came out in code after I decoded it," Rusty explained, suddenly diffident; "so I thought I ought to. . ."

"Of course." Shan took the package and weighed it idly in his hand. "From now on anything like that should be routed directly to me on the—"

Rusty nodded seriously.

"I tried that, but Priscilla said you were almost at the door."

"I see. And did Priscilla tell you anything else?"

"Just that I should double check all outgoing channels and be sure we've got Tree-and-Dragon on primary and back-up, and to do the same for the lifeboat comms when I get the chance."

Shan shook his head ruefully. "I see I could have saved the steps."

"Naw, one of us had to see the other. Need your signature on this."

Shan looked dumbly at the official-looking orange card: Korval's sigil was printed at the top; at the bottom were the words "Code Confirmation."

He looked at Rusty and caught the thrill of the other man's fear.

"It's in the book, Captain," he said carefully. "I'm sorry. . ."

"Yes, it is, isn't it, Radio Tech?" Shan bent and scrawled his name. He handed the card back with a straight look into worried brown eyes. "I'm sorry, too."

Rusty nodded, countersigned the card, carefully peeled back from front, and held out the second copy.

Shan tucked the card away, hoping he'd remember to file it at some point, then stuffed the envelope in the same pocket.

"Thank you, old friend. Carry on."

He left then, weaving a brief tapestry of good will to chase away Rusty's fear.

The first disk held the information he'd been expecting from their agent in-system: an up-to-the minute listing of the locations and schedules of those Korval and Korval-allied ships still on regular trade runs, plus the first and second choice fall-back points of each.

To obtain more than that would require Nova's First Speaker's key.

Just as well
, Shan thought with uncharacteristic grimness.
Better that I don't know it all
. He extended a long arm and activated his link with the first mate's station on the bridge.

"Priscilla, I'm sending up some information to go under Captain's Seal. Do take a moment to glance at it and memorize three or four coords from the bottom half of the list."

"Yes, Captain. I'll take it at number four."

He copied the information to her terminal and memorized two new coords himself. He already knew the others.

That done, he moved to the second disk.

He laughed aloud when the code formed on the screen: "Poor Rusty!"

Of course the key wasn't filed in the ship's codebook—how could it be? It was built on the constantly changing situations of four different correspondence chess games.

Shan tapped in the algebraic codes of the last move in each game.

Na5xBb2. 0-0-0+. d5xe4. g6.

He paused with his finger on
go
, considering the last notation. That pawn chain was an awfully tempting target and would take—

"Fool!" he snarled under his breath and smacked
go
with such force that the terminal beeped in protest. Flutter-witted Shan—trust him to worry about the outcome of a chess game with Plan B in effect!

He ran the codebook command and glared at the reformed screen. The decoded message was blunt. Adrenaline surged and he hit the direct line to the cargo master's office.

"Man the reserve bridge," he snapped as soon as the line came open. "I'll be with you momentarily."

There was one heartbeat of startled silence. "Yes, Captain," said Ken Rik, and the line went dead.

The next call was to the first mate's station.

"This is the Captain. Do me the kindness of calling battle stations—yellow alert. When you have 80 percent compliance, go to red."

"Shan, we're in Jump."

"Indeed we are. Call battle stations. And put Gordy in charge of. . ." He glanced at the ship's master plan posted above his desk. "Put Gordy in charge of courier boat thirteen. Now."

The sounding of battle stations nearly drowned out his next words, which were, "Always remember that I love you, Priscilla."

The headset of the light duty pressure suit Shan wore brought him the harsh sound of breathing. Deeper inside weapon pod six, Cargo Master Ken Rik yo'Lanna wore a heavy duty suit against the possibility of booby traps or contamination.

"Fingernails," Ken Rik muttered, fury and terror making an interesting counterpoint to the bloodlust in his voice. "One an hour, and then the toenails—with my own set of grab calipers, I swear it. Just promise me the opportunity—gods! Three more, Shan! I'll peel his face with a diamond-dust plane. . ."

"Do you have that, Priscilla?" Shan murmured into his link with the bridge. "Three more. These in sub-bay six. What's our count now?"