There had been opportunity to kill more Yxtrang, on the way from the pocket of brush to the quarry entrance. Dustin had accounted for two and Shan three—one of those a lucky shot into the impenetrable treetops, prompted by the very faintest of out-of-place leaf rustle.
But the quarry. The quarry was where the heavy action centered.
"Looks like they're after your boat, sir." Dustin whispered, as they crouched behind a conveniently placed boulder. The lifeboat was precisely where he had left it, upright in the entrance to the quarry, closer to the mercenaries' line than the Yxtrang.
"Indeed it does, Corporal, but why? It has no fuel. It has no weapons. It has a radio, but surely the Yxtrang have their own radios?"
Dustin looked at him oddly. "Hard to tell why 'trang'll do anything. Maybe they want it for a war prize. Important thing is, if they think it's worth arguing over, we gotta be sure they don't win the argument."
At the moment, it appeared that Sub-Commander Kritoulkas' regulars were holding their own in the argument. The Yxtrang liberally sprinkled throughout the trees opposite were actively involved in the dispute, but had made no push to advance their position. Shan sank a little lower behind the shielding boulder, thinking about that.
"Are we seeing a diversion, Corporal?" he asked finally. "Or are they waiting for friends?"
"Hard to say, sir." Dustin was moving, inching his rifle into position. Shan looked, saw the target, looked again and chose his own mark.
The argument continued, and all at once the Yxtrang began to move, pushing their line grimly forward. Behind them, deeper into the opposite wood, Shan's sharpened hearing registered the sound of heavy equipment, distinct even in the fury of the firefight. He flicked a look at Dustin.
"There's something big moving in the woods."
The corporal nodded, face pale except for the thread of blood down one cheek, where a chip off the boulder had cut him.
"I feel it," he said, mouth tightening. "Get ready to fall back, sir. They were waiting for the armor to catch up with them."
Around him, then, he felt a—withdrawing—as, one squad at a time, the mercenaries melted back from their positions. Across, the Yxtrang pushed forward, and the sound of the armor moving was thunder in the ground, rattling through his chest and into his head.
"Now," Dustin said. "Fall back." Shan nodded and heard the other man leave, even as he tried to recall if he had seen anything like anti-armor, in his brief and all-too-incomplete tour of the mercenary encampment.
Where, he wondered, are they withdrawing to that will stand safe against a tank?
A pellet struck his boulder, spraying his face with gravel. Shan ducked, found the range and fired. An Yxtrang soldier crumpled out from behind a bush that was too meager to shelter him and didn't move again.
He was alone on what had been the mercenary line, Shan realized, and about to be overrun by Yxtrang. Yet, why should he fall back, when the means to kill the oncoming tank was right here?
The lifeboat's coils still functioned, after all. It was but the work of a moment to set them to overload.
Decision taken, Shan began at last to move from cover to carefully chosen cover, angling toward the lifeboat.
Beautiful was two steps behind her, armed like an officer, and almost totally silent, which was more than she could say for the rest of the unit.
There'd been a kind of constant crunch as the Irregulars moved through the woods—nothing to be done about it at this point—and then a single distant boom, as if something really big had blown up.
That one was a puzzle. It wasn't the sound a shell made being fired, or the sound it made hitting something, usually. And it sure couldn't have been an ammo-dump because Miri knew Kritoulkas had been running mostly with carry-it-yourselves.
Her people did pretty good at not stopping when the guns started chattering.
There was a lot of gun noise she didn't recognize right off and that made her nervous, because if she didn't know the sound it was likely to be Yxtrang caliber stuff.
The battle-flag was about twenty steps ahead of her, wrapped tight around its staff. The squad that had it was moving out. Likely they thought they'd show up, unroll the flag, and scare Yxtrang back into space without a ship.
Not bloody likely.
The key here was going to be showing up at all. The Yxtrang, even if there were a lot of them, probably had their hands pretty full because Kritoulkas was bossing a near-pure Gyrfalks crew.
The communit in her pocket hadn't buzzed, which was good news—it meant Jase and the house guard were still holding a quiet fort. Be bad if the Irregulars didn't have a place to go home to, once the party was over.
She signaled a stop, waved her three lieutenants in. One of them hunted out this way, regular.
Beautiful was there, back to her. He was carrying his field pack and two extra ammo boxes for the automatic weapon carried by the flag-bearing unit, no complaint, no slowdown. At halt he'd dropped the boxes and instantly gone on alert.
Miri saw how he watched: lower level of trees, mid-level on rock-piles and such, eyes long enough on each spot to catch color or movement. The greenies either stared hard at one spot and waited for it to grow wings or swiveled their heads around so fast they'd get themselves whiplash.
She took her time deciding on the next phase of the march. The sounds were heavier to the west, which the local looie thought meant they were centered on an old quarry on the south side of the merc camp. That could be good if it meant Kritoulkas had the Yxtrang pinned down. The firing was getting pretty heavy. . .
She nodded, reluctantly broke the squads into two groups. The smaller group, four squads under the local, would take the uphill side. As they closed into the quarry they'd follow some path he knew.
Her main group of six squads would waltz right on down the main trail, trusting that the sub-commander was still holding up her end of the bargain with the mercs.
She felt eyes on her, turned to see Beautiful looking at her.
"What's up?"
"Nothing is up, Captain. No air cover. No sign of ambush in the trees. No listening devices."
Inwardly, Miri sighed. "I meant, what's bugging you? What should I know?"
"Captain, only the single large explosion. By now if there was artillery it would be in use. We have here one hundred. Probably the unit we will face has more."
"Great. Even odds."
She wasn't sure if he got the sarcasm; he simply nodded and asked permission for a drink from his canteen, since action might come upon them anytime.
The distant shooting went almost quiet for a moment or two and then became insistent and rushed.
She knew the sound of that—one side had managed to mass a bit of a charge. The heavy, nearly steady beat of a Paradis 88 made her suppose the Yxtrang were on the move against a well defended spot.
She waited while the lieutenants carried her news to the sergeants, and then they moved on, the crunch of boots not nearly as loud as the growing noise of battle.
The four squads under the local lieutenant melted away as best they could. The main body continued ahead, with the sound of firing heavy and the acrid smell of battle permeating the air. Forward motion halted abruptly. Soldiers dropped, taking cover. Ahead, the woods were noisy, like whoever was there didn't care if they were heard.
Miri dropped, felt the presence that was Nelirikk, positioned like a bodyguard, protecting her back, while his height still allowed him to see beyond her.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it started, and then there was a more distant sound, as of confident marching. Miri began moving toward one of her lieutenants when the woods near her lead troops exploded with the sound of a Paradis 88.
The targets were up on the hill, and Miri could suddenly see the movement and hear the return fire of dozens of alien weapons. There was a whoosh, an explosion and scream—but by now it was clear which side was which and her lead troops opened live fire on an enemy for the first time.
It was obvious they'd stumbled into a flanking movement by the Yxtrang, one that the Paradis had been supposed to foil.
Now it was their turn, and she signaled her squads into a battle line, tried to straighten out a kink that could be dangerous. The folks on the hill hadn't been expecting quite so many people, apparently, but they were still willing to fight.
It was hard to tell, but it looked like there were more and more of the Yxtrang up on the hill, as if the whole damned bunch of them had tried an end around.
The Irregulars were returning fire, but the lead squad was in big trouble and likely to get cut off. The Yxtrang were concentrating fire there, and there were more of them on the hill, so many that it looked like a charge forming.
Miri pulled the whistle from her pocket, sounded the attention blast and the double-pulse of short pullback. The Irregular's firing dropped decidedly then as they all tried to worm backward five meters like they'd been taught.
"Beautiful, up there. A charge forming?" Miri yelled.
"Yes, Captain. I believe it likely."
"Tell that crew there to open up with their toy. Now!"
Nelirikk crawled to the crew with flag still wrapped tight, carrying the boxes of extra ammo to them, taking time to point out the most likely route down the hill. . .
There was something quite satisfying in the chatter of the Sternbach. True, it wasn't a Paradis 88, but it should do. She glanced back at the smoke-wreathed gun crew.
Shit. Now they were for it.
The gun crew sat behind their almost-shield of a downed log, the Irregular's battle-standard waving insults at the enemy.
Unexpectedly, up on the hillside, a spot of color showed, flapped—snapped to blood red.
Nelirikk was suddenly beside her, low to the ground, a very real grin on his face.
"Captain, we face Tactical Assault Twenty-Two. They are very famous for their attacks!"
She cussed but he didn't hear, for at that moment the woods screamed with Yxtrang rage and the charge began.
There wasn't time for finesse. Miri blew the command that released squads to sergeants. And when she turned to repeat the call in the other direction, she saw the Yxtrang behind them.
This charge was really aimed at the Sternbach—in fact both of them were. The unit was falling back on its own accord toward the flag; the Yxtrang were heading there, too.
A young trooper—one of the refugee volunteers—fell half a yard away, the side of his face gone. Miri dove, snatched up his rifle and fired into the oncoming mass while the Sternbach kept up its end of the conversation, and the Paradis—
An Yxtrang fell at her feet, dead, and the short sharp sound of a pistol going off behind her warned her to turn.
The pistol spoke again and there was a wounded Yxtrang flung by her. He started to rise, and she took him out, spinning into a forest of blades as the Yxtrang wave and the 1st Irregulars crashed together and merged.
Miri fired, dropped her man, found another target, and heard Nelirikk scream, "Yadak!"
She saw the blade flashing downward, killing-bright in a huge hand, swung the rifle up to catch it—
From behind and above, Nelirikk's arm swept out, into the blade, smashing it out of the Yxtrang's hand and Nelirikk's hands were around a throat, crushing, and he roared out, "Irregulars! Irregulars!"
The Sternbach chattered on and other voices took up the yell, "Irregulars!" and the flag stood over it all.
Nelirikk's arm was bandaged, but his care was for the flagstaff, whereon he hung—upside down—the flag of Tactical Assault Twenty-two.
Miri waited for yet more casualty reports, watching as the crew of the Sternbach fieldstripped it lovingly.
"Beautiful," she said finally. "What's yadak?"
"Captain." He was carefully looking more at the flag-project than at her. "Yadak was the field name of a dead man. It means nothing."
Miri nodded. She'd been afraid of that. "So you knew that guy. I'm sorry—"
He shrugged, discomforted by more than the wound, Miri thought.
"Yadak made many errors, Captain. He joined the 14th Conquest Corps. He came with them to this planet. He volunteered for Tactical Assault Twenty-two. And he attacked my captain with a machete while she stood command over a unit with Jela's insignia on its flag."
"You mean he shoulda known better?"
He took his time answering.
"Captain, Yadak and I both learned at Jela's feet. He left the home unit before I did, seeking action." He looked at her, blue eyes bleak.
"Yadak did not believe much in tradition. But, yes, Captain. He should have known better."
The position of lifeboat number four had been stable for some time. Ren Zel touched a switch on the main board.
"Tower." Rusty Morgenstern's voice was scratchy with fatigue.
"This is the command helm, Radio Tech," Ren Zel said, as gently as one might in the sometimes bewildering modelessness of Terran. "Please do the grace of directing a laser-packet beam to these coordinates—" The transfer was made from his screen to Rusty's with a keystroke. "Alert this station when a dialog has been established."
"Will do."
"Thank you," Ren Zel murmured, and hesitated a moment over the proper phrasing. "Do honor your rest-shift, Radio Tech. The ship depends upon your acuity."
There was a slight pause, followed by a sound that might have been a grudging chuckle. "Caught me, did you? I'll hit the sack as soon as we get Shan on the line. Tower out."
"Command helm out."
He returned to his duty. The watch-points reported nothing untoward. Apparently they had won a measure of respect from the Yxtrang in their first encounter.
Or the Yxtrang were biding their time.
Regardless, the Passage continued its spiral orbit toward Lytaxin. Ren Zel pulled up an auxiliary screen and began to calculate approach vectors, measuring this orbit against that, in terms of best defense of the world below. . .
At some point he became aware of a presence beside him and looked up to find Priscilla Mendoza standing quietly at his shoulder, her eyes on the watch screens.
"A quiet shift, First Mate?"
"A quiet shift, Captain. Lifeboat four has come to rest. The Tower is attempting to establish contact. The Yxtrang have been—circumspect."
"Well for the Yxtrang," she said, moving her eyes at last from the screens and smiling at him.
Ren Zel went cold, and in that instant she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder—a sister's touch, warming, yet inexpressibly painful to one who was dead to three sisters of his blood.
"It's Weapons Hall," the woman before him was saying, her deep voice resonant; her black eyes brilliant and fierce. "I told you I had preparations to make. For the good of the ship."
"So you had." He cleared his throat. "One had not anticipated. . ."
She laughed, rich and full, drawing the eyes of the duty pilot in a quick flick over a shoulder before he returned to his board.
"No, how could you? I barely anticipated it myself, and I've been to Weapons Hall more times than I can count." Her eyes strayed again to the watch-screens, touched the corner that elucidated the position of lifeboat four, and moved on to the work screen.
"You're calculating defensive orbits. Good. We'll also want to bracket that battleship. Have you found anything like a defense system?"
"Debris," Ren Zel said, reaching to the board and bringing up the charts. "Ship's records indicate satellite defenses in orbits correlating to the orbits of clustered wreckage." He looked up into those brilliant black eyes. "The Yxtrang were thorough."
She nodded.
On the main board, the channel light glowed to life.
"Tower here."
Captain Mendoza leaned over his shoulder, extending a long arm for the switch.
"Hi, Rusty."
"Captain," the Radio Tech said seriously. "Wanted to let you know—there's no answer on that punchbeam."
Ren Zel held still, watching the side of her face, refusing to allow himself despair. For after all, there were many reasons why the laser-packet to lifeboat four might have gone unanswered, and not . . . all . . . of them were dire.
"I see," the captain said quietly. "Keep trying, in quarter-shift rotation. When the reply comes through, notify me immediately."
"Yes'm. Will do."
"Good," she said. "And, Rusty. . ."
"Ren Zel already read me the riot act," he interrupted. "I'm turning the Tower over to Tonee and Lina and getting me some shut-eye."
"Lina?" the captain repeated, blankly.
"Yes, Lina." The voice of the ship's librarian came briskly out of the speaker. "I speak Yxtrang, Priscilla."
"You do?"
"Certainly," Lina said, as if it were the most commonplace of talents. "Why not? The scouts gave the tapes. It would have been a poor use of the gift, to allow them to languish."
"Of course," the captain said seriously, but Ren Zel thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. "Carry on. Captain out."
"Tower out," Lina said. The line-light dimmed and the captain turned her brilliant eyes back to himself.
"Speaking of off-shifts—First Mate, I believe the shift passes."
He made to rise from the command chair, his eyes touching the screens once more. "Captain—" he began, and froze.
In watch-screen three—a blot of nothing where moments before the instruments had reported clean space.
"Fleas," he said, hand sweeping out for the all-ship. "All crew, attend! Fleas at three o'clock! Battle stations. Level red."
Beside him, he heard—no, he felt—a gasp, and his eyes leapt in some fey instinct to the corner where the coordinates for lifeboat four should be displayed—
And read instead the stark message from the tracking computer:
CONTACT LOST. LIFE POD UNIT FOUR OFF-GRID.
The explosion was—beyond his expectation.
When the ground stopped bucking, and after prudently giving it another few minutes to re-acquaint itself with a less volatile state of being, Shan sat up, sticks and gravel raining off his shoulders.
He had expected a . . . significant . . . result from overloading the lifeboat's coil circuits, and had taken care to put what he believed to be a sensible distance between himself and ground zero, dashing like a long-legged hare through the forest, stasis box under one arm, bulky Yxtrang rifle in the opposite hand, to drop at last behind a solid-looking boulder and bury his face in the mold.
He had not expected a force that would uproot trees around him, shattering boulders less stalwart than his chosen cover, and throwing cargo-holds of dirt and gravel high into the air.
In the aftermath of the shock came a silence so profound Shan wondered if he had been deafened. He stood, shaky, but keeping a good grip on the rifle, and wiped his face on the leather sleeve of his combat jacket. The silence was terrifying. The wreckage of downed limbs and exposed roots, bewildering. If the lifeboat's last duty had caused such damage here, what must the site of the blast be like?
"Really, Shan," he said, and it was a relief to hear his own voice, blurry and cracked as it was. "You might have killed someone."
Abruptly, he sat on the ground behind the boulder, jaw clamped against a sound that might with equal possibility be laughter or a scream. Automatically, he began an inventory.
The rifle was unharmed, the magazine full. The Yxtrang soldier's ammunition belt, too large for his waist, was slung from shoulder to hip, like a bandoleer. The Yxtrang's grace-blade, which Dustin had retrieved along with the belt, hung within easy snatch of his right hand.
Weapons counted and made certain of, he turned his attention to the stasis box. It was dented, the Tree-and-Dragon scratched, but the seal had held. He smiled when he saw that and lay his palm over the scratched insignia.
. . .more than a touch of the Dragon in you. . .
He shook his head sharply.
Priscilla, he thought, painfully, is not going to take the news that the lifepod is off-grid with equanimity. No more than he would, had their places been exchanged. Though it was to be hoped that his lifemate would have had more wit than to detonate a coil-driven vessel on a world-surface.
Sounds were beginning to nibble at the edge of the silence. Shan raised his head, listening, sorted out gunfire, some distance to the east.
Nodding, he came to his feet, picked up the precious box and the rifle and looked around him.
The fallen trees gave almost too much cover, the grounded branches were more hazard than assistance. So, he took a few moments to plot his course, from this rock, to that log, to that tree, to that one, and then to that large red rock, where he would plot the next stage of his travel.
He was in the midst of his third stage of travel toward the battle-sounds when his open Healer sense caught a familiar glimmer of pattern. He altered course and in a very short time was face to dirt-smeared face with Corporal Dustin.
"Sir." There was honest relief and not a little wariness in the nutmeg-colored eyes. "Thought we'd lost you."
"Only temporarily misplaced, for your sins," Shan said, slipping behind the corporal's sheltering log and settling the stasis box close.
"You near the big blast?" Dustin asked.
"I'm afraid I'm the one responsible for the big blast. If the coil circuits in a spacefaring vessel are simultaneously closed and set to charge at full, they will overload and catastrophically give up their energy in something just under five Standard minutes. I can do the math for you more precisely later, if you find you're interested."
"I'll just take your word for it," Dustin said. "Sir." He chewed his lip. "Shouldn't there be a safety trip, so you don't overload by accident?"
Shan looked at him. "There is."
"Right." Dustin sighed. "Yxtrang armor?"
"I'd wager a cantra, if I had one, that the Yxtrang armor is not going to be a problem, Corporal. They were stopping to inspect my boat as I fled . . . What's the situation here?"
"We're pretty scattered. Got seven, eight, within sight. 'Nother half-dozen down along the stream. Gin's got fifteen to the rear and hugging the hill."
Twenty-eight soldiers. Seasoned soldiers, Shan corrected himself. Soldiers who knew their business and operated like professionals. He looked at Dustin.
"We should consolidate, sweep in toward the quarry and secure the ground."
"Yessir." Dustin reached to his belt, pulled out the comm and flicked it on.
"Traffic Two, captain's gonna swing us back the way we come."
There was a moment of startled silence, then Sub-Commander Kritoulkas' voice came from the comm, very distinctly.
"Put the captain on."
Dustin handed the unit over. Shan found the talk button on the side and depressed it.
"Good evening, ma'am."
"You." Her tone was not cordial. "You happen to know anything about that lifeboat?"
"It seemed expedient to dispose of the object of the quarrel," Shan told her earnestly. "Especially as there was Yxtrang armor approaching."
"Great. Tell you what. Have Dustin move the crew—they know the drill. We're getting some help down from the house that'll make up the second hand. You stay pegged right where you are and wait for them. Keep the comm and tell me what you see. Can you do that, Captain?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then do it," she said, and the line went dead.
They flushed two pockets of Yxtrang on their way down toward the quarry. They took an anti-air tube from the first bunch and a couple more casualties from the second before Winston got close enough to lob in one of Val Con's homemade Grenade Surprises.
From the second bunch, then, they got two Irregulars dead, five of what Beautiful identified as Troopers Regular Field Long Arms, and the ammo belts that went with them. Miri sighed. The dead now numbered twenty, all greenies. The injured numbered slightly more, with five or six needing a 'doc pronto two hours ago.
The sweep went on, with the Irregulars and the bits of Kritoulkas' crew they picked up along the way hopefully pushing what Yxtrang were left down toward the quarry and into the second sweep line of seasoned mercs.
Some would get away, of course, running ahead of the closing jaws to regroup and—maybe—await pickup. The object wasn't to kill every Yxtrang in the park. The object was to secure the area to the old quarry and hold the line.
Miri scanned the terrain ahead. They ought to be coming up on the Eyes Kritoulkas had posted at the hinge-point pretty soon. When they hit that point, they'd swing south a little to close the loop, then squeeze back in toward the quarry.
"Captain," Beautiful said from behind her, but she'd already seen him—a lean figure in battle-leathers, ammo belt slung bad-ass style across his chest, a rifle—correction, an Officers Personal Duty Long Arm—held ready, but not threatening anybody.
It wasn't until she'd left the line and gone closer that she saw the white hair under the helmet, the winging eyebrows and the silver eyes she'd seen once before, in a dream that was true.
She stopped, pushing her own helmet up with a fingertip, saw him look first for the insignia, then back, for her face. He recognized her with a lift of white brows.
"Captain—Robertson?"
She sighed. "It'd have to be, wouldn't it? With the kind of luck I've got?" She ran her eyes over him again: dinged up helmet, filthy face, scuffed leathers and that damned bandoleer. And the rifle. Where the hell had he gotten that rifle?
"I haven't been having the best day myself," Val Con's brother told her in a voice that had probably been real pretty, fifteen bad frights ago. "I do think I ought to mention, however, that there is an Yxtrang standing behind you."
She turned her head enough to glimpse Beautiful out of the edge of her eye.
"Get used to him," she said. "His name's Nelirikk Explorer and he's sworn to Line yos'Phelium." She pointed.
"Beautiful, this is the scout's brother, Shan yos'Galan."
"I give you good greeting, Shan yos'Galan," Nelirikk offered in High Liaden.
The silver eyes closed, as if maybe Val Con's brother had just gotten a bad headache. Not that Miri blamed him. His eyes opened and he inclined his head.
"I give you good greeting, Nelirikk Explorer, oath-bound to Korval." The eyes moved to her. "Where is Val Con," he asked, back in Terran. "By the way?"
She shook her head, briefly flicking her attention to the pattern of him inside her head: busy, concentrated, intent. Aware of danger, but not in trouble.
"'Nother part of the woods. He's doing just fine, and he'll be real glad to see you, when we're all back in camp."
He held still a second, like maybe he was considering how much profit would come to her from lying to him. She didn't blame him for that, either, but waited until she had his nod before pointing at the comm on his belt.
"Kritoulkas says to pick you up for the sweep and leave Scotty here on comm-call," she told him, jerking her head to the Gyrfalk leaning heavily on the rough crutch.
He nodded again and pulled the unit free. Miri took it and handed it to Beautiful, who carried it over to Scotty and bent to help him settle into cover. The silver eyes followed him, face displaying a sort of wry resignation.
"You do get used to him, after a while," Miri said, and Val Con's brother looked back to her.
"I'm certain that one does," he said politely.
The worn red counter was in her hand, hot with Shan's presence. Shan's living presence. She was aware of it, and then not, as the demands of defense claimed her attention.
"Gun Teams Three and Five, fire at will."
The Passage shuddered. Her screen showed a brief blaze of clean space in the wake of the charge, filling as she watched with the mushy nothingness that was the fleas' signature.
Mother, how many can there be?
The red counter flashed in her fingers and there was a wrench and—she stood high on her toes, craning over the cornstalks, staring down the blue sky to the ragged black horizon, and the wind of their coming was a furnace blast and where they passed, nothing was left alive. . .
Her hand swept across the control board, struck one toggle: "Engineering, half-power to main engines, on my mark. Mark." Another: "Piloting, on my mark accelerate ship's rotation to plus fifty percent." And a third: "All crew, strap down! Repeat. All crew, strap down!" She took a breath and touched the last toggle.
"Piloting, you have my mark."
The ship paused, gathered itself and began, slowly, to spin.
"Engineering, when we achieve plus fifty percent on spin, increase power to main engines to three-quarter."
"Engineering. Aye to three-quarter on plus fifty."
"Priscilla," the voice was very soft. "What do you?"
She turned toward Ren Zel, strapped in as ordered at the auxiliary board, caught the edge of his fear with that sense that wasn't Healer sense at all, but a far more frightening Sight, which was the burden of those who had been to the Hall.
She took a breath, banishing her knowledge of his secret terrors.
"The fleas," she said to his worried eyes. "Long-range weapons are useless. We could empty everything we have and still not stop them all. And we don't know how many have managed already to get inside the watch-points. If we increase ship's spin—"
He inclined his head. "Those which have not yet anchored themselves shall be thrown off and those who approach will have difficulty matching vector. As well as gravitational problems." He paused, frowning past her shoulder as the Passage tumbled around them.
"If the captain will allow me, there is another item of close-in defense which may be utilized."
She waved a hand for him to continue, saw the flash of the red counter along her fingers.
"The meteor shield. Should we adjust spin to opposite—matched as close as we are to a planetary gravity field, a charge will be built. . ."
. . .and the space between ship and shield would be filled with an effect not unlike an intense aurora. Which would fry everything in its field.
Priscilla looked at her first mate, past the properly expressionless Liaden face to the horror and the resolve within him.
"Necessity, Captain," he said, softly.
She nodded. "Necessity, First Mate." And touched the toggle for Piloting.
A halt was called when they reached the southernmost point of the sweep. Shan bent carefully, set the box between his feet, straightened, and closed his eyes. His bruises had stopped bothering him some time back, swallowed up in a weariness so vast that he considered it perfectly possible that he would fall asleep where he stood.
There were others on the march in worse shape than he—walking wounded. He could see the blood-red glimmerings of physical pain amid the larger matrix of the unit, as well as every conceivable shading of terror, stress, and anguish. Eyes closed, he shifted, thinking muzzily that he should do something about that. He was a Healer. People needed him.
He took a breath, ran a rapid exercise to energize himself—and saw the brilliant pattern of Val Con's lifemate very near at hand, attended by a massive calmness of mauve and mint.
Shan opened his eyes.
Val Con's lady was less than an arm's length away, the tattooless Yxtrang at her back. She was holding out a canteen.
"Thought you might could use a drink," she said. "Since you lost your own jug."
Water. The thought woke a torment of thirst. He took the canteen and put it to his lips. The water was warm, tasting faintly of plastic, and he savored it more than the most precious wine in yos'Galan's renowned cellar.
He allowed himself two exquisite swallows.
"Thank you," he said, offering the "jug" back to her.
She waved it away. "Keep it," she told him, the wave turned into a point at the scratched and dented stasis box. "What's in the keep-safe?"
He looked at her. "Seedlings."
"Seedlings," she repeated, expressionless, then nodded. "Beautiful here can carry that for you."
Shan froze. "I beg your pardon," he said carefully. "I may not have made myself clear. This box holds half-a-dozen stasis-bound seedlings from Jelaza Kazone. It's my duty, as a pilot of Korval, to carry them to safety."
Val Con's lady held up a small hand. "I said," she repeated firmly, "Beautiful can carry the box for you."
It was, in any light, an order. She was Val Con's lifemate, and Nadelmae Korval could certainly order mere Thodelm yos'Galan as she chose in matters of Tree and clan. And in all good soldier-sense, the box was weighing him down, slowing him down, making him a less effective soldier. As commander of this particular military action she could just as easily order him to leave the box, as hand it over to . . . He looked up into Nelirikk Explorer's face, gathered himself for a deeper looking—and saw the big man bow his head.
"Be at ease, Shan yos'Galan," the Yxtrang said in High Liaden. "I am of Jela's own Troop. The seedlings of his Tree are safe with me."
"Jela's Troop?" Shan repeated.
Not possible, he thought first. After all these years?
If that isn't like Val Con's damnable luck, he thought second, with a touch of what he suspected was hysteria, to pick up this particular Yxtrang, of all possible—He snapped off that thought as a third occurred to him.
"Do forgive me if I raise a painful subject," he said to the Yxtrang, in Terran. "But I wonder if you had previous acquaintance of my brother. Perhaps eleven or twelve Standards ago?"
"Yes," Nelirikk said.
"And you've sworn yourself to his line?" Shan demanded. "I'd have rather thought you'd try to murder him."
"He tried," Miri Robertson broke in. "But the deal was that whoever came out winner in armed combat between the two of them would be boss, and Val Con won." She jerked her head. "Time to move out. Give Beautiful the safe."
He did as he was told, but it was with a definite pang that he saw the big hands close over the Dragon seal and lift the box away.
He was beyond weariness, into a state of hyperaware numbness, where every leaf-twitch abraded and the taste of emotions around him seared.
It was Healer sense that saved him.
The emotive grid was alien, dark with blood lust, dank with deep-held horrors. Shan felt it in the instant before the twig snapped under the force of the Yxtrang's charge.
There was no room to bring the rifle up, no time to go for the knife. The axe blade descending toward his head was black, light absorbing and wickedly sharp. Shan shouted—what, he had no idea—and reached, grabbing for the shield he had used to save him from Priscilla's wine-shower, a far-away lifetime ago.
The axe sang downward. Bounced. Broke.
The Yxtrang screamed rage and Shan reached again, into the dank undergrowth of horror, snatched up a squirming, squealing nightmare and threw it with every erg of his will into the Yxtrang's waking mind.
The scream this time was not rage. The Yxtrang threw away the axe haft. Hands clawing at his eyes, he whirled, crashing back the way he had come as gunfire exploded on all sides.
Shan sprang to the left, fell heavily behind a log, brought his rifle up and fired into the Yxtrang charge.
It was a quick, dirty fight, the Yxtrang being armed with nothing more than the standard long-arm and apparently without an officer to command them. The charge into the sweep line was ill conceived—or the last valiant act of desperate men. In either case, there were twenty of the enemy counted dead among the trees when the noise was finally over.
Shan sagged behind his cover, cheek on his arm, wondering, in a sort of foggy apathy, if he would be able to stand when the order came, much less walk.
Behind him, a leaf scraped leather and he rolled, rifle swinging up to target—
"Peace, Shan yos'Galan." Nelirikk Explorer dropped beside him, astonishingly quiet for so large a man. Feeling somewhat sheepish, Shan lowered the rifle.
"The captain sends to find if you are wounded."
Wounded? He tried to focus attention on his body, but gave the effort up after a moment with a frustrated shake of his head.
"Merely exhausted. I think. This is not the sort of outing I'm accustomed to."
Surprise showed on the big man's face. "No? But surely you have been a soldier?"
Shan sighed and dropped his head back on the ground, watching the other through half-closed eyes. "I have never been a soldier," he said, as clearly as his abused vocal chords would allow.
There was a short silence. "And yet you bring glory to the troop, for to capture that rifle was not easy. Unless you made your kill from afar?"
"From all too near," Shan assured him. "It must be noted, however, that the previous owner of the rifle was wounded. And I had a very stout stick."
"Stick." A grin cracked the impassive brown face. "Truly you are of Jela's get, and the scout's brother."
A whistle sounded: three short blasts, pause, one long.
Nelirikk stirred. "That is the call to move on. Stay vigilant a short time more, Shan yos'Galan. We are on the last leg of sweep. When we reach the quarry, there is rest."
The whistle sounded again: one short. Nelirikk grinned.
"My captain calls," he said, and vanished into the trees.
After a moment, Shan pushed to his feet, settled his helmet and stepped back into line.