Jason heard him out impassively, then got up and walked to the rear of the tent.
"Coffee, boyo? It's old, but the tea's older."
Val Con leaned back in the camp chair, weary, now that there was leisure. "Is there water?"
"That there is."
There was a slight clink and the sound of liquid running, then Jason settled again at the table, big hands curled around a steaming steel mug. Val Con raised his mug, closing his eyes and concentrating on the sweet feel of water along a parched throat.
Jason sighed, sudden in the silence.
"So, the 'trang're massing and they're facing this way. Not the best news we've had on the week, but not unexpected. Why else did you spend all that time with Erob's people, planting those little tokens of esteem around the grounds?"
Val Con opened his eyes. "It would be better, if they did not get this far."
"Can't argue with that," Jason conceded and raised the mug for a swallow of old coffee.
Val Con sipped at his water, and allowed himself for the first time in days to touch the place where Miri's song lived within him.
For a moment, he simply beheld her essence. His eyes filled and he closed them, bringing all of his attention to her, asleep and distant as—
He opened his eyes and put the mug down so suddenly it thumped on the table.
"Fact of the matter is, 'trang general has his nose outta joint because Kritoulkas and Redhead just threw a bunch of his crack kiddies out on their ears," Jason said, possibly to himself. "Not only that, but they lost the prize, and a bit of their own armor, to boot." He shook his head. "Small wonder we're up for special attention." He raised the mug, drained it and set it aside.
"We're as ready hereabouts as we're likely to get," he said, suddenly brisk. "Next good thing to do is make sure we've done our best down the hill." He pushed back from the table and paused, eyes suddenly speculative.
"You'll want to be with Redhead for this next bit, will you, lad?"
Miri had been in battle while he was away from her side. She might have died—Val Con shook his head sharply and glared into Jason's face.
"I certainly want to be with her so we might usefully plan the best defense," he said, more curtly than he had perhaps intended.
Jason merely nodded and stood up. "We're both on the same wavelength. Meet me at the flitter in fifteen minutes and we'll go on down together. I'll just call over the Big House and let the general know he's in charge."
They were met by an improbably cheerful soldier with a newly healed gash on her chin. She ran a disinterested eye over Val Con and gave Jason a wide grin.
"Morning, Commander. You missed the party."
"That's right, Sandy, rub it in," Jason said mournfully. "I suppose I'm not taking it hard enough that you had such a good time t'other day when I was stuck up the hill with nothin' to do but watch the tyros train."
She laughed and turned, guiding them expertly through a series of interlocking trails.
As the lady's conversation was reserved for her commander, Val Con amused himself by identifying trenches and probable weapons caches, while he kept half an inner ear on the song that was Miri. She was very near now, he could tell from the flavor of the song. He discovered his heart was pounding, though the pace their guide had set was no more than brisk. Indeed, it was all he could do, not to leave his companions behind and run through the forest, into his lifemate's arms.
"Almost there," Sandy said, guiding them sharply right, then left, and abruptly there was a camp, and soldiers, and sky shielding strung over the whole.
The sentry went left without hesitation. Val Con, his attention on Miri's song, looked right, toward its emanation, hoping for a glimpse of copper braiding, or an edge of her face, but the way was filled with leather-clad strangers—
Val Con stumbled, heartbeat stalling. He found his feet instantly, heart slamming painfully into overaction. Breath returned with a shout.
"Shan!"
The white-haired man whipped around, pilot-fast, graceful in fighting leathers. His arms opened and Val Con hurtled into the embrace, hugging tight, his cheek against his brother's shoulder.
In that moment, he was a child again and Shan returning home at last from the long year of contract-marriage. He had been with his music tutor when he heard his brother's voice in the entry-hall and had leapt from the 'chora to fly down the stairway, into the ready embrace.
"Shan, Shan. . ."
"Hello, denubia."
Beloved voice and oh, gods, to hold his brother to him, to feel the heartbeat beneath his cheek and the lungs laboring so. . .
He eased his hold, leaning back in arms that seemed reluctant to lose him, raised eyes, and then shaking fingers to his brother's cheek.
"You're weeping."
Shan grinned, wavering. "So are you."
There was a sound quite close at hand, as possibly of a whetstone being drawn slowly down a blade: Jason Carmody clearing his throat.
"Take it you two know each other."
Val Con flicked a glance to Jason, noting the high color in those portions of the face not hidden by golden beard.
Blushing, he thought in astonishment. We've embarrassed Jason Carmody, the man who has no shame. Carefully, he went half a step back, releasing Shan with a reluctance that was echoed in his brother's withdrawal.
"Shan, this is Gyrfalks Junior Commander Jason Carmody, commanding the forces here." He lay his hand on the leather sleeve—merciful gods, to once again touch kin—gulped a breath and looked up into the big Terran's face.
"Jason, here is—here is my brother, Shan yos'Galan. Master Trader and—and. . ."
"And captain," Shan's voice smoothly covered his emotion, "of the battleship Dutiful Passage, in Lytaxin system. Perhaps, by now, in Lytaxin orbit."
The unnatural color was already leaving Jason's cheeks, though his eyes sharpened considerably.
"You don't say. Wouldn't be that you're the laddie brought that lifepod down into our quarry, would it?"
"Unfortunately, it would," Shan said soberly. "I do apologize, Commander, but there really was nothing for it. The pod was all but out of fuel. I had to come down somewhere."
"Well, and you're part of my reason for being here. We're bound for a bit of chat with Sub-Commander Kritoulkas and Captain Redhead, if you'd care to join us?"
Shan inclined his head and Val Con caught the flicker of a smile in his direction.
"I'd love to join you, Commander. You should be warned, however, that Sub-Commander Kritoulkas doesn't seem taken with me."
"Sub-Commander Kritoulkas," said Jason, turning to the left once again and motioning the patient sentry to move on, "isn't taken with most people. Count yourself approved though, laddie. After all, she let you live."
Val Con had changed, Shan thought, settling next to him round the sub-commander's hastily cobbled conference table.
He had thought so, when the two of them had spoken mind-to-mind and Val Con issued the orders that ended with four of the line direct on or near Lytaxin, and in peril of all their lives. Mind-to-mind speaking, however, had claimed more of his attention than he had supposed. The larger pattern had matched the Val Con he had known, and he hadn't leisure, then, to peruse its subtleties.
Now, as Commander Carmody spoke apart with Sub-Commander Kritoulkas while they awaited the arrival of Val Con's lifemate, he had leisure.
Damage. With Healer's eyes he traced a swath of devastation through memory, heart, and thought. That there had been enough of the essence of Val Con yos'Phelium left after the storm of destruction to effect a Healing was nothing short of miraculous.
For Healing there had been. Shan traced that, too, along the brutal path of ruin. Whole segments had been regrown, others were still in process. Still other segments had been patched, strengthened, and reintegrated into the whole—a whole that was recognizably and indisputably Val Con.
Only—different.
And just now beginning to show the colors of tension and distress.
Shan blinked, brought his brother's face into focus, and reached out to touch his hand.
"Val Con. What befell you?"
The mobile mouth tightened and Shan heard anguish and something that tasted of—shame?—along the edge of his Inner Ear, but the green eyes did not falter.
"The Department of Interior befell me." He took a hard breath. "I'm sorry, Shan."
Sorry? Shan shook his head, extending Healer's senses and once more tracing the scars, the damage, so very—much—damage.
"How?"
Val Con smiled, humorless. "You don't want to know."
"Then at least tell me—with intent?" But even as he asked, his inner eyes found the pattern, among the layers of scarring and repair. Not a Healer's touch, no. But the touch of someone very certain of his effects, who had inflicted his tortures with foreknowing thoroughness.
He blinked and looked again into his brother's eyes.
"Balance will be—difficult."
"Balance by Code," Val Con told him, "is not an option."
Shan nodded, seeing that resonate through the darkness of the man who was now his brother. Formerly, Val Con's pattern had—sparked, flaring here and there with excess energy and passion. This revised person showed no such exuberance, yet passion was not dead. Merely, it was—consolidated—a hot, bright glow from the deep center of him, from that place one might call his soul.
From that lambent center, from Val Con's very soul, leapt a construct of living opalescent flame, arching strongly and entirely out of that which was Val Con, to find its equal and apposite root—in the scintillate, stubborn essence that was Miri Robertson.
"Hey, boss." Her voice brought him out of a contemplation of that astonishing structure and into the world that was. She slid into the vacant seat at Val Con's left hand and nodded cordially to Shan, her Yxtrang taking up guard behind her—No, Shan corrected himself, behind them.
"Found your brother, I see."
"Cha'trez." Val Con's smile was so tender Shan felt his stomach wrench, even as he saw the flames of the lifemate bridge ripple and flow, back and forth, from soul to soul.
"Nelirikk." Val Con had turned in his seat to address the Yxtrang. "I find you well?"
"Very well, Scout. We have won glory for the Troop on the field, and gained two flags which hang subservient to our own."
Val Con lifted an eyebrow and looked to his lady. "Have we a battle standard, I wonder?"
She grinned at him. "Piece of quality merchandise, too. Cultivate a little respect and we'll show it to you, after the jaw's done."
"When am I not respectful?"
"You want the whole list, or will a summary do?"
"OK, here she is." Jason Carmody broke off his conversation with the sub-commander and the two of them approached the table. He grinned.
"Redhead. Kritoulkas tells me your bunch worked like pros."
She shook her head. "We did OK," she said seriously. "Lost a lot of people, though."
"Happens, when you're running with volunteers and tyros," Jason said, matching her seriousness. "Important thing is, you seen action and got the job done. They'll know what to expect next time, which is fine, because the scout's brought news of a bigger party coming our way. Seems you and Kritoulkas have earned yourselves some admirers."
"Not just that," Kritoulkas said in her sour way. "This last bunch of 'em were after the captain's lifeboat. Expect they might have thought he was sent from this battleship of his down to the house. House looks like a command post. Hell, a month ago, it was a command post."
Jason Carmody nodded and looked over to Shan. "Want to bring me up to speed on that?"
So, for the second time in as many days, Shan told the story of the sabotaged pod, the Yxtrang attack, and his unplanned arrival on the planet surface.
"And I find since that I've made a rather serious error, Commander. I honestly did think it was best for everyone to detonate the lifeboat and stop the Yxtrang armor. However, the lifeboat contained a working space-link radio, which Sub-Commander Kritoulkas tells me is something of a local rarity at the moment."
Jase nodded. "'trang took out the satellite net first off. Standard operating procedure, according to Beautiful. We're gonna need to know what upstairs looked like, last you saw it. Grab you a computer outta—"
"That's done," Val Con's—Miri—spoke up. "Had him working on it soon as we pulled back here." She reached in her jacket pocket, removed a disk and passed it over. Jason grinned.
"One step ahead of me, which is what I should have expected, my small!" He looked back to Shan, who lifted his eyebrows.
"An outline of my ship's capabilities and strengths is also on the disk."
"Hah! Your idea?"
"It did seem the sort of information you might find helpful," Shan said and Jason grinned again.
"Gonna retire and let the crowd of you run the war. Call me when it's over."
"Might want to reconsider," Miri said, her shoulder nestled companionably against Val Con's. "My experience is that retirement's a good way to get yourself into more trouble than you know the name of."
Jase nodded. "I'll hold off a bit, then. Not any too fond of trouble, myself." He looked around the table, abruptly serious.
"Here's what, people. We're as ready up the house as stubbornness and the scout's ingenuity can make us. Kritoulkas and me're gonna walk the area when we're done here, to see if we're missing anything the 'trang might want. But we're at a bad disadvantage when it comes to air support and cover. As in, 'trang got it, and we don't." He looked at Shan.
"Think that ship of yours can provide any cover?"
"We carry one space-to-world gun," Shan said slowly. "Which is good for offense, but not particularly outstanding for defense. Besides that, we have no radio. . ."
"Don't give up so easy," Jase advised him. "Very possible that we'll capture us a 'trang radio for the scout to coax into honesty. You're right, though, son. Space-to-world weapon's nice to have on the side of the angels, but it's no substitute for good local air cover, which is what we don't have, Erob's force having gone West when 'trang bombed the fields, coming in."
Val Con stirred. "Air cover. But would a bombing run—several bombing runs—against Yxtrang strategic targets be of just as much utility?"
Jason shrugged. "Sure. While we're wishing for pie-in-the-sky we might as well wish for ice cream, too."
Val Con shook his head and leaned forward across the table. "There is nothing fantastic in such a bombing run, Jason. We have here—" he pointed to Shan, to Nelirikk, and touched himself lightly on the chest—"three pilots of Master quality. We have there—" a point off to the southwest—"many dozens of aircraft."
Jason stared. "Yxtrang aircraft."
"True enough. However, Nelirikk is in a unique position to coach my brother and me in the fine points of an Yxtrang board. I promise you, we are both able learners. And with three planes in the air, we might do real damage. With the luck beside us, we might just possibly convince the 14th Conquest Corps that the prudent course is strategic withdrawal."
"Hmm." Jason stroked his beard.
"Bad plan," Miri said flatly. Val Con turned his head, both eyebrows up.
"Miri, if it lifts, we can fly it. Neither Shan nor I has yet found his limit in piloting." He tipped his head. "Truth, Miri."
"I don't doubt it. But unless you're planning on a real spurt of growth in the next half-hour or so, it ain't gonna work."
"I don't under—"
"Simple." She cut him off and pushed her chair back, motioning him to stand up with her. "Beautiful, plant yourself there. Boss, you stand right here." When the two of them were side by side, she stepped back, arms crossed, and hitched a hip onto the edge of the table.
"If Beautiful is standard-issue, and from what we seen, he is, you're about a foot-and-a-half shy of make-weight."
Shan had to admit she had a point. One did not usually think of Val Con as small, but set against the Yxtrang, he appeared almost fragile. Viewed thus, it seemed even more fantastic that Val Con had fought hand-to-hand against this giant—and prevailed, as both Miri and Nelirikk insisted was true.
Miri shifted abruptly, leaning forward as if she had seen the steel overlay Val Con's pattern—which, Shan thought suddenly, she might well have.
"Ain't no use getting stubborn," she snapped. "Won't change the fact that you're too little! Cockpit made to hold Beautiful is gonna have stuff set outta your reach."
"If the captain pleases," the Yxtrang said quietly. "There is some variation in height among the Troop. Cockpits of fighter craft are somewhat adjustable. A pilot the size of the scout's brother can easily fly."
Miri nodded. "That's good. Any Yxtrang pilots measure down to the scout?"
Hesitation. "Captain. No. Occasionally an—undergrown—Troop survives to adulthood. But they are never pilots."
"Hah." Val Con lifted an eyebrow, catching his lifemate's eye. "Scruffy midget?"
Her mouth twitched. "Point is—"
"The point is," Val Con interrupted, "that, if the cockpit can be made to accommodate Shan, then it can be adapted only a little more to accommodate me. We can certainly fabricate adaptations."
"Is that right, Beautiful?" Jason Carmody asked, across whatever might have been Miri's answer.
"Commander. I—I believe it possible."
"Then we go with it. Three in the sky, taking out the prime points, while the rest of us shred 'em on the ground. That should set 'em to re-thinking their position."
Sub-Commander Kritoulkas nodded. "You and Redhead want to walk the line with me now and get a feel for the situation while the pilots work out their differences? I got a feeling sooner's the way the smart money bets."
"Right you are." Jason loomed to his feet. "Meet us back here in a few hours, boyo," he said to Val Con. "We'll want to coordinate pretty close. Coming, Redhead?"
"In a sec." She waited until they were alone before pinning each with a glare in turn. Shan felt her will strike his and ring, like a blade off of hull plate.
"OK. The three of you work out the best way to run this gig. I understand you gotta take risks." She looked directly at Shan, which he hardly felt was fair. "What you ain't gotta take is stupid risks. Val Con."
"Captain."
She eyed him. "Figure your adaptations and test 'em out. When you've got things to where you think you can fly, I want you to think if you'd let Shan or Nelirikk or me fly with those arrangements. And if the answer comes up 'no,' I want you to back away from it, you hear me?"
"I hear you, Captain."
She shook her head. "For whatever that's worth." Once again, her eyes touched each of them in turn. "Nothing stupid, all right? It's an order."
"Captain," Nelirikk said. "We will bring glory to the Troop."
She sighed and slid from her perch on the edge of the table. "And here I thought you were listening to me."
Ship's archive provided latitude and longitude of Erob's clanhouse and Priscilla ordered the Passage into a synchronous mid-orbit above that location. It was the least they could do for Korval's ally, she thought.
The very least.
Since the successful repulsion of the flea attack, the Yxtrang had offered them no more harm, though Lina reported a lively interest in the Passage, its heading and possible mission, in the messages she monitored. It was Rusty's particular frustration that he had not yet been able to establish a link with the planet, while listening in on Yxtrang radio chatter remained absurdly easy.
As she approached the bridge to relieve Ren Zel, she considered the problem of communication. Erob possessed a pinbeam, but ship's archive indicated that the in-house had simply been a booster station, by which messages were sent to a satellite-based transmitter/receiver. The Yxtrang destruction of Lytaxin's satellite defense had also taken the pinbeam, which meant that a 'beam sent from the Passage to the address of Erob's receiving station would never find its mark.
But, Erob's in-house might still be capable of receiving, if there were some way to deduce an address. Ren Zel argued that a broadbeam call to any and all listeners imperiled more than it might aid, but she was beginning to reconsider that. If they were clever. . .
The door to the bridge slid open and she stepped through, nodding to Thrina and Vilobar, who were going off-shift. They stopped for a moment, speaking to her with the warmth of old friends, but she read pity in them. That confused her for a moment until she recalled that, of course, they thought Shan was dead.
Silly friends. Shan wasn't dead. She would know if Shan were dead. Which she had told Gordy when he rushed to the bridge after the lifepod went off-grid. She saw him try to believe it and come half to terms with the fact that she would know. She could have helped him to full belief, but that would have required Healing and she didn't—quite—trust the edge of Healer sense that had been honed in the cold stone hall of weapons.
She made her way quietly to the command station and paused by Ren Zel's shoulder. He was a-hum with concentrated energy and she looked to the screens, seeking the reason.
"What is that?" she demanded, staring at the tangle of ships and IDs on his prime screen.
"I attempt to ascertain," he replied, without looking up. "They began releasing shuttle-craft about five hours ago, and now there are cutters, lighters, and work-boats away. Small craft, lightly armed; most have only meteor shielding; none, save the cutters, are planet-capable." He sat back and, most un-Ren Zel-like, ran a hand through his hair. "It makes no sense."
Priscilla frowned at the screen. The Yxtrang did indeed seem bent on sending as many poorly armed craft as possible into peril. Why? What gain? She felt something between her fingers, looked down, saw the red counter and idly walked it across her knuckles, her attention once again on why.
If the Passage were to pick off those defenseless craft one by one? The gain would be a measure of the range of her guns, as well as an understanding of the enemy: Would the Passage attack, waste power and supplies on pawns? Would a warrior chief, such as the commander of the Yxtrang battleship, trade materiel for that information?
No, she decided, the red counter warm in her palm. The trade was wrong—too many ships were fielded. His intent was otherwise.
Ren Zel's work screen showed a shifting, three-dimensional pattern—Maincomp's view of the situation. Taken in whole, the pattern bore a relation to the Passage's own orbit, though it was obvious that they were in no peril from—
Priscilla froze, her eyes on Maincomp's pattern.
"Assume the current number of ships remains stable," she said, barely aware that she was speaking aloud. "Run calculations for six hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hours and display the results in sim."
Ren Zel's fingers were already moving across the board. The work screen blanked momentarily, then the simulation began.
The ships moved in strange ballet, revealing and hiding the Yxtrang battleship in coy display.
"Replay," Priscilla directed, "from the vantage of the battleship."
Once again, the ships danced, orbits intersected and diverged. Priscilla heard Ren Zel take a sharp breath.
"It opens. It closes," he murmured and Priscilla nodded.
"It's an eye. Those ships are shielding the battleship from us, and every—" she checked the sim—"every twenty-two hours, a path manifests in the shield-wall, from the battleship to the planet surface."
Ren Zel moved, demanding an elucidation of the point that passed beneath the Yxtrang battleship's position once every twenty-two world-hours, though she could have told him that—of course—it was Erob's clanhouse.
She leaned forward, reaching past him for the comm-switch.
"Tower, here."
"Rusty, I want you to send broadbeam to the planet surface, timed bursts thirty seconds in duration, three bursts over the next thirty minutes. The Tree-and-Dragon signature, if you please. Let's see who we wake up."
"Yes, ma'am." Keys clattered over the open line, then Rusty was back. "First burst away, Captain. Second and third on the timer."
"Thank you. Relay any reply to the command helm immediately."
"Will do. Tower out."
"Captain out." She flipped the switch and looked over to her first mate, noting the weariness in him. Smiling, she touched his sleeve.
"The shift passes, friend. Get some sleep. The next few shifts may be very long."
The key was the start-up sequence.
Each pilot had fifty-five seconds to touch a prescribed series of keys, toggles, and pins, which simultaneously brought his fighter's various systems on-line, charged the engine and announced that the pilot was, indeed, of the Troop. Should the pilot miss or misplace a keystroke within the sequence, his plane would not only fail to start, but the defense computer would redirect the paths of two high voltage currents into the pilot's couch.
Encouraged toward excellence by Nelirikk's description of a failed sequence he had witnessed during his own training, neither Val Con nor Shan mislaid a stroke, from first run to last.
They moved from that to a generic description of an Elite Guard's personal armament—two to five hidden knives; a long arm with bullets carrying internal flechettes of pain-killer so a victim would not understand his wound, or fast-acting poison, or even hallucinogens; and an assortment of clubs, spikes, and such, and perhaps a hand gun as well—and a thorough lesson in the facial graphics of those most likely to be encountered one-on-one.
That done as thoroughly as might be on such short notice, Nelirikk had Shan go through the drill a dozen times more on the dummy board they had hastily constructed of scrap wood and one of Kritoulkas' conference chairs. When he pronounced himself satisfied with the performance, they set about modifying the "cockpit" to Val Con's dimensions.
The modifications included a broom handle, several shaped plastic grips, and a chock of wood to bring the brake pedal within reach of short legs. Val Con flew through the sequence, shaving time on each run, until Nelirikk called a halt.
"Scout, understand that if you fall below the allowed timing by a factor exceeding five, the defense computer assumes it has been subverted by an enemy robot and releases the electricity."
Strapped into the conference chair, Val Con sighed and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Thank you. I will bear that in mind. Again?"
"Again," Nelirikk agreed. "Strive for fifty seconds."
And fifty seconds it was, perfectly done. Nelirikk nodded.
"Enough."
Val Con unstrapped and came to his feet, leaning over the dummy to disengage his adaptations.
"And have you done as Captain Robertson commanded, brother?" Shan asked from behind him. "Have you considered whether you would allow her or myself or Nelirikk to fly with those mods?"
He knelt and pried the chock loose from the "brake pedal," then rose lightly and faced his brother.
"I have asked myself that question. And I must say that I would certainly never allow anyone who fell under my care to fly such a gerry-rig as we have here." He nodded toward the block of wood he held and look back to Shan, green eyes brilliant.
"Unless flying it held the best chance of their survival and the survival of kin."
"Necessity," the Yxtrang said surprisingly and Val Con nodded.
"Necessity."
"Necessity," Shan agreed. "I only wonder if your lady will see it."
"Ah." Val Con moved his shoulders. "My lady may not. But I expect that my captain will."
The channel light came on and Priscilla depressed the switch.
"Command helm."
"Captain, we got a reply from the broadbeam."
Such rapid reply could only mean a pinbeamed message. Priscilla smiled. Good. We found Erob's in-house.
"To my screen three, please, Rusty."
"Sent." The channel stayed open, which was odd. Priscilla looked to screen three.
"Pod seventy-seven?" she demanded, staring at the terse announcement that this unlikely entity was on-line. "Rusty, did you get a fix on the origin of this?"
"It's coming out Erob's territory," he said and now she knew why he had left the line open. "Not the house. Mountain range toward the coast. Here."
Another window opened on her work screen, marking Pod 77's location on the planetary map. She upped the magnification, zooming in close, and called for place name display. The red counter was in her hand, alive with Shan's presence.
"Well," she said into the open channel. "Whatever it is, it lives on Dragon's Back Mountain." She sat back in the chair, feeling an electrical something, like a looming thunderstorm, stir the still ship air.
Dragon's Back Mountain. Priscilla drew a careful breath. Korval and Erob. Allies down the centuries. And a—pod?—situated on Dragon's Back Mountain. A gift, perhaps? Korval tended to protect its own interests closely, and Erob was seated upon an outworld, far from the homeworld's assistance, should it be attacked.
The counter blazed against her hand and she abruptly recalled yos'Galan's butler. A modified war robot, as Shan had told her, and, with its other duties, entrusted with the defense system surrounding Korval's valley.
Merciful Mother.
"Priscilla?" Rusty's voice carried concern. She shook her head, focused her thoughts.
"Yes. Rusty, do me the favor of sending to Pod seventy-seven in—in the code I will upload to you in a moment. Inquire into the state of its defenses."
"Defenses? Priscilla, how do we know it's not some wise-ass Yxtrang radio jockey, having himself a giggle?"
"We don't know that until it replies to us in our own code," she said, reaching to her board. Quickly, she ran her fingers over the sequence, accessing the captain's key file. She requested and received Korval's House code, uploading it to Rusty with a finger-tap.
"There. Send the message, please, Rusty. And wire the reply directly to me, whenever it comes in."
There was a momentary hesitation, then, "Will do. Tower out."
"Command helm out," she absently, her fingers moving once again across the board, requesting information available to the Captain's Key, relative to Pod 77 or Dragon's Back Mountain, Lytaxin.
They were moving out this evening, bound for the quarry and points beyond. Meet Yxtrang before they knocked on the door, that was the gig. Surprise them, maybe. Buy time.
Time for the rest of the defense forces to man the serious talking points. Time for Val Con and Shan and Beautiful to steal the fighters and start their runs.
It was the planes that decided her on Erob's ruined airfield for the Irregular's hold-tight.
"No use stealing the damn' things if you can't bring 'em home," she'd pointed out at the coordinating meeting. "We'll secure the airfield." She looked up and met Jase's eyes square across the table. "No problem."
He'd nodded after a second, and that was that. The only thing she had to do now was make good on her bet.
And not worry.
Walking toward her quarters to get her gear together and maybe grab an hour's nap, Miri snorted. It was funny how in the thick of things you never had time to worry. You dealt with whatever the gods of battle sent against you and mostly you weren't even scared.
Before and after—that was the time for nerves and terrors. Double, if you had a lifemate and a new brother and the man who'd guarded your back against his own laying their lives out in a cockamamie death-defying gamble.
She'd already come up with a dozen ways for them to die before they even got to the planes. Miri moved her head, shaking away the tally of possible destructions, but she couldn't shake away the knot in her gut or the cramp in her chest.
She turned right, nodded at the sentry and stepped into the dimness of her quarters.
Val Con got up from the edge of the cot, came two steps forward and opened his arms.
She flung forward, catching him in a hug as desperate as his own, thought to look at his pattern and felt the chill tingle of his fear in her blood even as she raised her head to meet a nearly savage kiss.
They made love like it was battle-practice, hard and silent and fierce, and when they were through, she held him tight against her still, one fist twisted in his hair.
"Damn you, don't die."
Warm breath exhaled into her ear. "I love you, too, Miri."
He pulled away and they straightened their clothes, found discarded weapons belts and buckled them into place. Val Con touched her cheek.
"I will meet you at Erob's airfield, tomorrow afternoon." He lay a finger across her lips and she felt a ripple of dark-edged humor go through him. "No problem, eh?" The finger lifted.
Miri smiled, though it was hard to see him through the tears.
"No problem."
Tactical Defense Pods 72 to 83 were retired from the Korval fleet with the building of the Felicitous Passage, two hundred fifty Standard years ago, according to the sealed file the Captain's Key had accessed.
Red counter gripped tight in her hand, Priscilla learned decommissioned Pods 72 through 76 had been donated to the scouts.
Pods 79 through 83 were used as live target fire in a series of defense exercises during a period of heightened Yxtrang activity.
Pod 77 . . . She scrolled down the file. Theonna yos'Phelium, delm, had bestowed Pod 77 upon Korval's staunch ally, Clan Erob. Then ordered the report Priscilla now perused sealed. She frowned, leaned back, and then touched the scroll key again, searching—there.
Pod 78, the last entry stated simply, is on Moonstruck. Refer to Plan B.
Her frown deepened. Refer to Plan B? But surely—The screen shimmered and a message box appeared in the bottom left corner, rapidly filling with text.
TACTICAL DEFENSE POD 77 ON-LINE.
WEAPONS CHECK.
INITIATE SCAN.
LONG GUN CHARGED.
SCAN CONCLUSION: MID-ORBIT HOSTILITIES.
INITIATING SECONDARY SCAN.
TARGETING COMPUTER ON-LINE.
TACTICAL COMPUTER ON-LINE.
SCAN CONCLUSION: INVASION CONDITIONS.
MANUAL OVERRIDE DISALLOWED.
ALL SYSTEMS ON-LINE.
ALL SYSTEMS ABLE.
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."