headquarters arguing away right now that the sale is legal. Hopefully
nobody'll shoot. Hell, by the time they get it resolved we'll be on the
other side of the universe. And then what are they going to do, sue us?"
Laughing, he shut down the laser link and the holo screen went dead.
Stepping down from the flight bridge Jason saw the pinpoint of light of
Paladin's ship moving against the eternal night of space.
"Captain, this is helm."
"Go ahead."
"Cleared of near Earth orbit, ready to power up to full pulse drive on
course heading for jump point 17A."
"Get us out of here, then."
He felt the surge of power rumble through the ship as nearly all
reactor power was fed straight into the engines. The ship turned to line up
on the jump point and as he walked up to the hangar bay's magnetic airlock,
Earth drifted into view, a crescent blue-green ball hanging in the eternal
darkness. It gave him a curious sort of feeling. It was, after all, the home
world of his entire race, the Russia of his ancestors clearly visible even
from half a million clicks out, and yet now, he felt strangely detached from
it. He was a product of space, born on a world five hundred light years
away. If he had a home, it was this ship, a family, the people aboard her.
He knew that this insane adventure he was setting out on was motivated in
part by his allegiance to the Confederation and for the protection of the
world in front of him, even for the protection of those people who were so
ready to reject him and the military that he served. He knew that perhaps
that was always the lot of a warrior, to be turned to when trouble loomed,
and to be rejected and hidden away when it was believed that peace had
returned.
He was fighting for them but he realized as well that if he were
fighting for anything it was for his ship, his comrades, and the fleet which
they had so loyally served and now faced the most serious crisis in its
history, a crisis created not so much by their enemies, but rather by their
friends.
In a swirling cloud of dust, Hunter switched off power on his engines,
shut down the emergency ejector system, and cracked the canopy open.
A choking swirl of hot dry air rushed into the cockpit, taking his
breath away as he unsnapped his helmet.
"Damn, even worse than the outback," he mumbled, standing up to
stretch.
A ground crew team strolled over, lazily pushing a ladder as he waited.
There was no sense in getting upset by their lackadaisical attitude, this
wasn't ConFleet Ч the base belonged to the Landreich Colonial Air Guard and
a crew working in one hundred twenty plus heat had his sympathy.
The crew hooked the ladder against the side of his Sabre and he
scrambled down out of the cockpit
"Where's fleet headquarters?" he asked
"Over there," one of the crew announced, trying to be heard above the
cacophony of ships landing and taking off, and the sudden sonic boom of a
Ferret snapping by overhead, the shockwave causing him to wince and
instinctively look for cover.
He looked up and saw the Ferret climbing straight up, standing on its
tail. The Ferret punched a hole through the high thin overcast and then he
was gone, the ship's vapor trail climbing and then winking out as the Ferret
crossed into the far reaches of the upper atmosphere. The crew barely
noticed the show and obviously weren't running to combat positions.
"Is there a scramble on?"
"Nay, Charlie Boys just having a little fun."
"Who's Charlie Boy?"
"Why, he's the head of the squadron here."
Ian wanted to comment that at any fleet base punching sonic without a
scramble on would have cost Charlie Boy a month's pay and a possible
grounding. He had a feeling it was, if anything, a thumbing of the nose at
all the outsiders gathering on the base and he started to smile. Hell, he
might even like this place after all.
The ground crew looked at him and Ian was suddenly aware his old
ConFleet flight suit made him stick out like a sore thumb.
"A lot of you Fleet boys showing up here today," one of the crew
drawled.
"The usual gab session," Ian replied. "You know how it is, ConFleet or
Colonial, the big wigs always like to have their meetings."
"And I suppose we oughta salute you, is that it, captain?"
Ian laughed and replied with a universal rude gesture.
One of the crew members smiled, reached into a tool box and pulled out
a can which was dripping with moisture.
"Have a cold one on us, cap'n."
Ian grinned with delight as he popped the lid. Landreich beer was rated
almost as good as the Outback Lager and Fosters of home. He took a long deep
pull on the can and then another, draining it off. With a contented sigh he
tossed the empty back to his benefactor.
"Ah, thanks, mate, now take care of my ship and by the way, if you
don't tell those customs people, you'll find a pint of Vega's best stashed
in the carry bag strapped behind my seat and I don't want to find it there
when I get back." The crew grinned.
There was nothing like a little gift giving with the locals to make
sure that things were taken care of right.
Turning, he started across the landing field, eager to get to the
shade. The twin suns of the planet were murder when both were at noon, the
red giant and white dwarf combining to cast a strange pattern of colored
shadows. He looked around, realizing that this military outpost of the
Landreich colonial worlds was definitely at the butt end of the universe.
There were a few modern buildings on the base, made of the standard poured
plasta-concrete. But most of it, and the small garrison and mining town
beyond the base, was made of either adobe or rough sandstone. If it wasn't
for the rich titanium deposits underneath the surrounding mountains this
world would have been bypassed except for the usual crop of hermits, crazy
cults, and freebooters looking for a place to hide. Buford's World they
called this place, after the first prospector to land here, but it was more
commonly referred to as the Hell Hole. Its inclination of axis was exactly
at zero degrees and there was no season except red hot summer with 90
degrees passing as a cool day.
It had but two jump points in the system, one heading away from the
demilitarized zone towards the capital world of Landreich, the other leading
off on a long lopping pattern through half a dozen uninhabited systems into
the flank of the Kilrathi Empire. Both in a strategic and tactical sense it
was nothing more than an outpost at the very edge of the war and totally
ignored by the main fleets of both sides. Thus space in this region was
controlled, if at all, by colonial guards of both sides, and more often by
freebooters which, in the eyes of the Confederation, was what the Landreich
system was anyhow.
He passed a plasta-concrete bunker, the lid partially open to reveal a
cluster of surface-to-space point defense missile-anti-missiles, the latest
Sprint 8s, no less. He paused to look in at the crew which was running a
service check.
"Got a lot of those, mates?"
"Who the hell wants to know?" and a tech sergeant wearing the tan
coveralls of a colonial guard non-com looked up at him, shading his eyes.
"Hey, just curious, that's all."
"Curiosity like that will get you in the brig right quick," the
sergeant growled.
The sergeant turned back to his work and Ian realized that maybe it was
best to simply move on.
Tucked into the hangars lining the field was a bizarre assortment of
ships. The heaviest was a medium corvette and it took Ian a moment to
recognize it as an old Granicus-class, a line discontinued more than twenty
years ago. The ship, however, was refitted with a couple of E-8 engines
attached to anchor points on the side of the hull, with half a dozen mass
driver turrets patched on as well. It was a hell of a smuggler's craft with
the firepower of a light frigate thrown in. A number of fighters were on the
field as well and it was easy to see which ones had ferried in the staff
attending today's meeting, their Confed insignia simply painted over with
standard fleet gray.
It was the other ships, however, that caught his eye. It looked like
the Landreich was planning to set up a museum, with some of the fighters
actual prewar ships of more than thirty years vintage. All of them, however,
were no longer spec in any way whatsoever. An early Ferret A had a new
engine housing with of all things a Mark 10 engine off an old Falcon light
corvette. It looked absolutely absurd, like nothing but an engine with a
cockpit up front, with a gatling mass driver gun strapped on underneath.
It'd be a hell of a ride, he realized.
Most of the ships were painted Stealth black without identification
numbers or even the blue circle and red Saint Andrew's cross of the
Landreich. He slowly walked past the hangars, noticing the less than
friendly stares of most of the crews. He wanted to take the time to go up
and chat, to ask about the specs on the strange array of ships, maybe even
try a climb into the cockpits but thought better of it. Ever since the
armistice the uneasy cooperation of the Confederation with the colonials was
now strained even further. He couldn't blame them, for when the stuff
finally hit the fan, it would be the outpost worlds that would get covered
by it first.
"Iannn!"
The high pitched voice was unmistakable and startled he looked around,
and then noticed a shadow cross over him. He looked up and saw a Firekka
hovering overhead.
"K'Kai, how the hell are you!"
K'Kai, folding her wings, landed beside him and moved up close, pecked
him lightly on the head and around the back of his neck in what he now knew
was a grooming which served as the Firekka equivalent of a handshake.
Overjoyed at seeing an old friend he threw his arms around her.
"Last time I saw you was when your niece told the Confederation to go
to hell."
K'Kai clicked her beak and he knew that it was the Firekka equivalent
of an expression of pride.
"That speech was hers alone, a fine accomplishment for not much more
than a hatchling."
"How goes it on Firekka?"
"A lot of harassing raids, skirmishes, ships disappearing, not really
outright war, but definitely not peace." She cocked her head and looked at
him closely, an act which he always found a bit disturbing when an eyeball
the size of an orange aimed in straight at him.
"So you're part of this Landreich colonial fleet?" she asked.
"That's what I'm here for, and you?"
"Sent as a representative."
"Well, I think we're late," and he motioned for her to follow along.
They finally gained the shade of a broad veranda and he drew a breath
of relief. Two guards stood at the door and again it struck him how
different the colonials were. The men looked sharp enough, with standard
M-48 laser rifles on their shoulders. But the uniforms looked like they'd
seen better days, the tan coveralls faded from sun and washing, top collars
unbuttoned in the dry desert heat. They lacked the spit and polish of fleet
Marine guards and he found it appealing.
Both looked with open curiosity at K'Kai.
"Firekka, they make the best drink in the universe,," Ian announced,
and the guards grinned weakly.
"I take it this is headquarters?"
"This is the place."
"Well, I'm here to see Kruger."
A sergeant stepped out from inside the doorway, took their papers and
IDs, then handed them back.
"Down the hall, you can't miss it."
Ian opened the door for K'Kai and followed her in. At least the place
had cooling, but it seemed to be barely working. He strode down the open
corridor which angled down below the surface, K'Kai at his side. They turned
through a double set of blast doors and into the situation room which was
packed nearly to overflowing. They were stopped by what he assumed was a
security officer, though it was hard to tell by the uniform. He checked
their IDs once again and then marked off his and K'Kai's name on a list.
Ian immediately recognized more than one of those present: Jason and
Doomsday, who had flown down the day before from Tarawa, were in the back
corner engaged in what was obviously a heated conversation with several
colonial pilots. Sparks, waving a hand computer unit, was shouting at whom
he guessed was a supply officer, who in turn was shouting back with equal
vigor, and hunched over a table up in the front was a tall gaunt man with
sun scorched features and dark eyes. He glanced up at Ian and his gaze
seemed to pierce right through him and then, as if he didn't even exist, the
man looked back down at a shelf of printouts.
"Say, that's Kruger himself," Ian whispered
K'Kai bobbed her head.
Technically Kruger was a wanted felon within Confederation territory,
having once hijacked his fleet destroyer, which he was in command of, during
the early days of the war, when through "strategic necessity," the old
C-in-C ConFleet had decided to abandon the Landreich system in the face of a
Kilrathi offensive. Using the ship and an assortment of scrounged up
freighters and smuggler craft he fought the battle of the Hell Hole,
stopping a Kilrathi attack into this sector and according to legend chased
them back through twelve jumps.
His own ship was blown out from under him on the last jump through by a
Kilrathi ambush and Kruger, with the remaining members of his crew, survived
for three years on a planet inside the Kilrathi system, driving the locals
nearly insane with his commando style raiding until being picked up by a
freebooter who took them back to the Landreich. In the interim, ConFleet had
tried him in absentia and found him guilty of mutiny and hijacking of a
Confederation warship, a capital offense in time of war. He was hailed,
however, as a returning hero by the colonials and elected president of the
Landreich system within the year. The election made matters somewhat
complicated, presenting the Confederation with the unique problem of having
a felon serving as an elected member of the planetary senate and thus being
immune from arrest and trial.
Max Kruger had a hell of a reputation and was viewed either as a genius
improviser of small unit irregular tactics or a barbarian. In Ian's opinion,
he was both. The colonials definitely fought their wars with the Kilrathi,
and at times with each other, using cast-off equipment, shoestring budgets,
and a hell of a lot of guts. They also fought it with a cold ferocity that
rarely asked for or expected quarter. For Kruger there was only one rule of
war, ultimate victory.
"Everything back aboard Tarawa OK?'
Ian turned and smiled as Jason came up to join him.
"Another hundred crew members signed in last night off a transport that
ran out from Sirius. We've got eight more pilots and four Ferrets that were
strapped to the transports hull."
"Is that all, we were promised twenty."
"They had some problems getting the four, the peace commission kicked
up a royal stink. We're lucky we got what we did."
"It figures," Jason sighed. "That commission really screwed us up."
"What do you mean?"
That report that we'd have ten squadrons of Rapiers and Sabres, well
forget it."
"What the hell happened?"
"The shipment was blocked by the commission. Seems that the Kilrathi
ambassador caught wind of the deal, screamed holy hell, and the Baron even
got into it, threatening to end all peace negotiations if the ships were
allowed to leave Earth system. Rodham, of course, caved in. The three
transports, loaded down with fighters and spare parts were blocked from
leaving moon orbit. So now we've got to scrounge up whatever we can find
around here."
"We ve got five escort carriers, and a grand total of twenty-nine
fighters and that's it, not counting the stuff the locals have."
More people crowded into the room behind Ian so that he, Jason, and
K'Kai were gradually shoved to the back of the room.
"Andrews, everybody here yet?" the gaunt man asked, looking over at the
guard at the door.
"Near about."
Well, damn it, we can't wait, let's get started then."
The gaunt man moved up to a small podium.
"For those of you Confed people who don't know it, I'm General Kruger."
Ian looked around the room and saw the outright admiration on the faces
of the men and women wearing the hodgepodge of jumpsuits, assault trousers
and vests, and coveralls that passed for colonial guards uniforms.
"First off, I welcome all you white and blue suits into the service of
the Landreich," Kruger began. "As already agreed upon, all ships that the
Landreich has purchased," and with that there was a ripple of laughter from
the colonial personnel, have been incorporated into our fleet. You will,
however, still have your own chain of command, answering to Admiral Tolwyn."
For the first time Ian realized that Tolwyn was in the room, his nephew
by his side. Tolwyn stepped out from a back corner of the meeting hall and
raised his hand in acknowledgment. It seemed strange to Ian to see the
Admiral not in standard fleet uniform, but in the khaki of a Landreich
officer.
Just how the hell did he get out here so fast? Ian wondered, what with
Jason's ship arriving only last night into orbit above Landreich.
"Those of you in colonial forces that are assigned aboard former Confed
ships will take orders from the duly appointed commander of that ship."
A low groan went up from the colonial personnel in the room.
We've got to coordinate this effort," Kruger snapped, "so no
complaints."
"Any questions?"
The colonial officers looked at each other, mumbled a bit and said
nothing.
Kruger nodded towards Tolwyn, who came up to the front of the room.
"Well, I'm glad to see that most of you at least made it out here.
"First off . . ." and Tolwyn was interrupted by the sharp spine
tingling wail of a klaxon.
The room went quiet as Kruger raced to a monitor, leaned over it, and
then turned back.
"Any pilots with strike craft please man them immediately."
Ian pushed his way out of the room, a stream of colonial pilots pushing
around him, Jason, Kevin, and Doomsday falling in at his side.
They ran up the corridor and out into the blazing heat, scattering
towards hangars, the high wail of sirens echoing against the surrounding
hills. The ground crew, which had so lazily come out to meet Ian when he
landed, were moving with a cool precision, unchocking the wheels, the crew
chief inside the cockpit, the engine already up and whining, four crew
members lifting two missiles up onto the Sabre's wing pylons. Ian ran to the
ladder, one of the ground crew tossing him his helmet which he snapped on,
the chief coming down the ladder and clearing it just as Ian leaped on to
the third rung and scrambled up, the chief now behind him. Ian saw Jason and
Doomsday running past, heading for the Ferrets they had flown down from
Tarawa.
"Engine green, nav system loaded by combat control, all weapons green
with two radar trackers loaded, emergency eject armed and ready, good luck,
sir!" the chief shouted, even as he reached over and helped buckle Ian's
safety harness on, cinching the shoulder straps tight.
This is Hunter in Sabre 239A ready," Ian announced to the control
tower.
"Will advise, Hunter, ground chief will signal your clearance," the
ground control officer snapped and then switched off.
Ian gave a thumbs-up as the chief slid down the ladder and the canopy
snapped shut, the green light of airtight lock flashing on. The chief was
now out in front of Ian's fighter, hands held high over his head with fists
crossed, signaling that the taxi ramp was not yet cleared. The Ferret with
the light corvette engine he admired earlier bolted straight out of its
hangar to his right, not even bothering to go for the runway and not needing
one anyhow as it pitched its nose back, and within fifty yards stood on its
tail, flame slamming off the concrete taxiway as it screamed straight up
into the sky, riding a column of fire.
To his left he saw the armored bunker which contained the surface to
space missiles peel open, the silver tips of half a dozen Sprints pointing
straight up.
"Hunter cleared for takeoff, once lifted depart angle nine zero," the
control officer's voice crackled in his headset and he grinned with the
order to go for a full burn vertical ascent into space.
The crew chief uncrossed his arms and leaped to the side of the Sabre,
crouched, and pointed forward. Ian released his brakes, slammed in full
afterburners and all aft maneuvering thrusters. The Sabre leaped forward and
within seconds he was up past a hundred and ninety clicks an hour. He yanked
back on his stick, pulling it into his gut, the nose lifted up and he was
off.
Ian toggled up his landing gear as his Sabre pointed straight up into
the red sky, the altimeter spinning. Inertial dampening didn't work all that
well inside the gravity well of a planet and he started to breathe in short
convulsive grunts as the Gs built up. He knew his sonic boom was blasting
out across the landscape but it was almost silent inside the cockpit except
for the teeth-rattling rumble of the twin Tangent-class engines burning
white hot behind him. He punched through the thin clouds and the color of
the sky shifted, turning from a deeper red into violet, the first stars
starting to appear. He looked to his left to see the curvature of the world
and what looked like another Ferret rising up to close on his port wing.
"Combat information, this is Hunter, what's the trade today?"
"Forward scouts report detecting an ionized trail emerging from Jump
Point Beta 233. There have been weak radar detects and one laser scan lock
indicating a fighter of Kilrathi Stealth design is approaching. Patrol grid
is already fed into your auto-nav. If you encounter unknown you are cleared
to shoot to kill without warning."
"Just what I wanted to hear," Ian replied as he locked in on the auto
nav system and released his controls, the autopilot taking over. Cleared
into space, and with fuel scoops closed he continued to accelerate so that
within minutes the full sphere of the Hell Hole hung in space behind him.
The attempt to ship fighters to the Landreich was known by the Kilrathi
thanks to the peace commission and a scouting attempt had to be expected. At
least the colonials didn't fool around with diplomatic niceties, Ian
thought. If someone violated their space in a suspicious manner they were
taken out, no questions asked
He scanned the comm channels, listening in as pilots tersely called out
their check points and the search spread outward. The frustrating part of it
was that unless they had some really good luck, they could very well pass
right over a Stealth and not even know it. The mere fact that the Empire was
sneaking a very precious and rare fighter into this sector meant that they
had a good idea of what was going on.
He heard a call of a brief contact by Doomsday and then two more by
colonial pilots, in each case the Stealth was lost. Punching into his nav
computer he checked the three sightings and then overlaid the points into a
map of the system.
"Combat control, request break of my standard sweep, wish to
investigate region around coordinates 233 by ADF."
"Will advise," and the link clicked off.
A moment later it crackled back to life.
"This is Kruger, good thinking, Hunter; proceed at your discretion.
Grinning, he broke off the auto nav, opened his fuel and maneuvering
scoops, and turned. The coded coordinate was the location, at the moment, of
the Hell Hole system's largest planet, a gas giant named Thor. The three
brief sightings roughly matched a standard Kilrathi evasive maneuver called
the reverse claw, and it pointed towards Thor, which would be an excellent
place to hide out until the patrols simmered down.
Punching in the new nav coordinates, Ian closed his fuel scoops and
within minutes was up over three thousand clicks a second and climbing. Thor
was nearly twenty million clicks away and he settled back, nearly dozing off
as the Sabre closed, half listening to the commlink chatter as the scrambled
forces continued to prowl for the needle in a very big haystack.
Approaching within a million clicks of Thor he finally started into
reverse thrust, extending his fuel scoops to create drag. The stray hydrogen
atoms found in space impacted on the energy field surrounding his ship and
were then swept into the fuel tank. Each strike slowed him down by an ever
so minute fraction, which built up with each passing second.
He started a close scan of his instruments, knowing that any sweep
radar was next to useless.
"Now where would I go," he whispered, as if he could almost he heard by
his opponent and he felt that prickly uneasy feeling, knowing that some how
the Kilrathi was near. He had learned never to discount "the gut feeling."
Any fighter pilot who did not believe in the instinctive feel usually didn't
live very long.
Too close into Thor, he reasoned, and the passage of the ship would be
noticeable as a disturbance in the intense magnetic fields. If he went into
the atmosphere he'd kick up the soup and really give himself away. The one
advantage of chasing a Stealth, Ian knew, was that he was just as blind,
running on scan shut down, otherwise he'd be given away. He spared a quick
look at the map of the system. Two moons, one nearly the size of Earth's,
the other half the size.
Get into the lee of the orbit of the moon is what I'd do, Ian thought,
blocking direct approach from one entire side, hide out and then wait for
the patrols to give up before a final run in on the recon sweep.
But which one? If he had had a coin on him he would have flipped it.
Ian shrugged his shoulders and started for the smaller of the two, shutting
down all scanning systems. He maneuvered so as to approach the moon from the
forward side relative to its orbital direction. He throttled back and then
came in a mere hundred clicks above the surface, crossing up over the pole
and moving down the other side.
Ian punched up a full high intensity burst scan, diverting nearly all
ship's power into radar. If there was anyone within a million clicks the
radar burst would damn near rattle the fillings out of his head, Ian
thought, suddenly wondering if the Kilrathi even had fillings. He waited,
watching his screen. The trick was that, even if it didn't detect a Stealth,
it just might panic the pilot into thinking that he had actually been found.
There! Just under two thousand clicks away. Damn, he had found the
needle!
A faint echo blipped on his screen, the computer working to gain a
lock, narrowing the radar beam down and firing off another pulse, this one
concentrating nearly all the energy of the previous pulse into a narrow
cone. It was enough energy to fry out every circuit on an unshielded vessel
a hundred thousand clicks away.
The second burst hit, painting the enemy ship clearly on his screen at
a range of eight hundred clicks. The target acquisition computer, upgraded
to handle Stealths, threw a laser lock on the ship. The lock hung on and
held as the pilot fired up to full throttle and went into evasive.
"Combat control, this is Hunter. Got him! One Kilrathi Stealth, on his
tail and closing."
A high pitched whine suddenly cut in on his headset. The Kilrathi had
dumped three missiles which Ian's computer told him were IFFs. Ian countered
by punching in an IFF scramble. In a full running fleet engagement such an
act could be suicide because the moment his transponder switched there was
still no guarantee that the enemy missile which had already gained lock
would veer away. On the other hand, everything else flying around, either
human or computer guided, would assume that he was not on the same side and
act accordingly Ч but out here it was a safe maneuver.
The computer raced through thousands of possible transponder codes,
searching for the right one to throw the missiles off, but they kept
closing. Ian toggled off a guided bolt in return, which used the laser beam
as a guide in to its target.
He continued the chase, running blind. There was nothing to see, only a
blip on the screen.
The Kilrathi ship suddenly dropped out of Stealth mode, flashing full
visible, and at the same instant Ian picked up a high energy burst signal.
The pilot was good, he realized, never forgetting his mission, even while
flying to evade death. Whatever he was sent here to find out, he was making
sure word got out.
"Combat control, bogey has sent burst signal, repeat, bogey has sent
burst signal."
The first incoming missile closed in. Ian nosed over hard and then
banked back up, the missile jinxing down to follow and then shooting past.
The second and third missiles, momentarily thrown off by his attempts at
jamming, regained lock but missed as well due to the same maneuver. Ian felt
the sweat streaking down the small of his back. His own bolt was leaping
forward, guiding straight in.
There was a brilliant flash of light as bright as the sun and then
darkness. It took Ian a second to realize that his own missile was still a
dozen clicks away. The Kilrathi had self-destructed with a small
matter/antimatter warhead, vaporizing himself and his ship. Now there would
never he any evidence at all of the violation of the armistice since a
missile hit tended to leave a lot of wreckage behind which could be
evaluated later.
Watching the ship, he momentarily forgot what was now behind him, and
suddenly a high undulating warble sounded in his headphones. One of the IFFs
had turned around, regained lock and was closing straight in.
He punched hard over, aiming straight back towards the moon, popping
out chaff and a noise maker. He turned his transponder off completely,
slamming off all energy sources.
The damn thing kept closing, following his every turn and then a high
energy ping sounded.
What the hell was this?
"Combat control, combat control!"
"Control here."
"Kilrathi seem to have new prototype weapon. It's ignoring chaff and
noise maker. It registered first as an IFF missile but the damn thing must
have a smart weapon program that continues to recognize its target once
locked," Ian shouted, realizing that even if he bought it, it was essential
that his friends knew exactly why and learned from it. It was part of the
training and it was loyalty as well.
He had no tail gunner to pop the missile at the last second, or wingman
to peel it off his back, or the mad confusion of a hundred fighters and
ships filling space with metal and energy. He was naked and alone, the IFF
following remorselessly, like a cold deadly shark that could kill without
thinking or feeling.
He skimmed down over the moon's airless surface, weaving a low sharp
turn into a narrow canyon and the missile impacted against the side of cliff
behind him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and then a second warble
kicked in, showing that another of the missiles had regained lock as well.
Damn!
The missile was above him, streaking down. He blew his remaining chaff
and the missile streaked straight through and closed. He was boxed in.
The warble climbed in tone and then plateaued on a high spine-tingling
pitch, the warning of an unavoidable impact.
He yanked his stick back hard, popping up off the moon's surface, then
reached between his legs, grabbing hold of the ejector D ring and pulled,
even as the explosion engulfed him.
"I think we know why we are here," Baron Jukaga said, his voice quiet,
low pitched, his mane lying nearly flat so as to show neither dominance nor
submission.
"It is the fault of the hrai of Vak," Qar'ka Baron of the Qarg clan
hissed, springing to his feet and pointing accusingly across the table.
"Low born scum," Vak snarled in reply, reaching for the claw dagger at
his belt.
"Silence!" Jukaga roared. "Damn all of you, I want silence! and his
golden red mane bristled up.
The two stopped and turned, fixing the Baron with hate-filled eyes.
"Jukaga, either one of us could cut your guts out and spill them on the
floor for the rats to eat," Vak said coldly. "You of the Ki'ra hrai are
weaklings compared to either the Qarg the Ragitagha, or any of the other
families."
"And if you did," Jukaga replied smoothly, "then you truly would have
civil war and the humans would finish up with what was left."
"Sit down," Baron Ka'ta of the Kurutak clan hissed, "Baron Jukaga is
right. Let us listen to him first."
Jukaga nodded his thanks to Ka'ta. At least he knew that the Ka'ta out
of all the eight families of the Empire was solidly behind him. It was
almost amusing. The Kurutak, along with the Sihkag, had always been viewed
as the lowest of the eight, their blood never considered as thick. It was
almost a guarantee that when approached by his own clan, the ancient family
of Ki'ra, that the Kurutak would grovel over the honor of being treated as
equals. It was a mistake the Kiranka, the clan or hrai of the Emperor, never
realized in their treatment of those residing in the royal palace. In
public, of course, the positions of dominance and submission were closely
observed during audiences and open ritual, but in private, it was something
else, especially when all the other families viewed the Emperor's line as no
better than their own.
"This petty feud between the clan of Vak and that of the Qarg is to
stop here and now," Jukaga announced. "It is a disgrace that royal blood has
been spilled like this in feuds within the confines of the Imperial Palace.
Five of the Qarg have died in duels and five of the Ragitagha. It is enough
and it is finished."
Vak started to open his mouth and Jukaga extended his paw, talons
retracted in a sign of peace.
"It is enough," he said quietly.
"You are not the Emperor," Vak replied, "you have not the power to
order me or Qar'ka to stop," and he looked across the table at Qar'ka, whom
only a moment ago he would have gladly knifed, for support.
Qar'ka nodded his head in agreement.
The Baron inwardly sighed. The fools, could they not see the weakness
revealed in that simple statement? It was something he had learned in his
years of study and it had come to him with a crystal clarity. The wars
against other races, the ritual of Sivar, were designed above all else as a
civilizing factor to the race of the Kilrathi, to quite simply keep them
from killing each other. Aggressive combat, the instinct to hunt and to kill
was far too close to the surface. Within the hrai, the clan and families
were controlled by the rigid system of caste. But the clan instinct only
extended as far as the clan. Though all might espouse the concept that they
were Kilrathi it was only in the face of a prey outside of themselves. War
and Sivar were essential for the survival of the race, to keep it from
killing itself off and nothing more. It was something he did not discuss,
for to even question the divinity of Sivar as nothing more than a social
tool would be his ruin.
All the wars had so well served that purpose, the humans, the Hari, the
Gorth, Sorn, Ka, and Utara. Thank Sivar for the Utara who in their
foolishness had come to Kilrah in peace, gave them space travel as a
friendly gesture, and died as a result. If it had not been so, we would have
destroyed ourselves when the secret of atomics came into our hands, the
Baron thought, even as he surveyed the other clan leaders in the room.
Aggressive races rarely survived the move into technology and made it to the
point where space offered them an outlet.
He looked around the table. Qar'ka was a fool, Vak not much better;
they would not see such things. All they knew was that there was no war for
the moment and the pressure within their own hrai was building, petty
quarreling, long forgotten feuds building to the flashing of claw daggers.
And yet, when Vak had turned to Qar'ka and offered him Jukaga as an opponent
that they could unite against, Qar'ka was ready to agree.
"The feuding in the palace must stop," Jukaga said coldly. his mane
still flushed outward.
"And I say you are not the Emperor to so order me," Vak snapped in
reply.
Jukaga smiled.
"Is he really our Emperor?"
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Are you mad?" Qar'ka asked
"He and that fool grandson have led us into one too many disasters,"
Jukaga replied coldly.
"How many of us have lost our sons, the best of our hrai, to the
Terrans? How many of us have listened to our first chosen ones and
concubines crying at night, their faces buried in their pillows to muffle
the sobs, crying for those lost in this war?"
The other hrai leaders lowered their heads and even Vak, who only
moments before wanted to knife him, nodded in agreement.
"Vak, you lost your first born of your first litter at Vukar Tag, I
know, I saw his gallantry, his heroic death when he tried to ram the enemy
carrier. He died kabaka, his soul winging to Sivar for his courage."
Vak looked up at Jukaga, his eyes cold with anger at the wasted death
of his eldest son. Jukaga almost felt guilty for so easily manipulating him
thus.
"He would be alive today, sitting by your side, sharing your feasting
cup but for the Emperor. It was the Emperor that ordered the splitting of
the fleet and Thrakhath agreed. If all our carriers were there for that
fight we would have smashed the Confederation and pressed the war to
victory. I was blamed and you now know the lie of that. I languished in
exile, expecting at any moment that the Emperor's poisoner would come."
He looked around the room and stood up.
"We must stay united, we must control our hrai and stop this petty
feuding which threatens to turn the palace into a slaughter pit. Don't you
think the Emperor is quietly encouraging us thus to fight against each
other, to thus keep us from standing united against him?"
He could see more than one nod of agreement to his statement and smiled
"Then start the war now!" Qar'ka snarled. "End this ridiculous farce.
We have lulled the humans to sleep, now let us rip their throats out and be
done with it."
Qar'ka hesitated for a moment as if not willing to speak.
"We must finish it before the Mantu return," he said quietly, "and take
us in the back while we still fight the Confederation."
The others looked over nervously at Qar'ka and then back to Jukaga
Jukaga nodded and said nothing. Just after the defeat at Vukar, a
report had come in from a deep space remote probe, far beyond the edge of
Hari space, a probe so far removed that it had taken a year even to bring it
in. There was an indication that the Mantu, who had once before invaded
Kilrathi space, had completed their war against an unknown neighbor and
might very well return. Seventy years past there had been a brief encounter
with them, and though the fight had been a draw, it was suspected that the
Mantu might in fact be far superior in their weapons technology. They had
disappeared, drawing back to fight other foes, but it was always suspected
that there would come a day when the Mantu might turn their full attention
on the Empire, a concern that deeply troubled Jukaga as he watched their
resources being spilled against the humans.
Jukaga turned away and pointed at a long list of figures displayed by a
holo projector.
"This war against the Confederation has lasted over thirty years, the
borders barely shifting after our first gains. War is not just fighting, it
is economics, and resources, and production and morale and perhaps most
importantly the learning of the way our enemy thinks. I know some of you
might scoff at such concerns but that last factor has been my chief concern
and responsibility."
"You and the nobles of your hrai have remained safe at home, playing
with numbers and reading while we spill our blood," Vak laughed coldly.
"Without the weapons my hrai designed and the intelligence my spies and
remote devices have gained, you would have been frozen meat floating in
space," Jukaga replied.
"He speaks the truth," Talmak of the Sutaghi interjected before Vak
could reply. "Now let him finish. If Thrakhath had listened to Jukaga's
concerns before Vukar the battle would have turned out far differently."
"The war had become a balanced match without end in sight until now,"
Jukaga continued. "We almost had the edge until Vukar and their raid to our
base on our moon. If it had not been for Thrakhath and the Emperor, as I
already said, we might very well have taken Earth.
"Earth, that has always been the key, and Thrakhath forgot that. A
human warrior once wrote that in war one must find the focal point that will
cause the collapse of his enemy and then throw all resources against it
"This time I want no mistakes. Give this armistice just a little more
time until the enemy is asleep and our secret fleet is completed. Let the
fools get used to peace. Let them believe in this friendship. Let our secret
fleet continue to be built even as we make a show of decommissioning our
current ships. Then we will strike and crush them."
"But the Sivar," Vak replied. "Where is the Sivar to be this year? Our
people demand that."
"You have the prisoners that we have kept hidden, do it to them,"
Jukaga replied coldly.
"Prisoners, there is no honor in that. I still say that in eight eight
of days, when Sivar comes, then we should launch our strike and turn the
rivers of Earth red with the blood of the slaughter."
"And I tell you that it must be yet five eighty of days. Look at the
charts, can't you see the truth in them?" and he pointed to the wall."
"War is not simple numbers, it is blood," Vak snorted.
"Four more carriers at Vukar is a simple number, Vak and that number is
the difference between your first born still floating in space, his body
unclaimed, versus his living and breathing this day."
Vak snarled and Jukaga was not sure for a moment if the anger was aimed
at him, or at the humiliation over the useless death of a son.
"Listen to me, my takhars," and he deliberately chose the word which
meant brothers of equal rank. He looked around the room and saw that even
Vak was at last willing to listen, unable to argue with the cold facts of
numbers.
"Let the plan unfold. When the time is ripe, over a dozen carriers will
leap forward, slashing through their near defenseless border region. Before
they can even hope to mobilize, we will jump straight to Earth, and there I
promise you a slaughter like no other. In our plan we already have our
agents at work, weakening their will to fight, ready as well to kill their
leaders of war when the time is right. When we cut the heart out of the
Terran Confederation, then in the years to come we can go at our leisure
from planet to planet, saving some for Sivar, others destroying if they are
a threat. Thus we will win, and thus we will be ready as well if our old
enemy the Mantu should again return."
He settled back in his chair and waited. Vak looked around the room,
saw the nods of agreement and finally lowered his head.
"The feud stops, you have my support," he said quietly.
Jukaga did not allow himself to show his teeth in a gesture of triumph.
"Then I have the promise of all of you to control your hrai in the
palace."
"It will be difficult, but it will be done," Qar'ka finally said. "But
what of your other words about the Emperor?"
Jukaga nodded.
"In the days to come just consider this. He is old, he will not live
forever. When he goes to his fathers, Thrakhath will take the golden throne.
Given the leadership both have shown, do we truly want them to lead us to
our final victory, or even more importantly against the threat of the Mantu
if they should return?"
"Are you suggesting the breaking of our oath-sworn word?" Vak asked.
Jukaga slowly shook his head.
"Just that I want you to consider my question, nothing more, Jukaga
replied. "Other than that I suggest nothing."
Vak smiled, and for an instant Jukaga was not sure if it was a sign of
aggression at himself or towards the Emperor and without another word he got
nobody'll shoot. Hell, by the time they get it resolved we'll be on the
other side of the universe. And then what are they going to do, sue us?"
Laughing, he shut down the laser link and the holo screen went dead.
Stepping down from the flight bridge Jason saw the pinpoint of light of
Paladin's ship moving against the eternal night of space.
"Captain, this is helm."
"Go ahead."
"Cleared of near Earth orbit, ready to power up to full pulse drive on
course heading for jump point 17A."
"Get us out of here, then."
He felt the surge of power rumble through the ship as nearly all
reactor power was fed straight into the engines. The ship turned to line up
on the jump point and as he walked up to the hangar bay's magnetic airlock,
Earth drifted into view, a crescent blue-green ball hanging in the eternal
darkness. It gave him a curious sort of feeling. It was, after all, the home
world of his entire race, the Russia of his ancestors clearly visible even
from half a million clicks out, and yet now, he felt strangely detached from
it. He was a product of space, born on a world five hundred light years
away. If he had a home, it was this ship, a family, the people aboard her.
He knew that this insane adventure he was setting out on was motivated in
part by his allegiance to the Confederation and for the protection of the
world in front of him, even for the protection of those people who were so
ready to reject him and the military that he served. He knew that perhaps
that was always the lot of a warrior, to be turned to when trouble loomed,
and to be rejected and hidden away when it was believed that peace had
returned.
He was fighting for them but he realized as well that if he were
fighting for anything it was for his ship, his comrades, and the fleet which
they had so loyally served and now faced the most serious crisis in its
history, a crisis created not so much by their enemies, but rather by their
friends.
In a swirling cloud of dust, Hunter switched off power on his engines,
shut down the emergency ejector system, and cracked the canopy open.
A choking swirl of hot dry air rushed into the cockpit, taking his
breath away as he unsnapped his helmet.
"Damn, even worse than the outback," he mumbled, standing up to
stretch.
A ground crew team strolled over, lazily pushing a ladder as he waited.
There was no sense in getting upset by their lackadaisical attitude, this
wasn't ConFleet Ч the base belonged to the Landreich Colonial Air Guard and
a crew working in one hundred twenty plus heat had his sympathy.
The crew hooked the ladder against the side of his Sabre and he
scrambled down out of the cockpit
"Where's fleet headquarters?" he asked
"Over there," one of the crew announced, trying to be heard above the
cacophony of ships landing and taking off, and the sudden sonic boom of a
Ferret snapping by overhead, the shockwave causing him to wince and
instinctively look for cover.
He looked up and saw the Ferret climbing straight up, standing on its
tail. The Ferret punched a hole through the high thin overcast and then he
was gone, the ship's vapor trail climbing and then winking out as the Ferret
crossed into the far reaches of the upper atmosphere. The crew barely
noticed the show and obviously weren't running to combat positions.
"Is there a scramble on?"
"Nay, Charlie Boys just having a little fun."
"Who's Charlie Boy?"
"Why, he's the head of the squadron here."
Ian wanted to comment that at any fleet base punching sonic without a
scramble on would have cost Charlie Boy a month's pay and a possible
grounding. He had a feeling it was, if anything, a thumbing of the nose at
all the outsiders gathering on the base and he started to smile. Hell, he
might even like this place after all.
The ground crew looked at him and Ian was suddenly aware his old
ConFleet flight suit made him stick out like a sore thumb.
"A lot of you Fleet boys showing up here today," one of the crew
drawled.
"The usual gab session," Ian replied. "You know how it is, ConFleet or
Colonial, the big wigs always like to have their meetings."
"And I suppose we oughta salute you, is that it, captain?"
Ian laughed and replied with a universal rude gesture.
One of the crew members smiled, reached into a tool box and pulled out
a can which was dripping with moisture.
"Have a cold one on us, cap'n."
Ian grinned with delight as he popped the lid. Landreich beer was rated
almost as good as the Outback Lager and Fosters of home. He took a long deep
pull on the can and then another, draining it off. With a contented sigh he
tossed the empty back to his benefactor.
"Ah, thanks, mate, now take care of my ship and by the way, if you
don't tell those customs people, you'll find a pint of Vega's best stashed
in the carry bag strapped behind my seat and I don't want to find it there
when I get back." The crew grinned.
There was nothing like a little gift giving with the locals to make
sure that things were taken care of right.
Turning, he started across the landing field, eager to get to the
shade. The twin suns of the planet were murder when both were at noon, the
red giant and white dwarf combining to cast a strange pattern of colored
shadows. He looked around, realizing that this military outpost of the
Landreich colonial worlds was definitely at the butt end of the universe.
There were a few modern buildings on the base, made of the standard poured
plasta-concrete. But most of it, and the small garrison and mining town
beyond the base, was made of either adobe or rough sandstone. If it wasn't
for the rich titanium deposits underneath the surrounding mountains this
world would have been bypassed except for the usual crop of hermits, crazy
cults, and freebooters looking for a place to hide. Buford's World they
called this place, after the first prospector to land here, but it was more
commonly referred to as the Hell Hole. Its inclination of axis was exactly
at zero degrees and there was no season except red hot summer with 90
degrees passing as a cool day.
It had but two jump points in the system, one heading away from the
demilitarized zone towards the capital world of Landreich, the other leading
off on a long lopping pattern through half a dozen uninhabited systems into
the flank of the Kilrathi Empire. Both in a strategic and tactical sense it
was nothing more than an outpost at the very edge of the war and totally
ignored by the main fleets of both sides. Thus space in this region was
controlled, if at all, by colonial guards of both sides, and more often by
freebooters which, in the eyes of the Confederation, was what the Landreich
system was anyhow.
He passed a plasta-concrete bunker, the lid partially open to reveal a
cluster of surface-to-space point defense missile-anti-missiles, the latest
Sprint 8s, no less. He paused to look in at the crew which was running a
service check.
"Got a lot of those, mates?"
"Who the hell wants to know?" and a tech sergeant wearing the tan
coveralls of a colonial guard non-com looked up at him, shading his eyes.
"Hey, just curious, that's all."
"Curiosity like that will get you in the brig right quick," the
sergeant growled.
The sergeant turned back to his work and Ian realized that maybe it was
best to simply move on.
Tucked into the hangars lining the field was a bizarre assortment of
ships. The heaviest was a medium corvette and it took Ian a moment to
recognize it as an old Granicus-class, a line discontinued more than twenty
years ago. The ship, however, was refitted with a couple of E-8 engines
attached to anchor points on the side of the hull, with half a dozen mass
driver turrets patched on as well. It was a hell of a smuggler's craft with
the firepower of a light frigate thrown in. A number of fighters were on the
field as well and it was easy to see which ones had ferried in the staff
attending today's meeting, their Confed insignia simply painted over with
standard fleet gray.
It was the other ships, however, that caught his eye. It looked like
the Landreich was planning to set up a museum, with some of the fighters
actual prewar ships of more than thirty years vintage. All of them, however,
were no longer spec in any way whatsoever. An early Ferret A had a new
engine housing with of all things a Mark 10 engine off an old Falcon light
corvette. It looked absolutely absurd, like nothing but an engine with a
cockpit up front, with a gatling mass driver gun strapped on underneath.
It'd be a hell of a ride, he realized.
Most of the ships were painted Stealth black without identification
numbers or even the blue circle and red Saint Andrew's cross of the
Landreich. He slowly walked past the hangars, noticing the less than
friendly stares of most of the crews. He wanted to take the time to go up
and chat, to ask about the specs on the strange array of ships, maybe even
try a climb into the cockpits but thought better of it. Ever since the
armistice the uneasy cooperation of the Confederation with the colonials was
now strained even further. He couldn't blame them, for when the stuff
finally hit the fan, it would be the outpost worlds that would get covered
by it first.
"Iannn!"
The high pitched voice was unmistakable and startled he looked around,
and then noticed a shadow cross over him. He looked up and saw a Firekka
hovering overhead.
"K'Kai, how the hell are you!"
K'Kai, folding her wings, landed beside him and moved up close, pecked
him lightly on the head and around the back of his neck in what he now knew
was a grooming which served as the Firekka equivalent of a handshake.
Overjoyed at seeing an old friend he threw his arms around her.
"Last time I saw you was when your niece told the Confederation to go
to hell."
K'Kai clicked her beak and he knew that it was the Firekka equivalent
of an expression of pride.
"That speech was hers alone, a fine accomplishment for not much more
than a hatchling."
"How goes it on Firekka?"
"A lot of harassing raids, skirmishes, ships disappearing, not really
outright war, but definitely not peace." She cocked her head and looked at
him closely, an act which he always found a bit disturbing when an eyeball
the size of an orange aimed in straight at him.
"So you're part of this Landreich colonial fleet?" she asked.
"That's what I'm here for, and you?"
"Sent as a representative."
"Well, I think we're late," and he motioned for her to follow along.
They finally gained the shade of a broad veranda and he drew a breath
of relief. Two guards stood at the door and again it struck him how
different the colonials were. The men looked sharp enough, with standard
M-48 laser rifles on their shoulders. But the uniforms looked like they'd
seen better days, the tan coveralls faded from sun and washing, top collars
unbuttoned in the dry desert heat. They lacked the spit and polish of fleet
Marine guards and he found it appealing.
Both looked with open curiosity at K'Kai.
"Firekka, they make the best drink in the universe,," Ian announced,
and the guards grinned weakly.
"I take it this is headquarters?"
"This is the place."
"Well, I'm here to see Kruger."
A sergeant stepped out from inside the doorway, took their papers and
IDs, then handed them back.
"Down the hall, you can't miss it."
Ian opened the door for K'Kai and followed her in. At least the place
had cooling, but it seemed to be barely working. He strode down the open
corridor which angled down below the surface, K'Kai at his side. They turned
through a double set of blast doors and into the situation room which was
packed nearly to overflowing. They were stopped by what he assumed was a
security officer, though it was hard to tell by the uniform. He checked
their IDs once again and then marked off his and K'Kai's name on a list.
Ian immediately recognized more than one of those present: Jason and
Doomsday, who had flown down the day before from Tarawa, were in the back
corner engaged in what was obviously a heated conversation with several
colonial pilots. Sparks, waving a hand computer unit, was shouting at whom
he guessed was a supply officer, who in turn was shouting back with equal
vigor, and hunched over a table up in the front was a tall gaunt man with
sun scorched features and dark eyes. He glanced up at Ian and his gaze
seemed to pierce right through him and then, as if he didn't even exist, the
man looked back down at a shelf of printouts.
"Say, that's Kruger himself," Ian whispered
K'Kai bobbed her head.
Technically Kruger was a wanted felon within Confederation territory,
having once hijacked his fleet destroyer, which he was in command of, during
the early days of the war, when through "strategic necessity," the old
C-in-C ConFleet had decided to abandon the Landreich system in the face of a
Kilrathi offensive. Using the ship and an assortment of scrounged up
freighters and smuggler craft he fought the battle of the Hell Hole,
stopping a Kilrathi attack into this sector and according to legend chased
them back through twelve jumps.
His own ship was blown out from under him on the last jump through by a
Kilrathi ambush and Kruger, with the remaining members of his crew, survived
for three years on a planet inside the Kilrathi system, driving the locals
nearly insane with his commando style raiding until being picked up by a
freebooter who took them back to the Landreich. In the interim, ConFleet had
tried him in absentia and found him guilty of mutiny and hijacking of a
Confederation warship, a capital offense in time of war. He was hailed,
however, as a returning hero by the colonials and elected president of the
Landreich system within the year. The election made matters somewhat
complicated, presenting the Confederation with the unique problem of having
a felon serving as an elected member of the planetary senate and thus being
immune from arrest and trial.
Max Kruger had a hell of a reputation and was viewed either as a genius
improviser of small unit irregular tactics or a barbarian. In Ian's opinion,
he was both. The colonials definitely fought their wars with the Kilrathi,
and at times with each other, using cast-off equipment, shoestring budgets,
and a hell of a lot of guts. They also fought it with a cold ferocity that
rarely asked for or expected quarter. For Kruger there was only one rule of
war, ultimate victory.
"Everything back aboard Tarawa OK?'
Ian turned and smiled as Jason came up to join him.
"Another hundred crew members signed in last night off a transport that
ran out from Sirius. We've got eight more pilots and four Ferrets that were
strapped to the transports hull."
"Is that all, we were promised twenty."
"They had some problems getting the four, the peace commission kicked
up a royal stink. We're lucky we got what we did."
"It figures," Jason sighed. "That commission really screwed us up."
"What do you mean?"
That report that we'd have ten squadrons of Rapiers and Sabres, well
forget it."
"What the hell happened?"
"The shipment was blocked by the commission. Seems that the Kilrathi
ambassador caught wind of the deal, screamed holy hell, and the Baron even
got into it, threatening to end all peace negotiations if the ships were
allowed to leave Earth system. Rodham, of course, caved in. The three
transports, loaded down with fighters and spare parts were blocked from
leaving moon orbit. So now we've got to scrounge up whatever we can find
around here."
"We ve got five escort carriers, and a grand total of twenty-nine
fighters and that's it, not counting the stuff the locals have."
More people crowded into the room behind Ian so that he, Jason, and
K'Kai were gradually shoved to the back of the room.
"Andrews, everybody here yet?" the gaunt man asked, looking over at the
guard at the door.
"Near about."
Well, damn it, we can't wait, let's get started then."
The gaunt man moved up to a small podium.
"For those of you Confed people who don't know it, I'm General Kruger."
Ian looked around the room and saw the outright admiration on the faces
of the men and women wearing the hodgepodge of jumpsuits, assault trousers
and vests, and coveralls that passed for colonial guards uniforms.
"First off, I welcome all you white and blue suits into the service of
the Landreich," Kruger began. "As already agreed upon, all ships that the
Landreich has purchased," and with that there was a ripple of laughter from
the colonial personnel, have been incorporated into our fleet. You will,
however, still have your own chain of command, answering to Admiral Tolwyn."
For the first time Ian realized that Tolwyn was in the room, his nephew
by his side. Tolwyn stepped out from a back corner of the meeting hall and
raised his hand in acknowledgment. It seemed strange to Ian to see the
Admiral not in standard fleet uniform, but in the khaki of a Landreich
officer.
Just how the hell did he get out here so fast? Ian wondered, what with
Jason's ship arriving only last night into orbit above Landreich.
"Those of you in colonial forces that are assigned aboard former Confed
ships will take orders from the duly appointed commander of that ship."
A low groan went up from the colonial personnel in the room.
We've got to coordinate this effort," Kruger snapped, "so no
complaints."
"Any questions?"
The colonial officers looked at each other, mumbled a bit and said
nothing.
Kruger nodded towards Tolwyn, who came up to the front of the room.
"Well, I'm glad to see that most of you at least made it out here.
"First off . . ." and Tolwyn was interrupted by the sharp spine
tingling wail of a klaxon.
The room went quiet as Kruger raced to a monitor, leaned over it, and
then turned back.
"Any pilots with strike craft please man them immediately."
Ian pushed his way out of the room, a stream of colonial pilots pushing
around him, Jason, Kevin, and Doomsday falling in at his side.
They ran up the corridor and out into the blazing heat, scattering
towards hangars, the high wail of sirens echoing against the surrounding
hills. The ground crew, which had so lazily come out to meet Ian when he
landed, were moving with a cool precision, unchocking the wheels, the crew
chief inside the cockpit, the engine already up and whining, four crew
members lifting two missiles up onto the Sabre's wing pylons. Ian ran to the
ladder, one of the ground crew tossing him his helmet which he snapped on,
the chief coming down the ladder and clearing it just as Ian leaped on to
the third rung and scrambled up, the chief now behind him. Ian saw Jason and
Doomsday running past, heading for the Ferrets they had flown down from
Tarawa.
"Engine green, nav system loaded by combat control, all weapons green
with two radar trackers loaded, emergency eject armed and ready, good luck,
sir!" the chief shouted, even as he reached over and helped buckle Ian's
safety harness on, cinching the shoulder straps tight.
This is Hunter in Sabre 239A ready," Ian announced to the control
tower.
"Will advise, Hunter, ground chief will signal your clearance," the
ground control officer snapped and then switched off.
Ian gave a thumbs-up as the chief slid down the ladder and the canopy
snapped shut, the green light of airtight lock flashing on. The chief was
now out in front of Ian's fighter, hands held high over his head with fists
crossed, signaling that the taxi ramp was not yet cleared. The Ferret with
the light corvette engine he admired earlier bolted straight out of its
hangar to his right, not even bothering to go for the runway and not needing
one anyhow as it pitched its nose back, and within fifty yards stood on its
tail, flame slamming off the concrete taxiway as it screamed straight up
into the sky, riding a column of fire.
To his left he saw the armored bunker which contained the surface to
space missiles peel open, the silver tips of half a dozen Sprints pointing
straight up.
"Hunter cleared for takeoff, once lifted depart angle nine zero," the
control officer's voice crackled in his headset and he grinned with the
order to go for a full burn vertical ascent into space.
The crew chief uncrossed his arms and leaped to the side of the Sabre,
crouched, and pointed forward. Ian released his brakes, slammed in full
afterburners and all aft maneuvering thrusters. The Sabre leaped forward and
within seconds he was up past a hundred and ninety clicks an hour. He yanked
back on his stick, pulling it into his gut, the nose lifted up and he was
off.
Ian toggled up his landing gear as his Sabre pointed straight up into
the red sky, the altimeter spinning. Inertial dampening didn't work all that
well inside the gravity well of a planet and he started to breathe in short
convulsive grunts as the Gs built up. He knew his sonic boom was blasting
out across the landscape but it was almost silent inside the cockpit except
for the teeth-rattling rumble of the twin Tangent-class engines burning
white hot behind him. He punched through the thin clouds and the color of
the sky shifted, turning from a deeper red into violet, the first stars
starting to appear. He looked to his left to see the curvature of the world
and what looked like another Ferret rising up to close on his port wing.
"Combat information, this is Hunter, what's the trade today?"
"Forward scouts report detecting an ionized trail emerging from Jump
Point Beta 233. There have been weak radar detects and one laser scan lock
indicating a fighter of Kilrathi Stealth design is approaching. Patrol grid
is already fed into your auto-nav. If you encounter unknown you are cleared
to shoot to kill without warning."
"Just what I wanted to hear," Ian replied as he locked in on the auto
nav system and released his controls, the autopilot taking over. Cleared
into space, and with fuel scoops closed he continued to accelerate so that
within minutes the full sphere of the Hell Hole hung in space behind him.
The attempt to ship fighters to the Landreich was known by the Kilrathi
thanks to the peace commission and a scouting attempt had to be expected. At
least the colonials didn't fool around with diplomatic niceties, Ian
thought. If someone violated their space in a suspicious manner they were
taken out, no questions asked
He scanned the comm channels, listening in as pilots tersely called out
their check points and the search spread outward. The frustrating part of it
was that unless they had some really good luck, they could very well pass
right over a Stealth and not even know it. The mere fact that the Empire was
sneaking a very precious and rare fighter into this sector meant that they
had a good idea of what was going on.
He heard a call of a brief contact by Doomsday and then two more by
colonial pilots, in each case the Stealth was lost. Punching into his nav
computer he checked the three sightings and then overlaid the points into a
map of the system.
"Combat control, request break of my standard sweep, wish to
investigate region around coordinates 233 by ADF."
"Will advise," and the link clicked off.
A moment later it crackled back to life.
"This is Kruger, good thinking, Hunter; proceed at your discretion.
Grinning, he broke off the auto nav, opened his fuel and maneuvering
scoops, and turned. The coded coordinate was the location, at the moment, of
the Hell Hole system's largest planet, a gas giant named Thor. The three
brief sightings roughly matched a standard Kilrathi evasive maneuver called
the reverse claw, and it pointed towards Thor, which would be an excellent
place to hide out until the patrols simmered down.
Punching in the new nav coordinates, Ian closed his fuel scoops and
within minutes was up over three thousand clicks a second and climbing. Thor
was nearly twenty million clicks away and he settled back, nearly dozing off
as the Sabre closed, half listening to the commlink chatter as the scrambled
forces continued to prowl for the needle in a very big haystack.
Approaching within a million clicks of Thor he finally started into
reverse thrust, extending his fuel scoops to create drag. The stray hydrogen
atoms found in space impacted on the energy field surrounding his ship and
were then swept into the fuel tank. Each strike slowed him down by an ever
so minute fraction, which built up with each passing second.
He started a close scan of his instruments, knowing that any sweep
radar was next to useless.
"Now where would I go," he whispered, as if he could almost he heard by
his opponent and he felt that prickly uneasy feeling, knowing that some how
the Kilrathi was near. He had learned never to discount "the gut feeling."
Any fighter pilot who did not believe in the instinctive feel usually didn't
live very long.
Too close into Thor, he reasoned, and the passage of the ship would be
noticeable as a disturbance in the intense magnetic fields. If he went into
the atmosphere he'd kick up the soup and really give himself away. The one
advantage of chasing a Stealth, Ian knew, was that he was just as blind,
running on scan shut down, otherwise he'd be given away. He spared a quick
look at the map of the system. Two moons, one nearly the size of Earth's,
the other half the size.
Get into the lee of the orbit of the moon is what I'd do, Ian thought,
blocking direct approach from one entire side, hide out and then wait for
the patrols to give up before a final run in on the recon sweep.
But which one? If he had had a coin on him he would have flipped it.
Ian shrugged his shoulders and started for the smaller of the two, shutting
down all scanning systems. He maneuvered so as to approach the moon from the
forward side relative to its orbital direction. He throttled back and then
came in a mere hundred clicks above the surface, crossing up over the pole
and moving down the other side.
Ian punched up a full high intensity burst scan, diverting nearly all
ship's power into radar. If there was anyone within a million clicks the
radar burst would damn near rattle the fillings out of his head, Ian
thought, suddenly wondering if the Kilrathi even had fillings. He waited,
watching his screen. The trick was that, even if it didn't detect a Stealth,
it just might panic the pilot into thinking that he had actually been found.
There! Just under two thousand clicks away. Damn, he had found the
needle!
A faint echo blipped on his screen, the computer working to gain a
lock, narrowing the radar beam down and firing off another pulse, this one
concentrating nearly all the energy of the previous pulse into a narrow
cone. It was enough energy to fry out every circuit on an unshielded vessel
a hundred thousand clicks away.
The second burst hit, painting the enemy ship clearly on his screen at
a range of eight hundred clicks. The target acquisition computer, upgraded
to handle Stealths, threw a laser lock on the ship. The lock hung on and
held as the pilot fired up to full throttle and went into evasive.
"Combat control, this is Hunter. Got him! One Kilrathi Stealth, on his
tail and closing."
A high pitched whine suddenly cut in on his headset. The Kilrathi had
dumped three missiles which Ian's computer told him were IFFs. Ian countered
by punching in an IFF scramble. In a full running fleet engagement such an
act could be suicide because the moment his transponder switched there was
still no guarantee that the enemy missile which had already gained lock
would veer away. On the other hand, everything else flying around, either
human or computer guided, would assume that he was not on the same side and
act accordingly Ч but out here it was a safe maneuver.
The computer raced through thousands of possible transponder codes,
searching for the right one to throw the missiles off, but they kept
closing. Ian toggled off a guided bolt in return, which used the laser beam
as a guide in to its target.
He continued the chase, running blind. There was nothing to see, only a
blip on the screen.
The Kilrathi ship suddenly dropped out of Stealth mode, flashing full
visible, and at the same instant Ian picked up a high energy burst signal.
The pilot was good, he realized, never forgetting his mission, even while
flying to evade death. Whatever he was sent here to find out, he was making
sure word got out.
"Combat control, bogey has sent burst signal, repeat, bogey has sent
burst signal."
The first incoming missile closed in. Ian nosed over hard and then
banked back up, the missile jinxing down to follow and then shooting past.
The second and third missiles, momentarily thrown off by his attempts at
jamming, regained lock but missed as well due to the same maneuver. Ian felt
the sweat streaking down the small of his back. His own bolt was leaping
forward, guiding straight in.
There was a brilliant flash of light as bright as the sun and then
darkness. It took Ian a second to realize that his own missile was still a
dozen clicks away. The Kilrathi had self-destructed with a small
matter/antimatter warhead, vaporizing himself and his ship. Now there would
never he any evidence at all of the violation of the armistice since a
missile hit tended to leave a lot of wreckage behind which could be
evaluated later.
Watching the ship, he momentarily forgot what was now behind him, and
suddenly a high undulating warble sounded in his headphones. One of the IFFs
had turned around, regained lock and was closing straight in.
He punched hard over, aiming straight back towards the moon, popping
out chaff and a noise maker. He turned his transponder off completely,
slamming off all energy sources.
The damn thing kept closing, following his every turn and then a high
energy ping sounded.
What the hell was this?
"Combat control, combat control!"
"Control here."
"Kilrathi seem to have new prototype weapon. It's ignoring chaff and
noise maker. It registered first as an IFF missile but the damn thing must
have a smart weapon program that continues to recognize its target once
locked," Ian shouted, realizing that even if he bought it, it was essential
that his friends knew exactly why and learned from it. It was part of the
training and it was loyalty as well.
He had no tail gunner to pop the missile at the last second, or wingman
to peel it off his back, or the mad confusion of a hundred fighters and
ships filling space with metal and energy. He was naked and alone, the IFF
following remorselessly, like a cold deadly shark that could kill without
thinking or feeling.
He skimmed down over the moon's airless surface, weaving a low sharp
turn into a narrow canyon and the missile impacted against the side of cliff
behind him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and then a second warble
kicked in, showing that another of the missiles had regained lock as well.
Damn!
The missile was above him, streaking down. He blew his remaining chaff
and the missile streaked straight through and closed. He was boxed in.
The warble climbed in tone and then plateaued on a high spine-tingling
pitch, the warning of an unavoidable impact.
He yanked his stick back hard, popping up off the moon's surface, then
reached between his legs, grabbing hold of the ejector D ring and pulled,
even as the explosion engulfed him.
"I think we know why we are here," Baron Jukaga said, his voice quiet,
low pitched, his mane lying nearly flat so as to show neither dominance nor
submission.
"It is the fault of the hrai of Vak," Qar'ka Baron of the Qarg clan
hissed, springing to his feet and pointing accusingly across the table.
"Low born scum," Vak snarled in reply, reaching for the claw dagger at
his belt.
"Silence!" Jukaga roared. "Damn all of you, I want silence! and his
golden red mane bristled up.
The two stopped and turned, fixing the Baron with hate-filled eyes.
"Jukaga, either one of us could cut your guts out and spill them on the
floor for the rats to eat," Vak said coldly. "You of the Ki'ra hrai are
weaklings compared to either the Qarg the Ragitagha, or any of the other
families."
"And if you did," Jukaga replied smoothly, "then you truly would have
civil war and the humans would finish up with what was left."
"Sit down," Baron Ka'ta of the Kurutak clan hissed, "Baron Jukaga is
right. Let us listen to him first."
Jukaga nodded his thanks to Ka'ta. At least he knew that the Ka'ta out
of all the eight families of the Empire was solidly behind him. It was
almost amusing. The Kurutak, along with the Sihkag, had always been viewed
as the lowest of the eight, their blood never considered as thick. It was
almost a guarantee that when approached by his own clan, the ancient family
of Ki'ra, that the Kurutak would grovel over the honor of being treated as
equals. It was a mistake the Kiranka, the clan or hrai of the Emperor, never
realized in their treatment of those residing in the royal palace. In
public, of course, the positions of dominance and submission were closely
observed during audiences and open ritual, but in private, it was something
else, especially when all the other families viewed the Emperor's line as no
better than their own.
"This petty feud between the clan of Vak and that of the Qarg is to
stop here and now," Jukaga announced. "It is a disgrace that royal blood has
been spilled like this in feuds within the confines of the Imperial Palace.
Five of the Qarg have died in duels and five of the Ragitagha. It is enough
and it is finished."
Vak started to open his mouth and Jukaga extended his paw, talons
retracted in a sign of peace.
"It is enough," he said quietly.
"You are not the Emperor," Vak replied, "you have not the power to
order me or Qar'ka to stop," and he looked across the table at Qar'ka, whom
only a moment ago he would have gladly knifed, for support.
Qar'ka nodded his head in agreement.
The Baron inwardly sighed. The fools, could they not see the weakness
revealed in that simple statement? It was something he had learned in his
years of study and it had come to him with a crystal clarity. The wars
against other races, the ritual of Sivar, were designed above all else as a
civilizing factor to the race of the Kilrathi, to quite simply keep them
from killing each other. Aggressive combat, the instinct to hunt and to kill
was far too close to the surface. Within the hrai, the clan and families
were controlled by the rigid system of caste. But the clan instinct only
extended as far as the clan. Though all might espouse the concept that they
were Kilrathi it was only in the face of a prey outside of themselves. War
and Sivar were essential for the survival of the race, to keep it from
killing itself off and nothing more. It was something he did not discuss,
for to even question the divinity of Sivar as nothing more than a social
tool would be his ruin.
All the wars had so well served that purpose, the humans, the Hari, the
Gorth, Sorn, Ka, and Utara. Thank Sivar for the Utara who in their
foolishness had come to Kilrah in peace, gave them space travel as a
friendly gesture, and died as a result. If it had not been so, we would have
destroyed ourselves when the secret of atomics came into our hands, the
Baron thought, even as he surveyed the other clan leaders in the room.
Aggressive races rarely survived the move into technology and made it to the
point where space offered them an outlet.
He looked around the table. Qar'ka was a fool, Vak not much better;
they would not see such things. All they knew was that there was no war for
the moment and the pressure within their own hrai was building, petty
quarreling, long forgotten feuds building to the flashing of claw daggers.
And yet, when Vak had turned to Qar'ka and offered him Jukaga as an opponent
that they could unite against, Qar'ka was ready to agree.
"The feuding in the palace must stop," Jukaga said coldly. his mane
still flushed outward.
"And I say you are not the Emperor to so order me," Vak snapped in
reply.
Jukaga smiled.
"Is he really our Emperor?"
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Are you mad?" Qar'ka asked
"He and that fool grandson have led us into one too many disasters,"
Jukaga replied coldly.
"How many of us have lost our sons, the best of our hrai, to the
Terrans? How many of us have listened to our first chosen ones and
concubines crying at night, their faces buried in their pillows to muffle
the sobs, crying for those lost in this war?"
The other hrai leaders lowered their heads and even Vak, who only
moments before wanted to knife him, nodded in agreement.
"Vak, you lost your first born of your first litter at Vukar Tag, I
know, I saw his gallantry, his heroic death when he tried to ram the enemy
carrier. He died kabaka, his soul winging to Sivar for his courage."
Vak looked up at Jukaga, his eyes cold with anger at the wasted death
of his eldest son. Jukaga almost felt guilty for so easily manipulating him
thus.
"He would be alive today, sitting by your side, sharing your feasting
cup but for the Emperor. It was the Emperor that ordered the splitting of
the fleet and Thrakhath agreed. If all our carriers were there for that
fight we would have smashed the Confederation and pressed the war to
victory. I was blamed and you now know the lie of that. I languished in
exile, expecting at any moment that the Emperor's poisoner would come."
He looked around the room and stood up.
"We must stay united, we must control our hrai and stop this petty
feuding which threatens to turn the palace into a slaughter pit. Don't you
think the Emperor is quietly encouraging us thus to fight against each
other, to thus keep us from standing united against him?"
He could see more than one nod of agreement to his statement and smiled
"Then start the war now!" Qar'ka snarled. "End this ridiculous farce.
We have lulled the humans to sleep, now let us rip their throats out and be
done with it."
Qar'ka hesitated for a moment as if not willing to speak.
"We must finish it before the Mantu return," he said quietly, "and take
us in the back while we still fight the Confederation."
The others looked over nervously at Qar'ka and then back to Jukaga
Jukaga nodded and said nothing. Just after the defeat at Vukar, a
report had come in from a deep space remote probe, far beyond the edge of
Hari space, a probe so far removed that it had taken a year even to bring it
in. There was an indication that the Mantu, who had once before invaded
Kilrathi space, had completed their war against an unknown neighbor and
might very well return. Seventy years past there had been a brief encounter
with them, and though the fight had been a draw, it was suspected that the
Mantu might in fact be far superior in their weapons technology. They had
disappeared, drawing back to fight other foes, but it was always suspected
that there would come a day when the Mantu might turn their full attention
on the Empire, a concern that deeply troubled Jukaga as he watched their
resources being spilled against the humans.
Jukaga turned away and pointed at a long list of figures displayed by a
holo projector.
"This war against the Confederation has lasted over thirty years, the
borders barely shifting after our first gains. War is not just fighting, it
is economics, and resources, and production and morale and perhaps most
importantly the learning of the way our enemy thinks. I know some of you
might scoff at such concerns but that last factor has been my chief concern
and responsibility."
"You and the nobles of your hrai have remained safe at home, playing
with numbers and reading while we spill our blood," Vak laughed coldly.
"Without the weapons my hrai designed and the intelligence my spies and
remote devices have gained, you would have been frozen meat floating in
space," Jukaga replied.
"He speaks the truth," Talmak of the Sutaghi interjected before Vak
could reply. "Now let him finish. If Thrakhath had listened to Jukaga's
concerns before Vukar the battle would have turned out far differently."
"The war had become a balanced match without end in sight until now,"
Jukaga continued. "We almost had the edge until Vukar and their raid to our
base on our moon. If it had not been for Thrakhath and the Emperor, as I
already said, we might very well have taken Earth.
"Earth, that has always been the key, and Thrakhath forgot that. A
human warrior once wrote that in war one must find the focal point that will
cause the collapse of his enemy and then throw all resources against it
"This time I want no mistakes. Give this armistice just a little more
time until the enemy is asleep and our secret fleet is completed. Let the
fools get used to peace. Let them believe in this friendship. Let our secret
fleet continue to be built even as we make a show of decommissioning our
current ships. Then we will strike and crush them."
"But the Sivar," Vak replied. "Where is the Sivar to be this year? Our
people demand that."
"You have the prisoners that we have kept hidden, do it to them,"
Jukaga replied coldly.
"Prisoners, there is no honor in that. I still say that in eight eight
of days, when Sivar comes, then we should launch our strike and turn the
rivers of Earth red with the blood of the slaughter."
"And I tell you that it must be yet five eighty of days. Look at the
charts, can't you see the truth in them?" and he pointed to the wall."
"War is not simple numbers, it is blood," Vak snorted.
"Four more carriers at Vukar is a simple number, Vak and that number is
the difference between your first born still floating in space, his body
unclaimed, versus his living and breathing this day."
Vak snarled and Jukaga was not sure for a moment if the anger was aimed
at him, or at the humiliation over the useless death of a son.
"Listen to me, my takhars," and he deliberately chose the word which
meant brothers of equal rank. He looked around the room and saw that even
Vak was at last willing to listen, unable to argue with the cold facts of
numbers.
"Let the plan unfold. When the time is ripe, over a dozen carriers will
leap forward, slashing through their near defenseless border region. Before
they can even hope to mobilize, we will jump straight to Earth, and there I
promise you a slaughter like no other. In our plan we already have our
agents at work, weakening their will to fight, ready as well to kill their
leaders of war when the time is right. When we cut the heart out of the
Terran Confederation, then in the years to come we can go at our leisure
from planet to planet, saving some for Sivar, others destroying if they are
a threat. Thus we will win, and thus we will be ready as well if our old
enemy the Mantu should again return."
He settled back in his chair and waited. Vak looked around the room,
saw the nods of agreement and finally lowered his head.
"The feud stops, you have my support," he said quietly.
Jukaga did not allow himself to show his teeth in a gesture of triumph.
"Then I have the promise of all of you to control your hrai in the
palace."
"It will be difficult, but it will be done," Qar'ka finally said. "But
what of your other words about the Emperor?"
Jukaga nodded.
"In the days to come just consider this. He is old, he will not live
forever. When he goes to his fathers, Thrakhath will take the golden throne.
Given the leadership both have shown, do we truly want them to lead us to
our final victory, or even more importantly against the threat of the Mantu
if they should return?"
"Are you suggesting the breaking of our oath-sworn word?" Vak asked.
Jukaga slowly shook his head.
"Just that I want you to consider my question, nothing more, Jukaga
replied. "Other than that I suggest nothing."
Vak smiled, and for an instant Jukaga was not sure if it was a sign of
aggression at himself or towards the Emperor and without another word he got