Destiny's Forge Read online

  He found himself watching her, thinking of their time together when they were home, making plans for their careers that would allow them to be together. In their current situation such thoughts were fragile, and dangerous. He hadn’t shared them with her, though he imagined that she was thinking the same thing. Maybe it was how beautiful she looked as she straddled him, because she was beautiful, and grew more so to his eyes every day.

  She was sitting cross legged beneath the glowlamps, working on her beltcomp. She looked up and smiled. “We are getting out of here.”

  Maintenes vous bien loiaux franchois je vous en pry.

  (Stand fast, loyal Frenchmen, I pray you)

  —Joan of Arc to the citizens of Tournai, June 25, 1429

  Captain Lars Detringer looked out through the bridge transpax at the distant, brilliant flare that was 61 Ursae Majoris, brighter than the full moon from Earth even at this distance. He bit his lip and considered his options. The diplomatic party had not uplinked a report in days. Accordingly he had sent a query to the kzinti defensive sphere commander. There had been no answer. Then his omnipresent escort of Hunt-class battleships had tightbeamed perfunctory apologies and then vanished into hyperspace. Now the entire kzinti command network seemed to have gone off the air, and what traffic his antennas had managed to snag out of the ether was fragmented. Ships had boosted out of orbit like hornets from a disturbed nest; other ships had appeared around the singularity’s edge and fallen in under maximum thrust and in attack formations. If he didn’t know better he would say there was a war underway. Except there were none of the sharp electromagnetic bursts that marked the discharge of gamma ray lasers, no sudden peaks in coded traffic that marked fleet-to-fleet engagements, no distress calls from damaged warships.

  Detringer turned away from the view and paced. The bridge crew got out the way; they knew better than to disturb the captain in this kind of mood. His concern had grown to worry as the time since the group’s last report had stretched out. That report had been very positive, and then…nothing. The worry hadn’t gone away now that the unusual activity in the system seemed to have quieted down again. There was still no contact with his diplomatic party, and still no answer to his queries on the kzinti command net. He had considerable freedom of action in commanding a capital ship on detached duty, but there were few courses open to him. He couldn’t leave and abandon the team on the ground. He couldn’t boost into the kzinti singularity without provoking a diplomatic incident, and perhaps a fight against odds that even Crusader couldn’t handle. He had hyperwaved a report to the UN, but it would be weeks yet before he would get an answer, and the answer was likely to leave the solution to his own discretion.

  And the news coming in on hyperwave wasn’t reassuring either. In the General Assembly Muro Ravalla’s faction was mounting a hard press for power, and Secretary Desjardins was having trouble holding his coalition together in the face of it. Ravalla was a strident voice for preemptive war to “contain the Patriarchy while it was still containable,” in his own words, although the rest of his rhetoric left little doubt he would go far beyond containment if given a free hand. Wunderland was continuing its aggressive military buildup, and it wasn’t entirely clear if it was aimed at the kzinti or at the UN. Jinx and We Made It and Plateau had formed a Colonial Coalition, and were encouraging other colonies to join as a counterweight to UN hegemony. War within Known Space wasn’t impossible, and Detringer didn’t want to make the choices that would inevitably force on him.

  He spun around to look out at 61 Ursae Majoris again, squinting at it as though he could somehow pick up the invisible pinprick that was Kzinhome, and thereby discover what was going on down there. Ayla Cherenkova is smart and competent, and she’s with a good team. Whatever is happening she’ll get a message out somehow, or get here herself. He had to believe it was true, or there was no point in waiting as he had waited, as he would wait until he got explicit orders to leave. It was a course of action he was unwilling to follow, its only merit being that it was better than any other. He did have faith in her; he’d seen what she could do as their careers had paralleled each other over the years. Her colleagues had seemed equally competent, equally qualified. If anyone could handle the situation, whatever that situation was, they could, he was convinced. Except there are three of them against a world of predators, and something has gone drastically wrong. If he knew nothing else he knew that. Skill and competence could only take you so far in a situation like that, and then you needed luck, and a lot of it.

  There was nothing to do but wait. He turned on his heel and started pacing once more.

  Alea iacta est.

  (The die is cast.)

  —Julius Caesar at the Rubicon

  Days later they made their attempt. It was stiflingly hot beneath the grashi cages in the back of Provider’s gravcar, and the stagnant air mingled their musk with the gingery scent of kzin. Tskombe was lying flat on his back in the vehicle’s cargo bed with the board that supported the cages a handspan from his nose, his magrifle digging uncomfortably into his chest, and crushed between T’suuz and Pouncer tight enough that breathing was difficult. The space had been built for just the three humans, and with the two kzinti packed in it was claustrophobic, to say the least. Far Hunter and Provider were flying the gravcar to the spaceport, just another meal run for the hungry Tzaatz who guarded it, or so they hoped. Cargo Pilot had identified a Swiftwing for them, fueled, serviced and now delayed on the ground while the V’rarr Pride delegates it was to take to hyperspace finished some convoluted negotiation with the Tzaatz. While they did that the humans were going to steal their ship. There was a final council of war around Provider’s big table, debating the best strategy to get to the ship. Everyone had thought it was a bad idea to bring Pouncer; his presence increased the risk of detection, increased the danger if detection did occur, and did not materially improve their chances of success. Pouncer, of course, had insisted on coming. His honor demanded no less than his personal presence for those his pride was sworn to protect, and now Tskombe muttered subvocal curses at a species that held honor higher than common sense. The plan now was that Pouncer would escort them aboard the Swiftwing and see them away, at which point Provider would take him and T’suuz over the Mooncatcher Mountains to the jungle and whatever refuge they could find there. If any of them survived that long.

  They bumped down, and he heard muted snarls from above, not quite loud enough for him to follow the conversation, though he recognized Far Hunter’s voice. Then the clang of steel cage bars and the now familiar squeal of grashi about to be eaten as Far Hunter traded food for strakh with the Tzaatz perimeter guards. Tskombe tried not to breathe as the snarls came closer. Was there a sniffer? Several times he thought he heard something snuffling, questing after him. But after a time the thrusters whined and the gravcar lifted off, and very shortly touched down again. The plastic sheeting that had concealed them was stripped off and he found himself blinking in the sunlight.

  “Quickly.” Provider’s voice was a muted growl. “This is as close as we can get.”

  Pouncer leapt out of the space, and Tskombe rolled over and followed him awkwardly. Pouncer and the other kzinti carried crossbows and variable swords; the humans had the weapons Yiao-Rrit had given them in the Citadel, a time that already seemed to belong to someone else’s life. Tskombe’s magrifle was in a fabric sheath that he carried on his back like a slave’s packload. T’suuz and the humans were all on leashes, a move designed to reduce suspicion. Humans were almost unheard-of on Kzin, but the leashes implied they were under kzin control and thus not dangerous.

  At least that was the theory. They had modified their collars to break away with a tug in an emergency, but Tskombe still found it galling to be led around by Provider. Cherenkova’s face showed her discomfort plainly, but Brasseur seemed unfazed. Had he done this before on W’kkai for his research? Tskombe didn’t want to ask. Far Hunter beckoned and they moved off.

  The gravcar had landed in a y
ard full of freight containers next to the ship bay where the Swiftwing was grounded, and a couple of hundred meters away a group of Jotoki slaves were working to unload a careworn freighter. Further away a handful of kzinti discussed something with lashing tails, and the sounds of their snarling conversation occasionally rose above the thrum of machinery that pervaded the port. Nobody seemed to have noticed them, and they set off, Far Hunter leading. They traveled in two groups, Tskombe with Provider and Far Hunter, Cherenkova and Brasseur with Pouncer and T’suuz. The humans had communications through their beltcomps if they needed them. Again the goal was to reduce suspicion. Tzaatz patrols were heavy throughout the port, but Cargo Pilot’s information was that the Swiftwing was empty. If they made it that far they were safe, or at least safer. If they were caught before then their odds of making it out alive were vanishingly slight.

  Almost on cue a pair of rapsar raiders came around the corner of the terminal building. The Jotoki immediately prostrated themselves to the Tzaatz riders, and the arguing kzinti stopped to look up. The reptilian raiders sniffed the air while the Tzaatz scanned the area. Tskombe forced himself to relax and walk casually, not even looking in the guard’s direction. How will kzinti know if a human is walking casually? They wouldn’t, most especially not at two hundred meters. Still he couldn’t suppress the reflex. They turned a corner, found themselves in a long alley between stacked containers, and he keyed his com.

  “Cherenkova, Tskombe, are they following us?”

  “Negative. They’ve moved off around the terminal. We’re leaving the gravcar now, staying about a hundred meters behind you.”

  “Acknowledged.” Even now her voice touches my soul.

  “The Swiftwing is in the next ship bay,” Far Hunter said. “On the other side of this yard.”

  “Let’s just keep walking.”

  They continued in silence past ranked cargo containers, each coded with the dots and commas of the kzinti script. Far Hunter walked just a little distance away—far enough to respond to any attack on Provider and Tskombe, not so far as to be obviously in a defensive posture. It seemed to take forever to thread their way through the storage yard, but then they passed the last container and a parked gravlifter. The Swiftwing was in the center of the ship bay, ramp closed.

  And there were the Tzaatz guards again with their rapsari. They must have paralleled the group. The leader gestured peremptorily. “You! With the slaves. Come here.”

  One of the Tzaatz beckoned imperiously and Tskombe felt his whole body tense, but Provider simply moved as the Tzaatz commanded. His voice was a muted snarl. “Their mag armor is off. They are suspicious, no more. No one can see us here. If there is a problem we will take them silently at close range.”

  “As you command, Father.” Far Hunter’s voice was calm.

  “Kz’zeerkti, you are to cover the beasts with your weapon. Fire only if you have to.”

  “Got it.” Tskombe could barely get the words out. Would the Tzaatz smell his fear? Of course they would, but a slave amongst kzinti would be expected to be afraid.

  They drew close to the riders. Far Hunter claw-raked, Provider did not.

  “How are you known?” The Tzaatz bore rank tattoos on his ears, but Tskombe didn’t know how to read them.

  “I am Provider, once Tank Leader of the M’nank Conquest to Avenari. This is my son, Far Hunter.”

  “And what are you doing here?” There was suspicion in the guard’s voice.

  “I owe my half brother strakh, and will gain much shipping this slave off-world.”

  “Hero’s Square is the place for trading, old one.”

  “My half brother is not coming to the market.”

  “Hrrr…” The Tzaatz paused, considering. “What type of slave is this?”

  “Kz’zeerkti.”

  “So I thought.” The Tzaatz paused, scrutinizing Tskombe. “Where did you get it?”

  “It came to me from a noble who owed me strakh for saving his life.”

  “We are searching for three kz’zeerkti. Perhaps this is one of them. You must bring it before Chruul-Commander.”

  Provider claw-raked. “With respect, I cannot.”

  “You have no choice.” The Tzaatz drew his variable sword to emphasize his point, but before he could extend it Provider had drawn his own and decapitated him. Far Hunter screamed and leapt for the second Tzaatz, but the warrior had backpedaled his mount, and Provider’s son found himself latched on to the reptilian creature’s throat and underbelly with teeth and claws. The rapsar screamed in pain and ripped its assailant loose with its foreclaws. Far Hunter fell to the ground bleeding, and then the Tzaatz turned the raider and spurred it away.

  As soon as Provider had moved Tskombe had ripped off the slave collar and backed up three paces, instinctively pulling the mag rifle over his shoulder and stripping the concealing sleeve off it. As the second Tzaatz fled he rolled to the ground and into firing position. Fire only in emergency. This certainly counted: if the Tzaatz got away their escape would be compromised. The butt of the weapon found his shoulder as his eye found the scope. Short bursts, he reminded himself; the kzin built weapon had a ferocious kick. Breathe out, breathe in and squeeze…

  The magrifle roared and three crystal iron penetrators blasted through the back of the Tzaatz’s unpowered mag armor like tissue paper. The warrior’s body exploded in a mist of blood and shattered bone, and the penetrators, barely impeded by the impacts, carried on to decapitate the rapsar as well. Two kilometers away a spherical hydrogen storage bubble exploded into a ball of almost invisible blue flames. For long seconds the weapon’s echoes reverberated over the noise of the port, and then the dull rumble of the tank’s explosion reached them. For another second there was only silence, and then the alarms went off.

  There was a paw on his shoulder, pulling him to his feet. His instincts told him to fire but the kzin’s grip would not allow it, and then he recognized Provider. “Kz’zeerkti! Get on the ship! My son and I will stay here to guide the others to you.”

  And Tskombe realized he would never again see either of these two enemy aliens who had risked their lives to save him. What can I say at a moment like this? Words from his childhood floated back. “Salaam alychem”—go with peace, the ancient prayer of Mohammed in his father’s rusty Arabic.

  “Run!” Provider took the magrifle from him and pushed him toward the Swiftwing. In the distance he could see Tzaatz units responding to the emergency, though none knew yet what the emergency was. He had some time, not much. He ran, arriving forty seconds and three hundred meters later trembling and out of breath, then spent another panicked minute trying to open the cover that protected the ship’s ramp release. Finally he got it open, punched the button and the ramp hissed down. He took two more seconds to look for Ayla and Brasseur before he ran in, and then he had to spend another thirty seconds getting the cockpit unsealed. Once inside Tskombe strapped himself in to the oversized acceleration couch fumbling to find the adjustments to bring it close enough to the controls for him to reach them. Start the checklist, get everything running. When Ayla got there she’d only have to strap in and boost.

  He started running down the items he’d memorized in countless simulation runs. Primary power, on; check power cell level, it was orange which was good; light hydrogen tanks, purged; primary cooling, on and pressurized; tritium deuteride feed—on, wait for the fuel state to stabilize. He looked out the window, saw Provider open fire on a half a dozen rapsar-mounted Tzaatz who were moving into the launch bay. Was he allowed to do that? No time for the complexities of the honor code. The thirty seconds it took for the fusion reaction to heat up and stabilize seemed to last an eternity. Outside the window the fight was stalemated, both sides forced to cover behind cargo containers, but that would only last until the Tzaatz brought up reinforcements. Thruster power, on; thruster check, forward, rear, port, starboard—all on and all off, positive; transponder on; a glance to check the clearance code symbols scrawled on the back of his han
d and too much time to get them entered, and then pray the space defense weapons recognized the code; autopilot—should be on but they wouldn’t have time to load the course data, so off. Where are you, Ayla? Boarding ramp—leave it open, have to remember to close it when she got on. A crystal iron slug spanged off the transpax, leaving a gray smear and making his hands shake with adrenaline. Weren’t the kzinti forbidden the use of such weapons? What were the rules? Stick with the checklist. Out-com—skip it. In-com—skip it. Navigation—skip that too. Life support—on. A warning light flashed—hull integrity breach, and the loading ramp whined shut to turn it off. It took him an eternal minute to find the override to re-extend it.

  Come on, Ayla! He toggled his beltcomp, talked into the microphone. “Cherenkova, this is Tskombe, where the hell are you?”

  “There’s more Tzaatz in the container yard. We’ve had to pull back. I can’t get to the ship.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Back at the other bay near the gravcar. We can’t see Provider or Far Hunter.”

  “Hang on, I’ll bring the ship to you.”

  Deep breath—you’ve done this a thousand times on the simulator. But this was no simulator, this was an alien starship and he was in the middle of a firefight and that wasn’t a simulation either. His pilot, his partner, his lover was out there and he had to get her aboard. Ground combat is my job, Ayla, you should be flying the ship.

  More slugs rang off the hull. Mag armor! He reached over, flipped the switch, saw the transpax view get dimmer as the high gauss field forced the molecules into some semblance of a polarizer. What else was he forgetting? Flight information displays to atmospheric, what else? No time for anything else. He put his hands on the controls, dialed in power and biased the polarizers backward. The Swiftwing shuddered, and he fed in power and bias together. The courier parted company with the landing apron and lurched into the air. The simulator had never lurched, and Tskombe cut power instinctively, causing the ship to drop like a rock from three meters. In desperation he shoved the power back on, preventing a complete crash, but the ship still hit the ground hard, the forward momentum it had picked up in the short hop sending it skidding over a repair trolley with a sickening crunch. No time to assess the damage; power back on, gently this time, shift thrusters back and swing. The principle was the same as a combat car, but the Swiftwing was tremendously cumbersome. And they call this a light ship. He’d always wondered why battleships maneuvered with such ponderous care. Now he knew.