Destiny's Forge Read online

  But Ayla would have known about them, and she would have known how to deal with interception. There was a way to survive the situation.

  Ayla…Is she even alive? He felt his stomach tighten. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that she might not be. She was with Pouncer, she had the protection of the Rrit, and he had now come to understand fully what that meant. She would not die while the Patriarch’s son lived. But Pouncer remained a fugitive on his own world, and his body would only stop the first beam. It was the Tzaatz who were in control of the spaceport, and the operation had gone badly wrong. Had that last tank round killed her, or injured her so badly she couldn’t avoid capture? The Tzaatz would search now, and if they caught her they would put her in the hunt park.

  In combat all is chaos.

  —Si-Rrit

  Crystal iron penetrators stitched the ground around Provider, but none came dangerously close. Two full swords of Tzaatz had arrived almost immediately after the Tskombe-kz’zeerkti’s shots had alerted them, but too late to stop the sprinting alien from getting aboard the Swiftwing. The Tzaatz were firing at the ship now, not him, but their use of energy weapons justified his own. He aimed the magrifle and fired, controlled bursts that killed two immediately. The advance stopped as the enemy took cover, but now they knew there was another threat out there. Once they located him it was only a matter of time before he died; the numbers allowed no other result. The smart option would be to take advantage of the confusion and escape.

  Honor had other demands. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would have heard the shots and be on his way as quickly as possible. The other humans would need cover fire to get to the ship, and he was the only one who could provide it. He could not leave, but…

  “Son, find the other humans, guide them here!”

  Far Hunter had moved to cover behind a large shipping container, his crossbow leveled at the Tzaatz but far out of range. “I cannot leave you here!”

  Provider half turned to face his son, feeling the kill rage swell in his liver. “By your name I command your obedience! Go!”

  “Father—”

  Provider locked eyes with his son. “Go!”

  There was a final hesitation, then…“At once, sire!” Far Hunter left at a sprint and Provider returned to his weapon, sending a burst toward a half sword of Tzaatz skirmishing forward to better fire positions. Sending his son as a guide was a smart decision. Armed with only hand weapons he could not help here, and having him guide in the aliens would save time. It would also keep Far Hunter out of the line of fire, a consideration he did not admit to himself was more important to him even than his honor. Rounds stitched the area around him, none too close. It was still spec fire; they hadn’t spotted him yet. That wouldn’t last long.

  Across the landing bay a Tzaatz showed his head from behind a gravloader. Provider pumped a round into the vehicle drive compartment. Its power cell shorted and the vehicle vanished in a blinding flash, throwing burning wreckage across the bay. One threat gone, regardless of his mag armor. His position wasn’t bad: down on the ground, partially covered by the fibercrete footings of some unfinished structure. The sun was high, and thermal sensors would have trouble picking him out against the warm backdrop. How long till First-Son brought the humans? Far Hunter had only left moments ago, but the distance was not large. Far across the spaceport he saw movement and he took a second to sight on it through the magrifle’s searchscope: a full sword of Tzaatz in grav belts deploying in response to the alarms. He didn’t waste his precious few rounds on such difficult targets. The enemy across the landing bay were the more immediate threat. More rounds slammed into the courier ship. If the human managed to get its weapons up and running that would make a tremendous difference, but could the alien do that? The courier’s drives where whining as it powered up. At least it was wasting no time.

  Provider fired again, this burst knocking a Tzaatz off his rapsar, but his target landed in a roll and bounded to his feet again. The Tzaatz had their mag armor powered up now, and the time of easy killing was over. He was sighted on another Tzaatz but his target dodged behind cover before he could stabilize the shot. The whine of the courier’s thrusters spiked and vanished into the supersonic, and an instant later there was a violent crunch. He looked up to see the Swiftwing skidding across the bay, dragging crushed ground equipment in a shower of sparks, its loading ramp still extended. It lifted again, spun around and was suddenly gone in a blur. Across the bay containers, equipment and Tzaatz alike flew through the air in the wake of the thruster’s reaction pulse.

  Provider didn’t hesitate. The human was gone. It hadn’t seemed the type to embrace the shame of cowardice, but who could judge the rules of alien honor? Suffice that his own duty obligation was now discharged. Now he had to find his son. He emptied the remaining magrifle bolts at a formation of heavy assault rapsari moving across the field in the distance, then abandoned the weapon and ran into the forest of containers. Cover, for a time. Far Hunter would be there somewhere, hopefully with First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. It was time to go. He moved off at a lope, inhaling deeply to follow his son’s familiar scent trail. He covered the ground easily, formulating a plan as he moved. They would meet up, return to the gravcar, leave the way they came, boosting high and fast, without stealth. The Tzaatz would be unlikely to stop a vehicle leaving the spaceport; their concern would be directed outward, but if he and his companions were stopped, then fleeing the firefight was all the excuse they needed. The preoccupied Tzaatz would not question that.

  He rounded a stack of shipping containers and sniffed left, sniffed right, chose the righthand path. Far Hunter’s scent was faint, for he had been moving fast; farther on it would be heavier as his exertion made him sweat. Where was he? Time was short. Another intersection, but before he could assess the scent trail the slap of air suddenly ionized by high-powered lasers sent him to cover. The Swiftwing was coming back, its turrets stabbing fire at something he couldn’t see. A series of flashes blossomed on its hull and he had sudden knowledge of the nature of its targets, born of the beltful of campaigns he’d fought as Tank Leader. Medium laser hits—the Tzaatz were bringing up combat cars. That was a bad thing.

  He heard movement and froze: footfalls, heading fast for the landing bay, enough for three kzin and two aliens. Why were they going in that direction? Surely they’d seen the Swiftwing take flight, and the humans had communications. Was Tskombe-kz’zeerkti coming back to the landing bay?

  No time for theories; he had to link up with them. He launched himself down the narrow corridor between the racked containers to intercept, came around a corner.

  Found himself face to face with four Tzaatz and two harrier rapsari, managed to brake before he actually collided with them.

  “Halt!” The lead Tzaatz snarled the command by reflex, as startled as Provider was. For a split second he considered running, but the Tzaatz carried beamrifles as well as hand weapons. Did the rules of honor apply with a heavy weapons firefight going on overhead? If he stood his ground the rules would apply, and he could fight. If he ran they would not, and the beamrifles would cut him in half before he’d gone two leaps.

  “I halt for no Tzaatz.” He snarled the words defiantly, but he had halted. His crossbow was gone and so he drew his variable sword.

  “You’ll die for that insult, carrion eater.” The lead Tzaatz was big, well muscled, his fur laced with white lines that marked battle scars, his belt heavy with the ears of his enemies.

  Provider adjusted his stance. “Leap if you dare, sthondat. I was a warrior before your father lost his spots.”

  The Tzaatz flicked his tail. “You’d like me to leap, wouldn’t you, old one? You’d like a quick death in combat and some honor for your name—not that you have a name.” The contempt in the officer’s voice was as clear as it was casual, his voice rich in the guttural undertones of Jotok’s counterspinward dialect. “It isn’t going to be that easy for you.” He paused, sizing up Provider as though he were a game animal.
“No, for you it’s going to be very hard.” He made a gesture to one of the others. “Take him.” The Tzaatz warrior raised his weapon.

  Provider screamed his challenge and leapt, but the Tzaatz had a netgun and fired before he was halfway to his target. He landed in a ball, tightly wrapped in carbon monofilament. Instinctively he slashed with the variable sword, the molecule-wide slicewire cutting through the tough fibers with ease—but it was awkward, it took time, and they were already on him, a foot smashing into his wrist to disarm him, a beamrifle butt slamming into his head, more blows against his ribcage. He defended himself as best he could but hampered by the net, outnumbered four to one, there was little he could do. The blows rained down unceasingly, stunning him, each impact reducing his ability to avoid the next. Pain flared as bones broke, but the Tzaatz continued their assault. The harrier rapsari scented blood, moved closer, long tongues licking over razor sharp triangular teeth, hungering for their piece of the kill. Rage flooded Provider and he grabbed up his fallen variable sword with his good hand, slashing awkwardly through the shredded net. He connected with one attacker, but the slicewire glanced off shiny mag armor without effect. Another blow from behind slammed him to his knees and he rolled painfully. He stabbed upward with the sword, and the low angle let him slide it under the Tzaatz officer’s belly plate. The officer died, choking on his own blood, and all semblance of restraint vanished from the rest of the sword, devolved now into a screaming mob, punishing him with blows from all sides. Perhaps the intent had been to take him alive; now their only goal was to kill. A weapon slammed into the back of Provider’s head and he pitched forward to lie motionless, still half covered by the net. One of the harrier rapsari sank its teeth into his ankle, sawing at it wildly, but Provider didn’t move.

  From the edge of the landing bay Far Hunter watched them beating his father as another sword of Tzaatz mounted on rapsari raiders arrived on the scene. He had given up searching for First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, had realized when the courier came over that the aliens and the Patriarch’s heir would no longer be moving toward him. He had turned around to find his father, had spotted him just heartbeats before the Tzaatz had netted him. He had fought down the instant rage that demanded he attack at once; he was no good to his father dead. Honor demanded vengeance, but today was not the day he would have it. Instead he watched the fight, watched as they dragged the lifeless body away like a netted griltor, watched until the Tzaatz were out of sight, his claws rigidly extended, ears laid flat, fangs bared.

  Only when they were gone did he stand. There was little time if he wanted to escape, but honor came first. Very deliberately he hooked one claw beneath the skin above his right eye, feeling it stab, fresh and sharp. He dragged it slowly, excruciatingly down and across the bridge of his nose, felt his other claws dig in as he did so, continued down to the opposite cheek, tearing the flesh deep enough that he felt bone beneath his claw. Blood welled up in the open wounds and he breathed hard against the pain. The wound would scar—visible evidence of the vengeance oath he swore in snarls through his clenched teeth. Blood dripped down into his right eye and he wiped it away. Neither his blood nor his pain mattered, would ever matter again. The only thing that mattered was that the day would come when he would swim in the blood of the Tzaatz. There would be a search now, and the blood might bring the sniffers, but the spaceport was large and had many places to hide, and he was used to covering his tracks in close country. His lips twitched over his fangs as he waited for the sun to slide to the horizon. Night would bring the first taste of his vengeance to the Tzaatz, but not the last. His tail lashed unconsciously as he laid his plans. No, not the last by far. Father, you have taught me well.

  No plan survives enemy contact.

  —Anonymous

  The Swiftwing rocked as another tank round hit it, and a second tank penetrator slammed into the already wrecked storage building behind Ayla, spraying razor shards of fibercrete, knocking her to the ground. She looked up, momentarily dazed. Pouncer and T’suuz had vanished; Brasseur lay sprawled on his side where the concussion of the first impact had thrown him. He stirred feebly—not dead as she had thought, but certainly dying. No time to worry about that now; the kzinti couldn’t be far, and they wouldn’t leave without her. Kefan needed help, but Tskombe was more important right now. She reached up to key her comlink but the concussion had torn her lapel mike away. She cursed, willing him to do as she had told him, and she sighed in relief as the Swiftwing pitched up and then boosted skyward, shrinking to a silver dot in seconds, leaving behind the double bang of a sonic boom. Incandescent lines stabbed after it from the combat car’s lasers, and she held her breath, fearing the sudden fireball that would signal the death of her lover. It didn’t come, but she watched the empty patch of sky where the ship had vanished for long seconds after she knew it had to be safely out of range.

  There was a momentary silence and a strange feeling came over her. Quacy was gone. Her ticket off-world was gone. She looked down and met Brasseur’s gaze, glassy and unfocused. They were in serious trouble, trapped on this alien world and surrounded by heavily armed and now thoroughly enraged enemy carnivores. She shook herself. Time to succumb to that later; first she had to get the hell out of the spaceport. She looked around, spotted the two kzinti behind a cluster of storage drum. She looked around, saw no Tzaatz either, and beckoned them over.

  “Where is…” Pouncer’s voice trailed off. Brasseur looked bad, skin pasty, eyes now rolled up to show only whites, with blood trickling from his mouth and ears.

  Pouncer’s eyes met hers. “Your companion is dead.”

  “Not yet he isn’t.” The words came without thought as another part of her brain took over, running through the steps of combat first aid that she’d trained on a thousand times. Secure the area, assess the casualty, check airway, check breathing, check circulation. Already there was a problem because he wasn’t breathing anymore and there was no pulse in his neck. And the area isn’t secure either, so who cares? With head injury and an immobile casualty you have to be aware of spinal trauma. She found herself snarling orders to the others about how to hold him, how to roll him over in one smooth motion to avoid doing further damage, and she tried to hold him steady while she gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. That was a risk she’d have to take. And his tongue lolled limply, and you weren’t supposed to use your own fingers to clear it in case the casualty bit them off in a sudden seizure, but she did anyway because there was no time and he was dead anyway. She knew it, knew it as soon as they’d rolled him over and she’d seen how the side of his skull was caved in, but she was trained to continue CPR until medical assistance arrived or there was no hope left, and it took a person half an hour to die completely, so she carried on, breath in to inflate his chest, then twelve quick pumps on his ribcage to restart his heart, at least to keep blood moving through his brain, breath, pump, and repeat and repeat and repeat. She knew it was useless because medical assistance wouldn’t be arriving and he needed an autodoc immediately, if not a surgeon, and the nearest one of either was light-hours away at the edge of the singularity. She kept on because not to keep on would be to abandon the only other human on the planet and Tskombe had just boosted for Earth without her and she didn’t want to think about that.

  And he had to do it, and I told him to do it. The end result was that he was gone, and it would have been harder if she was the one on the ship and had been forced to leave him behind. So she kept on, with tears in her eyes though she wasn’t crying and it seemed like hours before Pouncer interrupted her, though the alarms were still sounding and so it could only have been minutes.

  “Cherenkova-Captain, we must leave now.”

  When she wiped the tears away they came away red with Brasseur’s blood, which was smeared all over her face. She looked down and saw where her pumping had spread the blood from his crushed temple, and she knew that even if she revived him he would need life support that was available nowhere on this alien planet. And she knew that tho
ught was irrelevant because he was far beyond anyone’s ability to revive; even if he’d suffered those injuries already inside a fully equipped autodoc he was gone. The living network of neurons that made up the person that was Kefan Brasseur was mangled beyond repair, and there was no power in the universe that could undo that.

  And still she didn’t want to give up on him for reasons she didn’t even want to understand. She stared down at the body as though through a fog. “We can’t leave him here.”

  Pouncer put a heavy, soft paw on her shoulder, a surprisingly human gesture. “He is dead. May your gods find his spirit.”

  She shook her head. “We can’t leave him here.”

  Pouncer didn’t argue further, he just picked up Brasseur’s body like he was a rag doll, all caution for spinal injuries forgotten. “The sniffers will follow us easily. We must get back to the gravcar.”

  “No!” T’suuz spoke the Hero’s Tongue for the first time since they’d entered Hero’s Square, her snarled words urgent. “The Tzaatz will be there already. We must find another vehicle.”

  “A combat car.”

  “A transporter; they will miss a combat car immediately.”

  “You are wise, sister.” Pouncer snarled his agreement. “Can you carry the other monkey?” For a moment Ayla didn’t realize he was speaking of her, and then T’suuz was picking her up, putting her on her back, and both kzin were running at a steady lope. T’suuz didn’t have the thick mane that Pouncer did, but she had enough fur for Ayla to hang on. So T’suuz can speak and fight after all. Kefan would have wanted to see that. She found the rhythm of the kzinrette’s lope and let go with one hand to draw her oversized sidearm. Kefan would not see anything any longer. She had spent all the time she could on grief. Now she had to focus on survival, or she wouldn’t live much longer herself.