Conquerors' Legacy

22

The animal was lying half-propped up against a tree, one of its sharp-edged horns wedged into a leaf cluster. Three men—two Peacekeepers and a civilian—were standing in a silent group around it. "Okay, let's have it," Holloway said. "Doctor?"

"Nightbear was right, Colonel," the doctor said. "It's halucine disease."

"Terrific," Holloway said. "All right, give me the bottom line."

"It's bad enough," the doctor said. "But it's not as bad as it could be. The halucine virus is waterborne, but it's easily neutralized or filtered. Even if any gets through, it has only a mild effect on most humans." His lips compressed briefly as he gestured down toward the dead razorhorn. "Where it's going to hurt is the game animals."

Holloway shifted his attention to the tall black-haired civilian hunter. "Any chance of tracking it back to where it picked up the virus, Nightbear? Maybe we can wipe out this batch before it spreads."

"We can try, Colonel," Nightbear said, shaking his head. "But I don't think it'll help. The scent's already in the air."

"What scent?" Takara asked.

"The altered scent of a sick razorhorn," the doctor explained. "In individual animals, it attracts predators and warns other razorhorns away. But if you get enough of them giving off the same diseased smell, it'll drive everything out of the affected area. Predator and prey both."

And the wind was blowing hard from the northeast, sending the aroma straight across the civilian bivouac area. "How soon before that happens?"

"It's already happening," Nightbear said. "The hunters have already noticed a decline in their take."

"The trappers, too," the doctor added. "I checked their numbers for the past five days. It's not too bad so far, but it's definitely there. And definitely going to get worse."

Holloway grimaced. "How long before the epidemic runs its course?"

"The last halucine outbreak in this section of the continent drove the razorhorns out of about an eight-thousand-square-kilometer area for four months," the doctor said. "The virus itself disappeared after about two, but it took another two for the animals to wander their way back again."

Holloway chewed at the inside of his cheek. Four months. And it was only three months until the beginning of winter. "All right," he said. "Nightbear, you go to the leaders of the hunting and trapping teams and get them working double time—we need to take whatever we can before the game heads off for greener pastures. Doctor, I want you to try to analyze the altered scent from this animal, see if you can come up with some way to neutralize it or cover it up. And get some teams out to the nearby streams and find out where the contamination's coming from. We might as well kill off as much of the virus as we can find."

"Yes, sir," the doctor said. "Come on, gentlemen, let's get this animal up to the encampment."

Holloway gestured to Takara, and together they headed back up the slope. "This isn't going to help," Takara commented in a low voice as they climbed. "And I think you know it. Sooner or later we're going to have no choice but to pull up stakes and get out of here."

"You have no idea what you're saying, Fuji," Holloway said. "Move twenty-five thousand civilians at least fifty kilometers across mountainous territory? And under enemy observation and probable enemy fire?"

"I didn't say I liked the idea," Takara said soberly. "I hate to think how many people we're going to lose along the way. But the longer we postpone it, the bigger the risk that we'll hit winter without a food supply built up. We do that, and we'll be guaranteeing slow starvation for all of us."

Holloway looked up at the sentry post above them, part of the perimeter of the refuge they'd worked so hard to put together. "I should have insisted they all leave," he said. "Even if we'd had to throw them bodily onto the ships."

"There wasn't enough space on the ships for all of them, Cass," Takara said. "Even if every flight here before the Zhirrzh hit had gone out full. We'd still have had at least ten thousand left."

Holloway's comm buzzed. "Ten to one it's more good news," he said sourly, pulling out the comm and flicking it on. "Holloway."

"Crane, sir," Crane's voice came. "Spotter One just picked up an aerial explosion southwest of the base."

Holloway threw a frown at Takara. As far as they'd seen, the Zhirrzh didn't use explosives. "What kind of explosion?"

"Gasperi's running an analysis on the blast spectrum," Crane said. "But all indications are that it was either a missile or a spacecraft."

A cold chill ran up Holloway's back. A spacecraft? "Get that analysis done fast," he ordered. "We'll be right there."

"Commander Cavanagh?"

Pheylan started awake. "Yes, Max?"

"We've reached the Dorcas system, Commander," the computer said. "We'll be meshing in in approximately ten minutes."

"Thank you," Pheylan said, unstrapping his sleep webbing and rubbing at his eyes. "Do we have any idea where the Peacekeepers might have holed up?"

"We have no definite information," Max said. "However, I have a general focus area based on the vectors of the supply flights I observed while Dr. Cavanagh and I were waiting for Commander Masefield's Copperhead unit to arrive."

A display came on, showing the area around the main village. "There are numerous possible bivouac sites in the mountains to the east," Max went on. "If we can get within visual range of them, the Peacekeepers should be able to do the rest."

"Let's hope they're on their toes," Pheylan said, retrieving the survival pack he'd prepared from its locker and strapping it on. "And that the Zhirrzh aren't on theirs. You sure this mesh-in plan is going to work?"

"The theory itself is perfectly sound," Max said. "The distances themselves can be calculated precisely, and Dorcas's average atmospheric density at our chosen mesh-in altitude is well within safety margins. However, as is generally the case with real-world situations, there are likely to be variables the theory does not take into account."

"Translation: we're throwing dice on this," Pheylan said.

"Our odds are considerably better than that," Max assured him, sounding almost huffy. "I wouldn't have agreed to it if I thought it was overly dangerous."

"Loaded dice, then," Pheylan corrected dryly, pulling out a jump seat and beginning to strap himself in. "It's still a damn sight safer than meshing in where we'd have to run the gauntlet of Zhirrzh ships."

"We can still abort and go elsewhere," Max reminded him. "We have sufficient fuel to go anywhere in the Commonwealth."

"Convince me my family's safely off Dorcas and you've got a deal." Pheylan checked his restraints and nodded. "Ready. Give me a countdown."

The minutes passed, and soon it was time. Pheylan braced himself, watching the displays as Max's countdown ran to zero—

He was prepared for the standard jolt that always seemed to accompany mesh-in while riding in a small craft. He was not prepared for the thunderous blast that slammed the fueler back like a toy and threw him hard against his restraints. "Max!" he shouted over the sudden pummeling.

"Under control," Max called back. On the status board a dozen warning lights flashed red; returned to green or amber as Max rerouted systems or shut them down. "A quantum hysteresis in the core caused mesh-in to be eighty point six meters lower into the atmosphere than planned. The turbulence itself is due to conduction resonance with the planetary magnetic field and is normal for this procedure."

"Terrific," Pheylan muttered, getting a grip on his restraints with one hand and keying for a sensor scan of the area with the other. The whole object of this exercise had been to mesh in beneath the Zhirrzh blockade ships. If that hadn't worked, the ride was likely to get a whole lot rougher.

He stiffened. There was one now, above and east of him: the distinctive linked-hexagon configuration of a Zhirrzh ship. "Got one," he snapped.

"I have it," Max confirmed. "Bearing one-one-two by six-four-one, distance four hundred eighty-two kilometers."

Pheylan braced himself. This wasn't going to be fun, but with an enemy ship this close they had no choice. "Drop us," he ordered. "Straight down and in."

"Acknowledged."

For an agonizing heartbeat nothing happened. Pheylan stared at the distant Zhirrzh warship, waiting for the flashes of laser light that would mean he'd been spotted and was under attack. The linked hexagons weren't much more than a bumpy blur at this distance, but he could imagine it rotating lazily around to bring its weapons to bear....

Then, with a jolt that again crushed him against his restraints, the fueler fired a burst directly along their vector, slowing them down and interrupting the rhythm of the resonant turbulence.

And with its forward momentum cut abruptly in half, the fueler plunged down toward the ground six hundred klicks below.

Pheylan swallowed hard. I meant to do that, he reminded himself tautly, his full attention still on the Zhirrzh ship. So far it hadn't reacted, but any surprise at his maneuver wouldn't last long. The fueler had to be hidden behind a thick shield of atmosphere before they recovered and started firing.

The trick being to get to safety under that shield without building up so much downward speed that they couldn't stop at all.

They were starting to get into real atmosphere now, and he could hear the faint friction whine beginning to build up along the outer hull. The Zhirrzh ship still hadn't reacted, and for the first time Pheylan risked taking a look at the displays showing the view beneath them.

It wasn't encouraging. There was a solid floor of clouds below, completely masking the terrain. Worse, straight ahead along their flight path he could see the telltale swirl of a massive tropical hurricane. The weather would be churning down there. "Max, do you know where we are?"

"I have a rough idea," the computer said. "Based on the elapsed time since our last visit, coupled with Dorcas's listed rotational data, I believe us to be approximately nine thousand four hundred kilometers southwest of the mountains where we expect to find the Peacekeeper forces."

Pheylan glanced at the vector-data display, did a quick mental calculation. "We're going to need some more forward momentum," he said.

"Confirmed," Max said. "But the atmosphere above us is still too thin for proper laser protection. I'd prefer to wait until we were no higher than sixty kilometers before leveling into horizontal flight."

Pheylan pursed his lips. Flying this crate like an aircar would burn fuel at a prodigious rate, which would mean dipping into the supply he'd been hoping to deliver to Colonel Holloway. But less fuel was better than no fuel at all, which was what they'd get if he was shot down. "Fine," he said. "But no lower than sixty klicks."

"Yes, Commander."

The screeching from the outer hull was still increasing, and Pheylan could now feel a slight rise in temperature of the air around him. Still the Zhirrzh ship falling rapidly away above him hadn't reacted. Could they have missed seeing him entirely? "Max, can we get any readings on that Zhirrzh ship up there?" he asked.

"He's out of the range of the fueler's passive sensors," Max said. "Shall I try the active sensors?"

Pheylan felt his stomach tighten, remembering how the Zhirrzh ships after the Jutland battle had used the honeycomb escape pods' emergency radio beacons to lock in their lasers. The active sensors used similar electromagnetic wavelengths. "Better not," he said. "No other enemy ships or vehicles out there?"

"None that I can detect."

Pheylan began to breathe a little easier. Maybe—just maybe—they'd gotten away with this.

They reached the sixty-klick mark, and Pheylan began to feel pressure against his chest as Max used the edge-effect airfoils to ease the fueler into more or less horizontal flight. "We've leveled off at fifteen kilometers," Max reported a few minutes later. "What speed shall I maintain?"

Pheylan took a quick look at the displays. The combination of the curving descent plus their original insertion vector had cut the distance to the Peacekeeper mountains to a little over five thousand klicks. A long four and a half hours away if they kept it subsonic; but considering that the fueler hadn't been designed for extended atmospheric flight, going supersonic would probably be begging for trouble. "Keep it below Mach 1, but as close as you can without getting into turbulence problems," he told the computer. "And drop our altitude another five klicks—edge-effect airfoils work better in denser air."

"Acknowledged.

Pheylan spent the first hour watching the external displays, shifting his attention from one to the next, waiting tensely for signs of the pursuit or intercept. He had no idea whether the Zhirrzh presence here was confined to a relatively small beachhead or whether they'd spread out over half the hemisphere by now; but wherever they were, eventually they'd have to show up. The closer he was able to get to the Peacekeeper enclave, the better his chances of getting air or ground support from them.

Assuming, of course, that the Zhirrzh hadn't already destroyed them.

No enemy aircraft showed up during the second hour either, but much of Pheylan's attention during that time was distracted by the necessity of getting the fueler past an impressively long line of thunderstorm cells. Possibly part of the same system that included the hurricane he'd spotted on their way in, the storms lay scattered across his path like nature's own aerial land mines. The fueler could have lifted over them, but with their fuel level already dropping faster than Pheylan liked, he opted instead to let Max thread them between the thunderheads. Fortunately, the computer was up to the task, and they made it with little more than occasional buffeting to mark their passage.

After that the flight settled down into something almost routine. It was becoming clear that the Zhirrzh hadn't overextended themselves there—though, to be fair, Pheylan could remember nothing in the Dorcas catalog that would offer any military incentives for an invader. If they were still confined to the areas the Commonwealth colonists had carved out—and if that blockade ship up there really hadn't spotted him—there was a fair chance he could at least get into communication range of the Peacekeepers before he was spotted.

They were about an hour and a little under eleven hundred klicks out from their target mountains when the first signs of trouble appeared.

It started as a faint sizzling sound, like meat on an open-fire grill in the distance, accompanied by a slight drooping of the fueler's starboard side. "Max?" Pheylan asked, frowning at the status board. The whole line of lights under the AIRFOIL heading had begun to flicker uncertainly between green and red.

"The airfoils are losing charge capacity," Max said. "I'm attempting to degauss and restart them, one at a time."

The fueler dipped again, this time to port, this time noticeably deeper. "How long does the procedure take?"

"In a maintenance shop it would normally take three hours," Max said. "There are shortcuts, though, for emergencies. None of them recommended, I might add, but under the circumstances I don't think we have many other options."

"Not many, no," Pheylan agreed tightly, checking the location display. They were still well out of the line-of-sight range they'd need to signal Holloway with either the fueler's laser or radio. And considering how and where they'd meshed in, there was a good chance the Peacekeepers didn't even know they were there. "We need to find a way to signal Holloway before we go down. What's the best in-atmosphere range we can get out of our Shrike missiles?"

"That number isn't listed in the specifications," Max said. "From this altitude, launched at optimum angle, I estimate they have a range of approximately six hundred eighty kilometers."

Pheylan grimaced. Not nearly far enough to be seen from mountains a thousand klicks away. "How much farther can we get before the airfoils fail completely?"

"Unknown," Max said. "I estimate a probability of point five that we can go another two to three hundred kilometers before we have to put down. But we'll be losing altitude before then."

And a lower altitude would also limit the missiles' range. "Activate two of the missiles," he ordered. "Fire the first at optimum angle when you can't hold this altitude any more. Fire the second at your best guess for farthest range after that point. Fuse them both for above-ground detonation—we want something they'll be able to see."

"Understood."

The screeching and jostling continued to worsen as the flight began to take on the characteristics of an entertainment-park thrill ride. Pheylan split his attention between the displays and the status board, the back of his mind working out contingency plans depending on how far they got and whether it appeared likely that the Peacekeepers might see either of his distress missiles.

And then, with 850 klicks to go, a new sound interjected itself into the growing cacophony: the distinctive bubbling hiss of a missile being launched. "First Shrike is away," Max announced. "I'd like to try decreasing our altitude. That may help with the airfoil reactivation."

"Go ahead," Pheylan said. "Try not to hit anything."

The fueler took on a downward pitch as they dropped toward the ground. "It doesn't look from here like it's helping," Pheylan said, watching the status board.

"Not from here, either," Max admitted. "I don't think there's anything more I can do, Commander. I can nurse them along a little farther; but when they go, they'll go."

And without at least some airfoil capability it would be all but impossible to land the fueler without splattering it all over the landscape. "Understood," Pheylan said. "Fire that second missile and start looking for a place to set down."

"I have a possible location directly ahead," Max said as the second bubbling hiss briefly sounded. A flashing circle appeared on one of the displays, the range finder marking it as forty klicks away. "It looks like a fire clearing on the side of a low hill," the computer went on. "Plenty of visibility if you choose to wait for rescue; conversely, the immediate route toward the northeast appears reasonable if you instead choose to begin walking."

"What, no restaurant?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," Pheylan sighed. Sometimes the parameters that a parasentient computer decided to focus on could get a little strange. "Just concentrate on getting us down in one piece. The nonessentials we can sort out later."

"It was just barely in range of our spotters," Crane said, tapping a spot with his finger as Holloway and Takara joined him at the map table. "But it was definitely a Peacekeeper missile. Gasperi says either a Sperling or an old Shrike."

"Any idea where it came from?" Holloway said.

"Southwest somewhere," Crane said. "He says that if it was a Sperling, it could have made maybe eight hundred klicks. The Shrike could only have gone six or seven."

"Six to eight hundred klicks," Takara muttered. "Well, that certainly narrows it down."

"Sorry, sir, it's the best we can do," Crane apologized.

"I know." Takara looked at Holloway. "So are we going to go take a look?"

"We don't have much choice," Holloway said, running his fingers through his hair. "Stray missiles are usually either misfires or distress signals. Either way, it says there's a Peacekeeper out there who needs help. Crane, what's vehicle status?"

"We've got an aircar and cargo carrier on standby," Crane said. "I also took the liberty of telling Duggen to pull together a team."

"Sounds good," Holloway said. "Go ahead and confirm the orders."

"Yes, sir."

"You think we should send Bethmann with them?" Takara suggested.

Holloway shook his head. "I'm not going to risk our only combat-capable Corvine. Not even if that was Admiral Rudzinski stuck out there." He rubbed a finger across his lower lip. "I wonder how he got in past the Zhirrzh warships."

"Sensor-stealthing, probably," Takara said. "Or else he just meshed in beneath them while they were all looking in the other direction."

"Pretty sloppy work on their part," Holloway said, a nebulous thought beginning to form in the back of his mind. If the Zhirrzh warships really weren't paying attention up there... "Let's hope he's brought some spare supplies or fuel with him."

"And that we can get to it before the Zhirrzh do," Takara added. "Exploding a missile in front of God and everybody kind of ruins the whole point of sneaking in."

"Maybe," Holloway said. "Have the Zhirrzh at the village reacted yet?"

Takara peered at the status display. "No one's reported any troop or vehicle movements," Takara said. "Why, you think they might not have noticed the blast?"

"Or else didn't understand its significance," Holloway said. "In fact, I'd put it more strongly: if I were their commander, I'd wonder if a useless explosion like that was an enemy trick to distract his attention while we hit him from another side."

"Possibly," Takara conceded. "Or he might think it was an accident."

"Either way, it keeps his attention here instead of wherever the downed ship is," Holloway said. "And if we're lucky he won't know otherwise until Duggen's team heads out."

Takara nodded. "At which point it becomes a race."

"Right," Holloway said grimly. "Let's just make damn sure we win it."

"Here," the Elder said, jabbing his tongue at a point on the map. "This is where the spacecraft came down."

"Rough country," Thrr-mezaz commented, eyeing the aerial photos of the region. "You're sure it didn't crash?"

The Elder nodded and vanished. "What about that second explosion?" Thrr-mezaz asked Klnn-vavgi.

"Again, no damage," Klnn-vavgi said. "At least none the Elders were able to see. We could get a closer look if you'd let me send a Stingbird over."

"No Stingbirds," Thrr-mezaz said firmly, gazing at the map and trying to think. The Requisite had tracked two separate explosive missiles from the Human-Conqueror spacecraft, both fired roughly this direction. No apparent damage from either missile, which implied they weren't meant as attacks. Signals?

The Elder returned. "The technics say they cannot be absolutely certain the spacecraft landed safely," he reported. "Their orbit had nearly carried them out of view of the area by the time the spacecraft landed."

And they would continue to be out of view of the area for another tentharc. "Understood," Thrr-mezaz said.

"I take it, then, you don't think the explosives were a precursor to an attack?" Klnn-vavgi asked.

"I think it more likely they were a signal," Thrr-mezaz told him. "The Human-Conquerors in the mountains couldn't possibly have seen his spacecraft come in. Knowing he was going down, he had to find some way to alert them to his presence."

"All right, I'll accept that," Klnn-vavgi said. "But we still need to check it out, don't we?"

Thrr-mezaz flicked his tongue thoughtfully, trying to put himself in the enemy commander's place. A Human-Conqueror spacecraft was down, and he'd undoubtedly be sending a rescue team as soon as he had one put together. If he saw Stingbirds heading that direction, of course, he'd put it together even faster. Possibly even send his Copperhead warriors along for extra protection.

But if he saw the Zhirrzh sitting here, apparently oblivious to it all, he might not be in quite so much of a hurry....

"Message to Ship Commander Phmm-klof," he said, beckoning to the Elder. "I'd like him to send a transport to pick up any survivors from the Human-Conqueror spacecraft and bring them here to me."

"I obey." The Elder vanished.

"I wouldn't expect much if I were you," Klnn-vavgi warned. "It sounds like Phmm-klof's in a major snit over having to sit there and watch that spacecraft come in without being able to stop it. I doubt he's in a favor-granting mood."

"We'll see if we can change that," Thrr-mezaz said.

Behind them the door opened and Thrr-gilag came in. "I got your message," he told his brother, breathing hard. "What's this about a Human spacecraft?"

"It came down right here," Thrr-mezaz said, indicating the spot on the map. "About seven hundred thirteen thoustrides away."

"Survivors?"

The Elder from the Requisite reappeared. Thrr-mezaz motioned him to wait. "We think so," he told Thrr-gilag. "I've asked Ship Commander Phmm-klof to send a transport for a closer look."

Thrr-gilag nodded, his tail spinning with barely restrained excitement as he looked at the map. "What about pictures?"

"We don't have any here," Klnn-vavgi said. "I imagine the Requisite has some, but they're currently out of direct-link laser range."

"Yes," Thrr-gilag said, his mind clearly already elsewhere. "Thrr-mezaz, we need to get a survivor from that spacecraft. My whole theory of Human aggression hinges on there being measurable metabolic changes when two or more Humans are in close proximity. We don't have any of that sort of data."

"I know," Thrr-mezaz said, watching the Elder out of the corner of his eye. "And I know how vitally important it is to the war effort. Didn't you tell me the Overclan Prime himself said that?"

"Yes, he did," Thrr-gilag confirmed, frowning slightly at his brother. Thrr-mezaz blinked twice, the old childhood signal they'd used when trying to con their parents into doing something, and Thrr-gilag's face cleared. "Yes, he said that this was our single best chance of finding a weakness we could exploit," he said, clearly on track now. "Maybe even turn the whole war around."

"We can hope so." Thrr-mezaz looked at the Elder, still waiting to deliver Ship Commander Phmm-klof's reply. "What did the ship commander say?"

"A beat, if you please, Commander," the Elder muttered, and vanished again.

"Nicely done," Klnn-vavgi murmured approvingly. "The Ghuu'rr clan absolutely adores the Overclan Prime."

"It was true, too," Thrr-gilag said.

"All the better."

The Elder reappeared. "Ship Commander Phmm-klof has ordered a transport and warrior team to be prepared," he announced. "They'll leave orbit as soon as possible."

"Good," Thrr-mezaz said. "Warn them to stay out of sight of the Human-Conqueror stronghold."

"I obey."