The Rifter's Covenant Read online

CLAIDHEAMH MOR

  “Weapons fire from Avasta,” reported the Kelly. “Five Rifter ships hit. Three destroyed, one dead in space, one severely damaged but under power. Barca has Shielded. No activity from Shimosa.”

  Cameron watched, gut gnawing with tension and disappointment as the tacticals updated. Scorpion was not among the ship kills. He forced himself to shrug it off. ZiTuto no doubt had his reasons.

  “Communications, flag to fleet,” he said. “First battle group to Position Two, proceed with infiltration. Second and third groups, stand by for fall of resonance field, then proceed.”

  The first wave—Claidheamh Mor and Shiavona—would skip to just outside the resonance field and then attempt to join Hreem’s fleet, disguised by ECM. When cis-lunar space was again open to fiveskip, the other two destroyers, also disguised as Rifter craft, would commence a slashing attack on Hreem’s fleet, hoping to be taken for elements of Neyvla-khan’s forces.

  “Time to take the gloves off,” he said to Kor-Mellish. “Activate all dragon’s teeth within range of any Rifter vessel.”

  The Kelly acknowledged and its ship vanished.

  “Navigation, take us in. Tac-level two.”

  “Now to see what the Barcans have decided,” Kor-Mellish said, but Cameron just bared his teeth humorlessly as the fiveskip thrummed, hurling the Claidheamh Mor out of fourspace toward Barca.

  FLOWER OF LITH

  Hreem was looking right at the moon when Avasta opened fire. Norio’s knees buckled under the impact of Hreem’s savage, gloating joy as five threads of light leapt outward and terminated in bright discs of light.

  A few seconds later, Dyasil announced another communication from Neyvla-khan.

  Hreem laughed. “Put it on.”

  The other captain no longer looked so elegant. His eyes were dilated with rage, his beard wild, as if he had been tearing at it. “I piss on your open grave,” he shouted. “I will preserve your shriveled nacker as a plaything for pigs, and your mindsnake’s skull as a spittoon. I will put your head on life support and fill your mouth with—”

  The bridge of the Scorpion lit up with a fearsome light. Flame washed across Neyvla-khan’s back as the man ululated in agony.

  Norio watched avidly as Neyvla-Khan’s ears melted and the skin on the backs of his hands blackened and peeled away. He’d have it on a chip! He exulted; the intensity of Hreem’s emotions was almost unbearable, ensuring that this memory would be among the most vivid of his treasures. As Hreem climaxed, his wash of pleasure hurled Norio into a storm of emotional feedback that made him dizzy enough to clutch at the pod for support.

  AVASTA

  After the second discharge, the lights in the control room of Avasta Station failed and the consoles went dark.

  “That’s it!” ZiTuto shouted. “Barcans got control back. Set demolition and withdraw.”

  The second lance detachment had joined ZiTuto’s shortly after they took the control room; he had dispatched them to secure the route up to where the third detachment had cut off the control room from the landing bay, which it now held. Both detachments had also taken heavy casualties from the Ogres.

  They were several levels up by the time the floor slapped at their feet, announcing the transformation of the center of Avasta Station into a plasma-filled cavern.

  On the surface, Byrd announced, “No data.”

  Sussonius waited. The lazplaz cycle time passed. No discharge. Twice cycle time. “That’s it. Byrd, intercept and jam it. Begin withdrawal.”

  Byrd worked feverishly as the squad began to withdraw, impelled by their servos in swift, low arcs across the moon’s surface toward the waiting ship.

  Sweat beaded on Sussonius’s forehead. The Barcans had cut off Avasta Station. How long would it take them to reestablish control from the alternate site?

  “Got it!”

  They bounded after the rest of the squad. Sussonius could feel on his mind, like an almost physical pressure, the weight of the blast their sabotage would ensure.

  And that’s more than you’ll feel if the Barcans fire it now.

  FLOWER OF LITH

  Hreem didn’t notice Norio’s hands pull away from his shoulders as the image flickered out. The aftermath of the orgasm left him, not weak with lassitude but charged with energy.

  The ship rocked again to a missile strike. “Impact, aft upper quadrant. Minimal damage. Shields holding.” Metije’s voice thinned with tension.

  The acceleration of the Lith was leaving Neyvla-khan’s sneak-weapons behind. Hreem scanned the tacticals.

  “Pili!”

  “Three minutes to first sneak-missile acquisition on resonance generator.”

  “Emergence pulses,” Erbee said. “Signatures match Shiavona and one Alpha.” He tabbed his console. “They’re heading in to join us, staying in the shadow.”

  “Good,” Hreem said, though he might not even need Lochiel and her crew, if Avasta kept up its rate of fire. If not, then the two additional destroyers would make mopping up Neyvla-khan’s fleet a snap. And he’d let them take it up the ass.

  “Signal from Barca,” said Dyasil.

  “Now they want to talk,” Hreem said, hearing the hoarseness of his own voice. “Go ahead.” He looked at Riolo, back on the bridge. The Barcan looked back at him steadily, his expression masked by his red goggles.

  Avasta hadn’t fired again. Hreem’s back prickled as the dim image of a Barcan official windowed up. “We have reestablished control of Avasta.”

  Hreem’s disappointment was mild. Ten ships destroyed or damaged and Neyvla-khan himself dead! His heart still pounded.

  He shrugged, trying to project the air of a man whose plans are proceeding as expected. “You told my emissary that you would not interfere.” He gestured grandly. “And I have eliminated my rival. I now represent Dol’jhar.”

  The response astonished him. “We have identified the intruders. They are Arkadic Marines.”

  Right. Well, what else would they look like, in lances?, he thought, laughing. “Sure. And the two destroyers joining me are Navy ships.”

  “No, only one.”

  Hreem stared, then flared up. “You little blunge-sucker. You’d just love to see me fire on my own ships.” But suspicion soured his gut. Servo-armor was custom-fitted, and pretty high-tech—who in Charterly’s fleet would have had the know-how to refit it? Could they do without refitting? What kind of deceleration did a tesla mole impose? He’d made some very dangerous assumptions.

  The man gave him a disgusted look. “We have very good arrays.” The image that replaced his face shriveled Hreem’s nacker instantly: the deadly, ultramodern thorniness of a Manta-class destroyer, gleaming silvery in the light of Barca’s primary, a basket-hilted sword emblazoned on it under the Sun and Phoenix.

  “. . . and you can even blame it on the Navy . . .”

  “Chatz,” Hreem shouted. “That blunge-eating Lochiel betrayed me! Dyasil, notify all ships. Pili, target those ships! Throw everything we have left at the chatzers!”

  “Fifteen seconds to lazplaz range, missiles away,” Pili replied as Hreem looked back at the Barcan.

  “Cancel the resonance,” he said.

  The man smiled. “How would that look to the Lord of Vengeance? No, you do it. It will only take you—” He looked away briefly. “—two minutes.”

  The image dissolved into fractal garbage as Riolo screeched a shrill Barcan curse. “They ate it! It was an infected transmission and it’s gone.” He slapped at his console.

  Damn! No evidence of their little games for Dol’jhar.

  “I stopped it from going any further,” Riolo said. Then the little man looked up at Hreem, his face terrified under the goggles.

  “Or they let me.”

  CLAIDHEAMH MOR

  “Avasta has ceased firing,” Siglnt reported.

  “Communications,” said Cameron, “squirt the courier. Commence action against resonance generators.”

  “That may be costly,” Kor-Mellish crooned, h
er fingers working steadily over her console. “They’re both open to Shimosa.”

  “Missile release on Flower of Lith,” reported Siglnt. “Strike estimated in two-oh-five seconds. Estimate lazplaz range in twelve seconds.”

  “He’s figured it out. Weapons, shields up. Siglnt. Activate all tacponders.” I wish we’d had more of them to sow with the dragon’s teeth; they’d be more useful, he thought, suppressing useless regret.

  “Communications, signal the squadron to maintain ECM. All ships to execute tactical skip on resonance failure. Prepare for general engagement. Get me Shiavona.”

  Lochiel’s face popped on-screen.

  “They’ve seen us. Weapons incoming.” The old Alphas didn’t have sensors as good as his Mantas; she might not know.

  “This far out?”

  “The Barcans, probably.”

  The almost elliptical exchange carried a wealth of overtones for Cameron. He thought he saw them reflected in his cousin’s eyes.

  “Stand by for an attack on Avasta,” he continued. “We think the Barcans are regaining control. Commence when the Marines signal they’re off.”

  She grinned. “Permission to chatz with Hreem’s skull a bit, cousin? Maybe I can buy us a little time, a few thousand klicks. Maybe even enough time for one shot with the hyperrelay before we turn back into a pumpkin?”

  A what? Then Cameron chuckled, remembering the ancient story. “Permission granted.”

  Lochiel sketched a salute with a wry smile and signed off.

  “Navigation, full acceleration. Prepare to engage.”

  Cameron remembered that he hadn’t ever actually seen the new weapons possessed by the Rifters, only terse reports of their effect.

  Unless Hreem acted very swiftly, that would change momentarily.

  SHIAVONA

  Hreem glared madly at her from the screen. “You’re vat-meat, bint. I’m gonna have Barrodagh shut down your power, and then I’ll have some fun.”

  “What are you talking about, you piss-witted chatz-head!” she shrieked, launching into what Bayrut called her madwoman imitation.

  “The Barcans showed me your Manta.” Hreem sneered the last word. Another window popped up with an image of Cameron’s destroyer, the blazon of the sword clearly visible.

  Lochiel slapped at her console, keeping her eyes locked with Hreem’s. “You nackerless idiot! How do you know that’s not just some leftover novosti-feed?” She watched Hreem’s eyes crimp in doubt just as her fingers found what she needed.

  “Look,” she said, her voice laden with as much sarcasm as she could muster. “We’re being attacked by an alien space weapon!”

  Another window dilated, revealing a pastiche of an ancient steam-powered transport from Lost Earth gliding through space with a planet in the background. It was a long metal cylinder with a cabin at the back, with rows of wheels under it linked by metal rods rotating frantically, a cloud of smoke blasting out of its top. “It’s a chatzing steam engine, and it’s coming right at you!”

  Doubt and suspicion creased Hreem’s face.

  (Resonance field declining,) reported Bayrut via boswell. (Five seconds to skip. Bringing skipmissile on-line.) Lochiel was peripherally aware of Messina tapping at her console, bringing the Shiavona about for an attack on Avasta.

  But she had eyes only for Hreem’s face, and so saw the tightening of decision in his jaw. Well, she’d brought them at least thirty seconds further into lazplaz range without taking fire.

  (Resonance down. Skip ready.)

  She slapped the skip pad.

  ABOARD THE KELLY SHIP ESCAPING AVASTA

  The Kelly ship clawed for space. Watching on the feed the Kelly captain had thoughtfully relayed to him and his grievously diminished force, Meliarch ZiTuto saw the other Kelly ship arrowing up on a similar course from the rocky surface. Beyond, the slender line of the massdriver drawing his eye to it, he noted the minute shape of the lazplaz tower Sussonius and his squad had sabotaged, glowing brightly in the center of a red-hot crater.

  He zoomed the view, and saw the tower begin its loading sequence, the mirror swiveling around. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he was sure it was aiming at them.

  A thread of light snapped on from the mouth of the massdriver and the screen flared white.

  “Zap one lazplaz,” someone said on the common com channel.

  The screen cleared to reveal a huge, white-hot wound in the moon’s surface, a ring of glowing dust and gas expanding outward from it at tremendous speed.

  “Resonance field is failing,” said the Kelly captain. “Fifteen seconds to radius.”

  The ship bucked as the wavefront from the explosion swept past them, minute sparks of light flaring on its shields.

  ZiTuto watched the moon dwindle beneath them as he grimly scanned its bright-lit limb, knowing they would be exposed to weapons fire from another lazplaz just as they reached radius. So he jerked convulsively when a dim chain of light-spheres reached out from the moon, dwindling back into space. He recognized it belatedly as a skipmissile impacting on the moon, and then stared in awe as an enormous sheet of flame marched over the limb of Avasta and a network of immense cracks ripped through the rocky surface, spurting flame and showers of rock thousands of meters high as the impact propagated through the moon.

  Shiavona, he thought. No wonder they could take out a battlecruiser with one shot.

  The screen blanked as the Kelly Intership skipped, and ZiTuto relaxed. He was glad that they would be very far away from the rest of the action. Hand-to-hand was fine, but anyone who’d serve on a destroyer had to be a little crazy, as far as he was concerned.

  CLAIDHEAMH MOR

  Cameron’s lips skinned back from his teeth with rage. They’d been holding their own against Hreem’s fleet, aided by the remains of Neyvla-khan’s forces, most of whom apparently never discovered that they were Navy. But then the Barcans had entered the battle with the one lazplaz still functional on Avasta and the full weight of the weapons on Shimosa.

  Shamsin had taken heavy casualties from a lazplaz bolt that blew open the stern, and had barely managed to limp out of range. Another bolt blew two hundred meters off of the skipmissile tube on Kilij, but Captain Agenes continued to fight with lazplaz and missiles until Cameron ordered her withdrawal. And he’d lost track of Lochiel—the old Alpha didn’t integrate well with the up-to-date communications gear of the Manta-class squadron.

  “Communications, signal all ships. General withdrawal to rendezvous three. Navigation, take us to the Shamsin.”

  Cameron drummed his fingers on the arm of his command pod as Ensign Rincon squirted out the signal, for relay by the tacponders the Kelly ships had sown in-system before action commenced. There was nothing more they could do with the Barcans backing Hreem. Dol’jhar had won. Cameron winced, wondering what use Eusabian would make of the Ogres he would doubtless demand as tribute. At least the Marines had brought one back for study—maybe the techs would figure out the codes for them by comparison with those for the Panarchic version the Barcans had supplied for the Shiidra Wars.

  “It was still as close to a kilkenny as any I’ve ever heard of,” Kor-Mellish said. “Wiping out an entire Rifter fleet with the loss of only three ships.”

  Two human and one Kelly. He wondered if the personnel of the Kelly tripod, or each division of three ships, were of the same phratry.

  The Shiavona joined them as they escorted the crippled Shamsin toward the rendezvous in real time. Fortunately Hreem showed no inclination to follow.

  “That was one hell of a shot you landed on Avasta, cousin,” said Cameron.

  Lochiel grimaced. The two ships were close enough that there was no noticeable lag. “Last one for Shiavona. Thanks to your techs, we’re back on spin-reactor power now.”

  “Ship traces, Captain,” Siglnt sang out. “Sixty-seven mark 32, 14,000 klicks. Signature—” Lieutenant Chang tapped hesitantly at her console. “—reads Alpha-class, maybe, emergency power only.”

  C
ameron looked at Lochiel. “One of your former allies?”

  She shrugged. “Might be. There are a couple of them worth saving, if it comes to that.”

  “AyKay. Navigation, take us in. Fire Control, target skip-missile and hold.”

  The entire stern of the destroyer was gone, leaving little more than the bridge and the missile tube intact. But, scorched and pitted, its blazon still showed clear: a whirlwind of flame extending glittering talons.

  “Scorpion,” said Lochiel, still linked.

  “Siglnt, scan it.”

  “Noetic scan positive,” came the reply. “Some survivors.”

  “Communications,” he said hoarsely, “hail the ship.”

  A tense silence spun through eternity, then, “Channel established.”

  The screen revealed the seared and twisted remains of the Scorpion’s bridge. Cameron’s stomach clenched. How had anyone survived that? Oddly the gravitors were still functioning.

  Then he noticed the man in the command pod, surrounded by the dead. He was sitting bolt upright in a posture Cameron recognized: the desperate rigidity of the badly burned, holding his arms away from his body and the arms of the pod, learning forward so his torso wouldn’t contact the back of the seat. His ears were seared stumps, his hands mere blackened claws, but his face was only slightly seared, the once-neat beard singed.

  The rush of hatred beat in Cameron’s skull. “Neyvla-khan,” he said with deep satisfaction. The butcher of Minerva, murderer of millions, the man whose vengeance on the Navy had rendered an entire planet lifeless.

  The man’s eyes twitched toward the screen. He emitted a squeaky hiss. Lung damage. Cameron heard a choked exclamation from someone on the bridge. Lochiel’s motherly face twisted in an expression of nausea.

  The hiss came again, and abruptly Cameron’s ear resolved it into words. “Help me.”

  The bridge was so silent that Cameron heard tiny sounds: the hiss of the tianqi, a distant groan of metal. Someone’s foot shifted in their pod, a muffled sound.