“Ride the Luck, this is Nev’Lorn headquarters. Captain yos’Phelium, you are on roster for berth 56A. You are authorized to aid and assist in transit…”
“I have conflicting orders,” Daav spoke into the mike, both channels open.
The circle on the ranging computer showed orange now.
“This system is under direct supervision of the Department of the Interior,” came back the message rather quickly—they were closing fast. “Nev’Lorn Headquarters has been disbanded and is outlawed. Your decision, or we fire, pilot!”
Nev’Lorn, five light seconds more distant, sent again; “Captain you have a berth waiting…”
“Department, “ Daav said quietly into the mike, “I am taking your orders under advisement. You have the range on me, I’m afraid.”
The image of Courier 12 seemed to blossom then, as the pilot launched his remaining missiles at the oncoming Department ship. Eight or ten scattered, began maneuvering.
The target circle went dull red.
“Department, please advise best course?” Daav demanded.
That ship, busily lashing out with particle beams at the oncoming missiles, did not reply. The static of those blasts would have torn the transmission out the ether in any case.
The target circle grew a flashing green ring around a bright red center.
With a sigh, Scout Captain Daav yos’Phelium clutched the guide-stick and punched the fire button. And again. And again. And again and again until Ride the Luck complained about overload and the expanding gases were far too thin to contain survivors.
* * * *
Clonak’s genial optimism wasn’t sufficient to approve of the ration situation by the time end of shift had come and gone six times, postponed by the simple fact that they still had been unable to achieve complete orbital elements.Between observations and calculations they’d managed to get the test circuit live to the in-system engines and they’d determined that at least a dozen thruster pairs were operable. They might actually be able to go somewhere—if only they knew where to point.
Thanks to the cloaks the air supply was good for another thirty days. Food was another matter, since most of it was in storage lockers—if they still existed—in the sealed portion of the ship. They were stretching the interval between meals a little longer each time. At full rations they had food for six days; at their current rate they had fourteen.
* * * *
“You happened by at a fortunate time, Captain,” Acting Scout Commander sig’Radia was saying to him. “Not only did you rid us of the last of that infestation, but improved morale merely by appearing, Tree-and-Dragon shouting from your name-points, hard on the heels of rumors that Korval is…vanished.”
Daav gave her a grave smile. “Korval’s luck. May we all walk wary.”
She was a woman of about his own age, he estimated, though he did not know her. Obviously, though, she had heard tales of Korval’s luck, for she inclined her head formally and murmured, “May it rest peaceful.”
“How did this come to pass? An open attack on a Scout base by Liadens?”
Scout Commander turned in her chair and pulled a stack of hard-copy messages from under a jar full of firegems.
“Some of it is here,” she said, handing him the stack. She seemed about to speak further, but the comm buzzed then; a Healer had been found for the Kia pilot Daav had rescued from the courier boat.
He gave his attention to the messages in his hand. Slowly, a picture built of suspicious activity, followed by conflicting orders and commands from Scout Headquarters and the Council of Clans, muddied by people going missing and a strange epidemic of Scouts being requisitioned—with the assistance of some faction or another within the Council itself—for the mysterious Department of the Interior. Amid it all, a familiar name surfaced.
The commander finished her call and Daav held out the page.
“You may blame Clonak ter’Meulen on my fortuitous arrival—he having sent for me. May I see him? His business was urgent, I gather.”
She looked away from his face, then handed him another, much smaller, stack of pages. He took them and began leafing through, listening as she murmured, “The Department of the Interior had him targeted. He went down to meet a Scout just in from the garbage run—Shadia Ne’Zame. That’s when the battle began. They fired on her ship and…”
Daav looked up, face bland. Commander sig’Radia shrugged, Terran-style.
“The Department had a warship in-system—say destroyer class. They claimed it was a training vessel. They went after Ne’Zame’s ship, fired on her. By then, we were fighting here as well—open firefights and hand-to-hand between us and the Department people here for training.”
She showed him empty palms.
“Ne’Zame’s ship was hit at least once, returned fire, got some licks in. The Department’s ship was closing when she Jumped.”
Daav closed his eyes.
“The only wreckage we have is from the destroyer,” the commander continued. “There’s one piece that might be from a Scout ship—but there was other action in that section, and we can’t be certain. The destroyer was more than split open—it was shredded—no survivors. If it hadn’t been, Nev’Lorn would have been in the hands of the Department of the Interior in truth, when you came in.”
Daav opened his eyes. “No word? No infrared beacons? Nothing odd on the off-channels? Clonak is—resourceful. If they went into Little Jump…”
Her eyes lit. “Yes, we thought of that. Late, you understand, but we’ve had tasks in queue ahead. In any case, the chief astrogator gave us this.” She turned the monitor on her desk around to face him, touched a button, and a series of familiar equations built, altered by several factors.
Daav blinked—and again, as the numbers slid out of focus. As if from a distance, he heard his own voice ask, courteously, “Of your kindness, may I use the keyboard? Thank you.”
Then his hands were on the keyboard. The equation on the screen—changed—in ways both subtle and definitive. He heard his voice again, lecturing:
“The equations are only as good as the assumptions, of course. However, the basic math is sound. This factor here will have been much higher, for example, if weapons were being fired—missiles underway in particular would have altered the mass-balance of the system dynamically— and the acceleration of the destroyer — are there recordings of this incident that I may see? I believe there is a significant chance that your astrogator is correct. They may have been forced into Little Jump…”
The equations danced in his head and on the screen, apart from, but accessible to himself. Moments later, when the acting commander played back the records she had of the encounter, Daav felt an unworldly elation, and watched again as his hands flew along the keypad, elucidating a second, more potent, equation.
That done, there was a pause. He heard Aelliana sigh into his ear and found that his body was his own once more.
He looked up from the monitor to meet the scout commander’s astonished eyes. She looked away from him, to the construct on the screen, then back to his face.
“Are you,” she began. Daav raised his hand.
“Pilot Caylon finds this a very worthy project, Commander. You will understand that Clonak is her comrade, as well.” He sighed and looked at the screen. The equation was—compelling, the sort of thing a pilot could make use of. He pointed.
“Your astrogator is to be commended. As you see, we have several congruencies here. This one in particular, which relies on