"There's something outside you need to see," Uncle Virge said. "Come on, lad, rise—"
"Okay, okay, I'm up, I'm up," Jack snapped the magic words, throwing off the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he sat up. The sudden change in altitude made his head go woozy, and he sat there rubbing his eyes until the feeling passed. "You want to maybe turn the lights down a little?"
The light obediently faded from painful to merely annoying. Cautiously, he pried open his eyelids.
The first thing in his line of sight was the display screen on the far wall of his cabin. Normally, the screen was set to show engine status or current nav data or some such ship's function. With most of the Essenay's systems shut down since landing here two days ago, he had reset the screen to show the lush green Iota Klestis landscape stretching out beyond the main airlock hatchway. It was sort of like having a window in his room, though it had been so long since he'd had a normal groundside room with a normal window that he could hardly remember what it was like.
At least, the screen was supposed to show the outside view. At the moment, all it showed was black.
He turned to look at the clock built into the bulkhead beside his bed. No wonder there was nothing to see out there: the glowing numbers read 4:57 a.m. "Are you out of your shrink-wrapped mind?" he demanded. "It's five o'clock in the morning!"
"Go outside," Uncle Virge said. "There's something out there—"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you," Jack sighed, plucking his jeans from the swing-out arm where they were hanging and pulling them on. Arguing with Uncle Virgil had never been a very rewarding pastime. Arguing with Uncle Virge was even less so. "This had better be good."
He was retrieving a set of electronic binoculars from the airlock's storage cubbyhole when Uncle Virge suddenly cut in again. "Uh-oh," he said, his voice coming now from the airlock intercom speaker. "Get outside, Jack lad. Quickly."
The hatch popped and the gangway slid out to the ground below. "Where?" Jack asked, turning on the 'nocs and peering cautiously out the hatch. He hadn't run into any serious predators since landing, but the planet was bound to have some stashed away somewhere. Was that what Uncle Virge was all worked up about?
"Not there," Uncle Virge said urgently. "Up. Go down the ramp and look up, toward the eastern horizon. Hurry."
Grimacing, Jack trudged down the ramp. If Uncle Virge had hauled him out of bed to show him some cool aurora borealis or something, he was going to take him apart molecule by molecule. Lifting the 'nocs, he focused on the sky to the east.
There were flickers of light up there, all right. But it was no aurora.
It was a space battle.
"Oh, no," Jack groaned, his heart jumping suddenly into his throat. A space battle over his nice, quiet, out-of-the-way hiding place?
"My words exactly, lad," Uncle Virge said, his voice grim. "There were only those four big ships showing when I woke you. I thought we might have stumbled in on a smugglers' rendezvous."
"Terrific," Jack muttered, adjusting the focus as best he could.
Along with the four big ships were four little ones—he could barely make them out at this range, but the glowing light from their drives was easily visible. They were definitely the attackers, firing flurries of missiles as they charged the big ships. He could see some missile trails going the other direction now.
"They're starting to shoot back," Uncle Virge commented. "Seem a bit slow on the uptake."
"Maybe they weren't expecting trouble," Jack said. "You have a make on any of them?"
"Not the big ones," Uncle Virge said. "They look like long-haul freighters, but I don't recognize the design. The little ones are Djinn-90 pursuit craft. A favorite of mercenaries, planetary militaries, and dockyard police throughout the Orion Arm."
Police. Jack had gotten so he cringed even at the word. "So are you saying those are smugglers up there?"
"Not saying they are; not saying they aren't," Uncle Virge said. "Could be it's pirates attacking mining ships."
"You told me there weren't any mines here."
"I said there was nothing on the books on this place," Uncle Virge corrected. "Doesn't mean some ambitious citizen isn't doing something on the quiet. Hold on a minute—what's that?"
Jack frowned, pressing the 'nocs harder to his eyes. In exact unison, something that looked like a slender purple tornado had erupted from each of the four small ships. "Plasma bursts?" he suggested.
"If they are, it's not like anything on the books," Uncle Virge said. "Not like anything else I've ever heard of, either. Doesn't seem to be doing any damage, though."
"Better check that," Jack advised, the back of his neck feeling the strain as the ships' paths carried them higher and higher in the sky over his head. "One of them's dropping out of orbit. Either it's hurt, or else it's trying to get away."
"It might as well save itself the effort," Uncle Virge said. "A ship that size and shape maneuvers like a sleepy brick. There—you see? They've got it targeted again."
Jack nodded silently as the purple tornado caught up with the dodging freighter and began raking across it again. "You think anybody's going to notice us down here?"
"Not likely," Uncle Virge assured him. "We're not putting out any power to speak of, and I've got the chameleon hull-wrap going. Besides, this world is supposed to be uninhabited. Who'd think of looking for anyone here?"
"Right," Jack said. That was, after all, the whole reason he and the Essenay were on Iota Klestis in the first place.
Unless . . .
"Unless this is some kind of sneak trick," he suggested slowly. "A fake battle they're hoping will smoke us out?"
Uncle Virge gave a clearly audible snort. "You want subtlety, lad, you'd better look someplace besides Braxton Universis. Megacorporations are by definition big, slow, and obvious."
"StarForce, then?" Jack persisted. "Or Internes Police?"
"Megacorporations by a different name," Uncle Virge said. "Besides, we're talking a pretty expensive trick here. Show me any law enforcement agency that has that much spare cash lying around."
Jack made a face. "So it's a real battle."
Earlier, the purple tornadoes had fired out from the small ships at exactly the same time. Now, again in exact unison, they shut off again. "Well, it was a real battle," Uncle Virge corrected. "It may be over now. Uh-oh."
"What?"
"The ship that tried to dodge," Uncle Virge said. "Looks like it's headed for a crash landing."
Jack adjusted the range finder on his 'nocs. Uncle Virge was right; the big ship was falling. Already he could see the shock-wave distortion as it dipped ever deeper into the atmosphere. "Is it under power?"
"Limited power, yes," Uncle Virge said. "Also limited control. Doesn't look like he'll have nearly enough of either, though."
Jack squeezed the 'nocs hard, feeling sick as he watched the ship trying valiantly to maneuver. They weren't headed for any crash landing, not at that speed and angle. They were headed for a crash, period. "Nothing we can do for them, I suppose," he murmured.
"No," Uncle Virge said thoughtfully. "But maybe there's something they can do for you."
Jack lifted his eyes away from the 'nocs, throwing a sideways look at the soft light inside the airlock. That was a tone of voice he knew far too well. "Like what?"
"Like maybe after the dust settles we might find something worth salvaging from the wreck."
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, come on, lad, don't use that tone with me," Uncle Virge said, sounding hurt. "The ship's a goner—you can see that from here. Whatever's aboard won't do them any good, may they rest in peace."
"And so why don't we pretend we're vultures and see what we can sift out of the rubble?" Jack suggested.
"Well, if it isn't us, it'll be our friends in the Djinn-90s," Uncle Virge pointed out. "They aren't wasting any time checking out their other prizes, you know."
Frowning, Jack lifted the 'nocs again. Sure enough, the four small ships we
re moving into docking positions alongside the three remaining freighters.
"Still, they ought to be busy up there for quite some time." Uncle Virge's voice went all soft and silky. "And you know, if they were smugglers, whatever they were carrying was probably valuable. Maybe even valuable enough to pay off Braxton Universis."
Jack shook his head. "I don't want to steal anymore. You know that."
"You want to stay on the run forever?" Uncle Virge countered. "This could be a way to square things."
"I'm trying to put the past behind me," Jack insisted.
"And see where it got you," Uncle Virge shot back. "On the run for a crime you didn't even commit. You see any fairness in that?"
Jack sighed. "I don't see much fairness in anything anymore."
"Exactly my point," Uncle Virge said. "Besides, there's no crime in stealing stolen goods, now, is there?"
"I'm sure you and the law have different opinions on that."
"Jack, my lad," Uncle Virge said, back to that injured tone again.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jack said, lifting the 'nocs to his eyes again. He had to turn around to see the freighters; while he'd been arguing with Uncle Virge, they'd passed over his head on their way to the western horizon. "Even if they ignore the crash, aren't they going to spot us as soon as we take off?"
"Only if they can see us," Uncle Virge pointed out reasonably. "All we have to do is wait until they're out of sight over the horizon, then take off and head toward the crash site. Before they come back over the eastern horizon we'll go to ground and wait until they pass around the other side again. Couldn't be easier."
"How long will it take us to get there?" Jack asked.
"Three, four hours, maybe," Uncle Virge said. "Five at the most."
"And you don't think the guys in the Djinn-90s will be checking it out themselves?"
"Oh, come on, lad," Uncle Virge said. "Look at the size of those freighters. It could be days before they finish up there and turn their attention to the wreck."
Jack chewed at his lip. There was something about this that felt monumentally stupid. All his instincts were screaming at him to get the Essenay out of here the minute everyone's back was turned.
But if there really was a way to square things with Braxton Universis, maybe it was worth a try.
He shook his head bitterly. A month ago, on his fourteenth birthday, he'd baked himself a birthday cake, with little candles and everything. Uncle Virge had sung an off-key "Happy Birthday," and Jack had actually made a secret wish as he blew out the candles.
The wish had been that, after all these years, he could finally make a normal life for himself.
So much for the mystical power of wishes.
"Shall I fire up the preflight checklist?" Uncle Virge prompted.
Jack let the 'nocs fall to his side. "Sure," he said, turning and trudging back up the ramp. "Let's go take a look."
CHAPTER 3
Commander Chayd did his best, as did all the remaining Shontine and K'da. But the Havenseeker was too big, its control areas too widely scattered.
In the end, there really was no hope.
Draycos regained consciousness slowly, to find himself lying beneath the nav bubble's control board. He was curled up tightly with his back to the bulkhead like a K'da cub trying to keep warm on a cold night, a mound of broken tiles and shattered equipment pressed against him. The descent through the atmosphere—the heat and buffeting, the tension and Chayd's calm orders—was etched on his mind like the brilliant sunlight of morning. But the crash itself was only a vague memory of noise and chaos, of being thrown violently about as the ship's hull crumpled beneath him and the nav bubble shattered above him.
For that matter, he couldn't even remember leaving the relative safety of Polphir's back and becoming fully three-dimensional again.
He had no idea how long he'd been lying there. Long enough for what was left of the Havenseeker to grind its way to a halt, apparently, because all was now silence and stillness. On the other hand, the cloud of dust that still hung thick in the air around him showed that the ship hadn't been down for very long, either. An hour, perhaps. Maybe less.
Carefully, trying not to choke on the dust, he took a deep breath, concentrating on the feel of the muscles and bones in his torso as his chest expanded. There were a few aches and pains, but nothing that indicated anything more serious than bruises and a few cracked scales through which blood was slowly oozing. He tried his legs next, carefully moving and twisting each in turn. The middle joint of his left rear leg jolted him with a brief stab of pain, but after a little experimentation he concluded it was only a mild sprain. He catalogued a few more bruises and cracked scales on various limbs, then moved on to his neck and tail. Again, he found nothing serious.
Pushing away the collected debris hemming him in, he worked his way out from under the control panel. Polphir was nowhere to be seen, the chair he'd been strapped to apparently torn straight off the deck. Wincing as shards of plastic and metal crunched under his paws, Draycos walked gingerly to the edge of the bubble floor and looked down to the main deck.
There, lying amid the rubble, was Polphir.
Draycos's injured leg and the uncertain footing on the main deck would make a standard K'da leap risky at best. Fortunately, the ladder he'd climbed up earlier was still in place, though hanging precariously by a single connector. Climbing down as quickly as he could, he crunched through more plastic and metal to Polphir's side.
The Shontin was dead.
Draycos would not remember afterward how long he crouched there, sifting quietly through his memories and saying his silent farewells. He thought back to their first meeting, after Draycos's host had died, and to those first few tentative months as symbionts. He had missed Trachan terribly, and only much later did he learn that his surly attitude had nearly persuaded Polphir to turn him over to someone else instead.
But the Shontin had been patient, and Draycos had managed to grow up a little. In the end, they had worked things out.
It had been lucky for Draycos that they had. At least twice in their time together it had been only Polphir's quick thinking in the face of danger that had kept the two of them alive.
But it hadn't all been merely experience and quick thinking. Polphir had had a fierce loyalty to his symbiont, a loyalty he'd demonstrated at the Battle of Conkren when he'd deliberately put his own life on the line for his friend. Draycos still shuddered at that memory, and still marveled at the miracle that had gotten both of them out alive.
Now Polphir was gone. And Draycos had been powerless to save him.
Or even to properly mourn him. He and Polphir had been together for over ten years, as companions, symbionts, and fellow warriors. A proper farewell to such a relationship could not be accomplished in less than a week, nor without all of Polphir's close family and friends on hand to weave their own memories into the great tapestry that would close off his life.
But what remained of Polphir's close family was a long ways away. Most of his friends lay dead around him here on the Havenseeker's deck.
And Draycos certainly did not have a week for a proper mourning. In fact, unless he could find another host, his own life could be counted now in hours.
"Steady, K'da warrior," he said aloud to himself. His voice was startlingly loud in the silence, the words echoing oddly from the new contours and gaps the crash had created. "Rule One: assess the complete situation before coming to unpleasant conclusions."
As a pep talk, it was a dismal failure. As good military advice, though, it made sense. Picking his way through the debris, favoring his injured leg a little, he began to search the ship.
It was an unpleasant duty. The Havenseeker's bow was completely crushed and buried, the few Shontine who had been up there apparently buried with it. Those who had been below him in the control complex had also died in the crash. From the control complex aft, the ship was clogged with debris but otherwise relatively undamaged, and for awhile Draycos dare
d to hope that their attackers' sweep with the Death might have missed someone.
But no. They had done an efficient job of it, leaving nothing behind but Shontine bodies. Some lay where they had fallen, most where the crash had sent them sliding. The K'da bodies, of course, were long gone. Slowly, his head held low, Draycos turned and headed back forward to the control complex. It was, he thought more than once along the way, worse than any battlefield from which he had ever faced the Valahgua. On battlefields, at least, there were always a few survivors. Here, there was no one but him.
But he would be joining the rest of them soon enough. He had survived an attack with the Death, and even made it through a ship crash. But he could not survive for long without a host. Another two hours, perhaps, and he would fade into a two-dimensional shadow and disappear forever into nothingness.
Still, he had those two hours. He might as well put them to use.
The sensor station in the control complex had been completely demolished in the crash. But the piloting console had its own recorder, which turned out to be relatively undamaged.
The data diamonds, unfortunately, had been jolted out of their recording slots by the impact and mixed together in a random heap at the bottom of the recorder housing. Digging them out, he found a handheld reader and began sorting through them. Before death took him, perhaps he could at least learn who had done this to them.
Though even as he set to work, he knew down deep that he was merely distracting himself. Whatever he learned here, that knowledge would die with him. No K'da or Shontin would ever find this tomb.
The dust slowly began to clear from the air as Draycos worked, gradually settling into a soft coating that seemed to cling to every surface. The faint sounds of wildlife began to be heard, too, bird and insect twitterings as alien as the world they inhabited. Occasionally Draycos noticed his ears twitching as another new noise entered the mix, but he paid no conscious attention to the sounds. His entire focus was on the diamonds.
But all the concentration in the universe couldn't make up for what was no longer there. Damaged in the crash, the diamonds no longer held the full record of the ambush. Only bits and pieces remained, images here and there. Nothing he could use to positively identify the ships that had attacked them.