The Service of the Sword woh-4 Read online

  "I wonder," Tab Tilson commented after a particularly nasty brush, "just how many merchant vessels were 'lost' to this pair?"

  "Too many," Boniece commented. "We may owe the Silesian pirates an apology."

  There was a harsh laugh at that, but then Psalms put on a burst of acceleration, obviously trying to edge around Intransigent and get at Judith's ship. Ignoring the light cruiser, Psalms bore down on Aaron's Rod, seeking an angle where the other ship's wedge wouldn't protect her from attack.

  Boniece was issuing orders with the measured calm that came over him when he was at his most intense, and Carlie felt her fingers flying to comply. One, two, three . . . She thought she had intercepted all the missiles heading toward Aaron's Rod, then another battery went off.

  Four, five . . .

  Aaron's Rod fired lasers, intercepting the incoming missiles neatly, but a fresh broadside followed on their heels.

  "Captain," Carlie heard her own voice like a stranger's, "Proverbs is speeding up and edging around us to port. If we're not careful . . ."

  "Keep us between Proverbs and her target," Boniece commanded. "So far Aaron's Rod is doing some tidy defensive fire."

  Carlie glanced at her board, but the hyper limit was still impossibly far away. She didn't know how much longer they could keep this on a purely defensive footing. The consequences if they did not, especially since to this point neither Psalms nor Proverbs had fired on Intransigent . . .

  She couldn't let herself think about it. Then she saw it, a missile from Psalms slipped through the joint defenses.

  "Aaron's Rod has been hit!"

  Michael Winton had gotten off the bridge almost immediately. His peculiar rapport with Captain Judith didn't extend to the rest of her bridge crew—Dinah possibly excepted—and he knew he was interfering with her ability to command.

  He convinced Zaneta, the head of his armed escort, to take him back to his pinnace.

  "O'Donnel, they need you in Engineering," he said crisply, and waved at one of Zaneta's Samson's Bane. "She'll take you there. How far you reduce the safety margin is up to Captain Judith, but I think we're going to have to get as close to maximum military power as you can take us."

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  The petty officer sounded calm, but Michael saw the truth in his eyes. Maximum military power would mean running the compensator with no safety margin at all. That would enormously increase the possibility that it might fail and kill them all . . . but it would also give Judith at least half again the acceleration she'd been able to maintain so far.

  "Good," Michael approved as warmly as he could. "On your way, then."

  O'Donnel nodded and went jogging away behind his guide while Michael turned back to the other two crewmen.

  "As for us, I think we'll serve best as damage control," he went on, both to them and the listening Zaneta. "Can you introduce us to the Chief, Ma'am?"

  Zaneta did so. Rena proved to be Ephraim's third wife. Michael couldn't help but wonder both how many women Ephraim had married, and what kind of man he was that they were willing to risk so much to get away from him.

  He didn't ask. Rena made him rather nervous.

  A battle from below decks, rather than the bridge, proved to be a strange and elusive thing, a little like a very bad nightmare where everything shifts at the least prompting.

  Michael's first assignment was to repair a set of overheating relays for one of the impeller nodes. O'Donnel was obviously doing his job with the compensator, Michael reflected. Aaron's Rod was no longer crawling by anyone's estimate. In fact, he doubted that even when she turned privateer she'd ever needed to pour on the heat this way.

  Chief Lorne was diverted to sickbay when Michael learned that he'd done time as a sick berth assistant before becoming a coxswain. So far, the Sisters had been unreasonably lucky, and Michael knew it. The most frightened might have required sedation, but no one had been seriously injured during the escape. Yet. But, then, Aaron's Rod hadn't taken any hits yet, either.

  With Lorne in sickbay and O'Donnel nursing the ship's compensator, PO Parello, Lorne's copilot, ended up in gunnery checking a hinky laser mount. That left them spread out over the entire ship, but their personal coms kept all four of them in close contact.

  The absence of titles and the first names that were all the women gave for identification created a sense of intimacy almost immediately. If it hadn't been that Zaneta followed him everywhere, Michael might even have felt accepted. Even she soon tucked her weapon in its holster, and held leads and lines without comment.

  Then a missile impact rocked Aaron's Rod. Michael froze, waiting for Rena's report.

  "Aft cargo hold breached," she snapped. "Seals holding. Mr. Winton, anything on that pinnace of yours?"

  They'd already handed out the med kits, vac suits, and anything else from the pinnace's stores that Michael thought could help even the odds.

  "No problem," he said.

  Another shudder went through and this time Rena paled.

  "Sheared off one of the lasers. We've lost two Sisters in gunnery control. Teresa is taking Dara to sickbay."

  Michael waited to be sent, but Rena just gave him a sad smile.

  "Nothing we can do for a part that's missing. Teresa sealed the compartment and we're not losing much."

  More reports came in. Michael found himself down in Engineering, flat on his belly reprogramming software to divert around a damaged circuit. His universe resolved into small problems, each intensely important while it lasted, each superseded by yet another problem as overtaxed systems collapsed under the strain of compensating for their fellows.

  He wondered why Intransigent wasn't doing more to protect them, and discovered to his shock that she was soaking up most of the damage. He'd forgotten how vulnerable these older model ships were. Forgotten if he'd ever known . . .

  And the nightmare kept going on.

  When she could spare a glance from her own duties, Judith felt nothing but awe for what Intransigent was doing. The light cruiser was keeping Proverbs at bay with nothing more—at least so it seemed—than her presence. Psalms had slipped around, but very few of the missiles Gideon Templeton lobbed relentlessly at the ship carrying his mother, step-mothers, and even a few of his children, got through.

  Judith remembered her lessons and did her best to keep the cruiser's wedge between Aaron's Rod and incoming fire. She was fully aware that she wasn't managing it as well as a properly trained helmswoman might have, just as she knew that her inexperience kept her from rolling Aaron's Rod with the sort of confidence that would have used the privateer's own wedge with proper efficiency. But she was doing the best she could. She knew that . . . and so did any God who might actually be listening.

  Besides, she had other things to worry about, as well. Along with Dinah, she was also responsible for point defense, fighting to intercept the incoming fire that got past Intransigent. They did well, but she was aware of how the older woman was slowing, her breathing becoming labored.

  "Dinah, you need to rest," Judith said.

  "I will have time enough to rest," Dinah said. "How far to the hyper limit?"

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "I can last fifteen minutes," Dinah insisted.

  Judith couldn't press. She needed to do so much. Odelia had received coordinates for their translation into hyper-space from Captain Boniece, but Judith still had to put them in. She had to adapt her tactics, such as they were, to systems that kept failing. Sherlyn's sensors were only giving partial information as missile strikes wiped away external feed.

  Yet minute by minute, the hyper limit approached. Something had happened, for Psalms was no longer following so closely. Maybe Intransigent had gotten frustrated and fired on it. Maybe even the Havenite modifications to the Masadan engineering couldn't take the strain.

  Five.

  "Odelia, tell Naomi to have the passengers prepare for translation into hyper."

  Four.

  "Judith! Proverbs is dropping bac
k. Sensors show . . . I'm not sure what they show. I think a drive is out."

  Three.

  "We're leaking atmosphere from aft. Life support isn't happy about it."

  Two.

  "Judith . . ."

  Dinah's face was very gray. When Judith grabbed her, she saw the read-outs on the older woman's vac suit were flickering from green to amber.

  "My heart . . . I can't breathe . . ."

  One.

  "Hyper limit fifty-nine seconds," the computer intoned.

  Judith thrust Dinah into the captain's chair, praying to a God she desperately wanted to believe in for one more miracle. She took a moment to fasten the straps on the frighteningly limp figure.

  "Odelia, we need a medic on the bridge. Now! I think Dinah's having a heart attack."

  "Thirty seconds."

  Judith could hear Odelia calling for a medic, giving the warnings, signaling Intransigent that they'd resume contact after they'd translated into hyper. She leaned to the astrogation panel, pressed the buttons as she had done so many times in sims.

  There was a strange feeling and the universe seemed to hiccup abruptly. She had the impression of distant cheering coming over open com links. The bridge was strangely quiet.

  Judith rose and cradled Dinah's head against her. She saw gray lips move, bent her head to listen.

  "We're safe?" Dinah whispered.

  "Safe," Judith managed a stiff smile.

  "I think," Dinah coughed. "I will never see the Promised Land, but my daughters . . ."

  "Will!" Judith completed fiercely when the other woman could not draw breath. "As will you."

  "Moses . . ."

  "You call me that," Judith said, "but you are truly Moses, I was only your handmaid."

  Dinah's lips twisted in what might have been a wry smile, might only have been pain.

  "Moses never saw . . ."

  "The Promised Land?" Judith finished. "Moses doubted God, but you never did. God will send one more miracle."

  But Dinah was very still now, and slowly, one by one, the telltales on her suit shifted to red, then black.

  Judith, who had not lost control for one moment during those interminable hours of flight and battle, bent her head and wept.

  Carlie kept her gaze locked on the sensor boards, but there was no sign that either Psalms or Proverbs had followed them into hyper. Certainly Proverbs had shown signs of a drive malfunction, but Psalms might have had enough. She supposed they'd know someday, but right now it was enough to give her report.

  "No sign of pursuit, Captain."

  "Very good, Lieutenant. Com, contact Captain Judith."

  Tab Tilson's voice held such concern when he spoke, that Carlie jerked her head around to look.

  "Captain, Odelia—that's their com officer—says Captain Judith isn't available right now and would you talk to her?"

  Captain Boniece blinked, but adjusted to the odd request.

  "Put her on screen."

  The screen took shape of image of a plain woman with round features and long hair drawn into a knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were red from weeping, but her expression tightened with determination as she looked at Captain Boniece.

  "How may I help you?"

  She sounded like she was offering to serve drinks, not in apparent command of a fighting ship's bridge.

  "I had hoped to speak with Captain Judith," Boniece replied. "We registered no hits on the bridge. Is she . . ."

  Odelia interrupted before Boniece could finish his rather awkward query.

  "She lives, but Dinah . . ." She paused and gulped, tears welling back in her eyes. "Dinah is dying. Her heart."

  Carlie doubted that Captain Boniece could make any more of this than she could, but he adapted smoothly.

  "Medical emergency. It may be we can help. I'll send coordinates for taking Aaron's Rod out of the grav wave. Then our ships can rendezvous, and I'll extend every assistance my ship can offer. Is Mr. Winton available?"

  "He is also with Dinah," Odelia said. "But I can link you to any or all of your other men."

  Carlie saw Boniece relax marginally, and realized that he had been dreading that his men—like the Silesian smugglers—might have been killed by these fanatics.

  "Give me PO O'Donnel," he said.

  Michael Winton came aboard Intransigent shortly after the two ships left the grav wave. He looked tired and thinner, but Carlie Dunsinane thought that impossibly he might well have grown several inches. Maybe it was that he now walked straighter, his head held like a prince—or like the Navy officer he'd proven himself worthy to be.

  They'd already had his report, transmitted as soon as the immediate crisis was over. Reading between the lines of his neat prose it had been a tough couple of hours.

  Simply put, Aaron's Rod was a good ship for her type, but she'd never been intended for the punishment she'd taken during that Exodus. For days to come there would be repairs to make, systems to bring back on-line. Though Michael never said so, Captain Boniece had been wise to leave the four Intransigent crewmen on board. Without their skills, Aaron's Rod could never have won that deadly race.

  Even so there were the wounded and dead. Few enough if this had been a military action, but in this close-knit community of rebels, each loss had been felt as if it had been of, well, a sister.

  Worst, perhaps, had been the heart attack suffered by Dinah, senior wife of Ephraim Templeton, and, Carlie now realized, the true leader of the Exodus. Judith had been ship's captain, but Dinah had been admiral. Her collapse, just when the Sisterhood should have been able to feel joy at their release, had nearly broken them.

  Carlie watched as Michael turned to take one end of the stretcher being extended out of the pinnace's side hatch. The other end was held by a green-eyed girl who Carlie realized with a shock was Captain Judith.

  She covered her own reaction by stepping forward with the grav-assisted stretcher she'd brought from sickbay, no one questioning that an ATO would do the job of a medical attendant. The attendants were there, though, as was Surgeon Commander Kiah Rink, who immediately took charge.

  "You'll save Dinah?" Judith asked, reaching out to Rink. "Tell us you will."

  "I'll do what I can," Rink said, bending over the stretcher and taking readings, "and I'll do it better if you'll let me get her and my other patients to sickbay."

  She softened.

  "The oxygen was a good idea. So were the rest of the measures you took. You've done all you can. Let it go."

  "Michael did it," Judith said, looking at him with pride. "Came to the bridge when we called for a medic. He had one of the kits from your pinnace. Your medicine is far better than Masadan medicine—and he had been trained that a woman needs different care than does a man."

  Michael was too dark to show a blush, but Carlie had the distinct impression he was coloring.

  "Why don't both of you escort the wounded to sickbay," she suggested. "Mr. Winton, when the wounded are settled, please escort Captain Judith to Captain Boniece, then report to me."

  "I must return to my ship!" Judith protested.

  "If you'll permit, Captain, we'll send over a relief crew," Carlie said. "I have one standing by, all women, under Commander Umeko Palmer, our own XO."

  Judith smiled.

  "Thank you for your consideration. I will accept your relief crew, but it does not need to be all women. The Sisterhood does not mind men—not if they are Manticorans."

  With One Stone

  by Timothy Zahn

  It was Silesian space.

  It was escort duty for convoys of Her Majesty's merchant marine.

  It was going to be boring as hell.

  Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Rafael Cardones stifled a sigh as the Star Knight–class heavy cruiser HMS Fearless slid smoothly into its slot in Sphinx orbit. It wasn't fair, and everyone aboard knew it. After all they'd gone through at Basilisk Station a few months back, and especially now with a shiny, brand-new-out-of-the-box warship wrapped around them, s
urely the Admiralty could have given them something more challenging than to run endlessly back and forth between Basilisk and the roiling cesspool of political chaos laughingly called the Silesian Confederacy.

  "Nodes to standby," the ship's commander ordered in that smooth soprano of hers, and Cardones threw a surreptitious look at her. If Captain Honor Harrington was dismayed by the thought of escort duty, it certainly didn't show in her face. Her expression was almost serene, in fact, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

  Of course, Cardones recalled, her expression had been nearly that serene as she ordered their former ship, the late lamented light cruiser Fearless, to charge off across the Basilisk system in pursuit of an eight-million-ton Q-ship owned and operated by the People's Republic of Haven. A Q-ship, moreover, that might as well have been a full-fledged battlecruiser for the weight of armament it carried.

  While their light cruiser might as well have been a glorified LAC after all the gutting Admiral Sonja Hemphill had done to it in order to make room for her precious experimental grav lance. The fact that Captain Harrington had managed to keep the Fearless together long enough to find a way to use that self-same grav lance against the Peep Q-ship was irrelevant, as far as Cardones was concerned. To him, it had been borderline criminal stupidity on Hemphill's part, and the rumor mill had it that Captain Harrington had said so directly to her face at the Weapons Development Board hearing afterward. Not in so many words, of course.

  He took another look at the captain's face. On second thought, he decided, that expression wasn't serene at all. Captain Harrington was looking forward to the chance to hunt down some pirates and kick their collective butt.

  Maybe this tour wasn't going to be quite as boring as he'd first thought.

  Across the bridge, Lieutenant Joyce Metzinger straightened suddenly in her chair. "Captain, I'm getting a signal from HMS Basilisk," she announced.