Korval's Game (31 page)

Erob sniffed and used her chin to point at Nelirikk, where he stood guard inside the entrance.

“If that has an equal chance of creating mayhem and escaping, why not send it?”

The scout shook his head in the Terran manner and bowed lightly in the Liaden.

“Why so,” he said, and to Nelirikk’s ear the tone was almost teasing, “should the luck frown and I fall, I will have left my captain with a like weapon with which to continue the war.”

“I’ll OK it,” Commander Carmody spoke then and nodded at the scout. “Draw what you need from stores, and mind! If you take that flitter, you bring it back, boyo. Am I clear?”

The scout bowed once more, eyes serious, though his mouth smiled. “You are clear, Jason. Thank you.”

***

It was on the second day
after the scout quit camp that Nelirikk was called to the command tent once more.

He went hurriedly, with a nod for the comm tech who had been testing his memory of call code and band protocol, and arrived to find commander, general, his own captain and the full complement of minor staff awaiting him.

“Sit down, Beautiful,” the commander said, giving him the grace of his field-name, and with a wave that might have been an acknowledgment of Nelirikk’s salute, or part of the order to be seated.

“Them big hummers of rotor craft,” the captain said, without preamble. “What do they carry? Troops, equipment, special weapons? You got the floor.”

It took him a moment to realize that he was not being offered a floor as his own, but the opportunity to speak.

“Captain. When well supplied, each can carry eight dozens of troops, or field artillery and four dozens. I have not the range of them since they may carry auxiliary fuel tanks instead of troops.

“They can be used well for forward supply, but are light on top and side armor. They are not attack aircraft and their gunners are but four. It is not unusual for them to drag—drop troops.

“Rumor is that the landing structure was designed for lighter work and is always under repair. Their crews think themselves far above the troops they ferry.”

“Well, there’s a bit of good news,” Commander Carmody commented. “Too good to work as hard as they could for the ground guys.”

“How many?” the captain demanded, intent. Nelirikk shook his head, Terran-wise.

“Each regiment has different numbers. I saw four pods of three at the base I was sent from.”

“Fifteen hundred troops might thus be moved in a short-range rush, were everyone crammed to overload,” said the general, looking up from the paper which was not filled with idle doodling, as Nelirikk had suspected, but a dense line of manual calculation.

“Gotcha.” The commander nodded at tel’Vosti.

“Explorer,” asked the general, “are they well supplied?”

“Sir. I do not know the mission. I cannot hazard to say.”

“Good boy,” the old soldier said unexpectedly. “Don’t let us wish ourselves into troubles.” He glanced speculatively around the table before he spoke again.

“Tell me, Explorer. If you were on the spot, and you knew there to be what might prove to be a courier boat for an opponent’s battleship landed within range, what would you do?”

“Courier for a battleship?” The concept amazed. Yet the question was obviously serious. Nelirikk applied himself to the answer.

“If the general pleases. I would send one pod—three—well equipped soonest. A second pod would be fueled and ready for loading depending on need. I would also increase pressure everywhere that I could to disrupt . . .”

“Thank you,” the general said, holding up a hand and nodding. “So would I.”

Nelirikk sat a moment in uncomfortable silence as something was decided in several glances round the table.

“Yessir,” Commander Carmody said, perhaps to himself. “When this little dust up is over, I’m gonna go up the park and find me that fongbear up there and pin a medal on his chest.” He came to his feet and Nelirikk jumped up, snapping a salute, only to find that the other was bending over a kit belt.

The commander extracted something small from the belt and handed it to the captain, then turned to Nelirikk, a pistol in his hand.

“Beautiful, we’re sending Redhead’s Irregulars out in harm’s way, and she refuses to budge without you.”

The big man extended the pistol, butt first. Nelirikk understood that he was to take it, and did so, stunned by the purity of its balance, its perfect, deadly elegance. The grips were carved of wood, the metal a wondrous satiny. . .

“Took me the same way, first time I saw it,” Captain Redhead said from his left. “But listen up, Beautiful—Commander Carmody ain’t done yet.”

Nelirikk snatched after his wandering wits, raised a hand to snap a salute and was waved into stillness. The commander pointed.

“That pretty belongs to Senior Commander Rialto and if anything happens to it—or to Captain Redhead—she’ll give me hell. Bring them both back. That’s an order.”

His salute was waved away again and the commander held out another large hand.

“You’ll want the ammo, too, boyo.”

***

Some things,
you didn’t question.

Like when the man you’d married, thinking it was bad enough he was Liaden and thodelm in a House she’d figured out by now was one of the fifty called High—when the man you’d slit your own throat before you saw him hurt came to you the night he left for something that might not let him back alive and murmured, “Cha’trez, you must know this. I am Nadelm Korval, by lineage. You are nadelmae, by right of our mating. Should I fall, you must claim the Ring and as delm keep Korval safe.”

You heard that, you just nodded, and pulled him close in the dark, and you didn’t ask,
So, who do I claim this Ring from and why should they believe me?
and you didn’t say,
What makes you so sure I’m gonna outlive you?
You just nodded, and held him and listened to his heart beat, strong and steady next to your ear, and then you kissed him and you let him go, the night swallowing him up, like he’d never been at all.

Likewise, Miri thought, looking down at the golden gyrfalcon in her palm, you didn’t ask why Jase Carmody picked you for the hot seat, if he happened to find Nirvana, this war. You just took the token and didn’t make a fuss, kept it close and hoped to every possible god of war and peace that you never had to show it.

Miri pinned the token to the lining of her sleeve, then sealed the battle jacket and looked up at her tall shadow.

He looked down at her, dark blue eyes alert, brown face expressionless. She’d gotten used to him, mostly, but there were times, like now, when she felt ice sweep down her backbone, remembering what this man was.

Going into battle with an Yxtrang at your back. Robertson, if I’d’ve known you were going to turn out a nut case I’d’ve left you on Klamath
.

Miri sighed and straightened, giving her aide a grim smile.

“OK, Beautiful. Let’s round ’em up and move ’em out.”

***

They sat in what order
they could in the back of a large farm truck bouncing its way along unpaved track. The captain had appointed of her troop three lieutenants, naming them properly First, Second, and Third, and she also appointed the sergeants. The under-officers then appointed the squads.

It was what one might expect of a unit put together of remnants and volunteers, moving in all haste toward its first blooding. Still.

The captain sat to his left, her eyes closed, though her grip against the catch-rope was not that of a sleeper. Nelirikk cleared his throat.

“Captain?”

The fierce gray eyes snapped open. “Yo.”

“I have not had time to finish properly, but I have been working on something for the troop, if you allow.”

She sat up straighter, looked into his face with a curious expression.

He reached among the hastily stowed supplies, and pulled a plain cloth sack from between several sealed containers of explosives.

“I had hoped to make it more complete, but glory comes upon us quickly . . .” he said, deftly fitting together the lengths of tubing.

Holding the staff in the crook of his elbow, he then took the square of labored-over cloth from the bag, unfolding it as gently as he could in the crowded, lurching truck.

The captain stared, and for a moment he thought that he had offended, that she would reject his gift to the troop—

“That’s some piece of work,” she said, taking a portion of the flag in her hands. She looked up at him, feral eyes bright. “Your idea?”

“Captain. Yes. A gift for the unit for being permitted as a recruit. If it pleases.”

The nickname of the unit, 1st Irregulars, was rendered in the trade language, as befit a troop made from as many different sources as theirs: bronze letters on a black stripe fully a third of the flag deep. The symbol—ah, that had been a hard night’s thought!—a knife in silver with two sets of wings, one black, one white, set on a green field. One set of wings were dragon’s wings, to honor Jela’s arms-mate, who had founded the House of the scout. The blade was Jela’s own symbol, of course; and the other set of wings was from the bird of the Gyrfalks.

“It pleases,” the captain said amid the growing buzz of interest as others of the troop began to take notice.

“Hang it up,” she said, then, and he did so, fastening it to the top of the distaff, where it hung, brave in its solitude, without yet the proper complement of captured enemy flags to adorn it.

“That’s good,” the captain said, softly. “That’s real good, Beautiful. Turn it around now, so everybody can see.” She came to her feet and jumped lightly onto the seat, one small hand on the catch-rope.

“All right, listen up! We still got us a bit of riding before we start our march, and we got one more important decision to make. First off, I want squads together.”

In a remarkably short time and with only a little too much jostling, the squads formed themselves.

“OK!” called the captain. “Some of you close by saw what I have here. The rest of you take a good look at the unit’s flag! Now you got a choice. You can go out there and fight and hope no one notices you. Or you can go out there and fight and let ’em know you’re there. Which squads ain’t interested in carrying the unit flag into our first fight? Hold your hands up and sing out!”

The close-packed squads were abruptly silent, sitting as still as they could.

The captain let the silence stretch, then flashed a grin at the assembled soldiers.

“Darn,” she called out, “that’s gonna make my job harder. Be sure you understand that this is serious stuff. Which ever squad carries this flag is gonna get a lot of heat. It’ll be noisy and it’ll be for keeps. You’ll have to run with it and protect it, and, most important, you’ll have to bring it back safe.”

Nelirikk, holding the standard high, felt his heart lift. For here, indeed, was a captain. On the spot, she created a competition, offering the flag. It was the preparedness check-and-drill, with officers standing by to see what needed remedy, what weapons were underprepared, which squad’s knives were out of place.

The truck cranked, lurched, and ground to a halt that shuddered every bone in the back. Nelirikk glimpsed forest through the open hatch, with hills sloping away, and an overgrown path too narrow to permit passage of the vehicle.

“All out!” the newly appointed sergeants bawled. “Fall in!”

“Troop Beautiful.” The Captain spoke quietly under the noise of evacuating the truck. “Please do the honor of marching the unit’s flag down to squad three and turning it over to their bearer.”

He stared. After a moment, he remembered to breathe. “Captain,” he said, though it was not his place to remind a captain, “I am not in the line of command.”

She grinned at him. “Orders, Beautiful. And always remember—volunteering is its own reward.”

FENDOR:
Mercenary Headquarters

The door guard
looked first at Nova, taking in the leathers, the face, and the frown. The second look caught Liz, who nodded easy-like and lifted two fingers in casual salute. The guard nodded back.

“ID?”

“Lizardi,” Liz said and obediently stared down the bore of the retina-reader. It beeped positive and the guard slung it back over her shoulder.

“Her?” A jerk of the head at Nova, standing silent and astonishingly patient at her side.

“She’s with me.”

“Recruit?” Palpable disbelief, there.

“Lookin’ to hire.”

The guard’s face cleared. She nodded to Nova and touched a stud on her belt. The door behind her slid back along its track and she stepped aside to let them pass. “Cleared to Dispatch. Need a guide, Commander?”

“I remember the way, thanks,” Liz said and stepped forward, Nova yos’Galan following a respectful two steps behind.

Fendor
’quarters doubled as Home and it was always hopping. This evening, the place was wall-to-wall with mercs, many with kits on their backs. Liz frowned. Something was up. Something
big
was up. She lagged half-a-second and let a crew of six pack-bearing techies get in front of her.

“Might be hard for you to hire,” she muttered as Nova came abreast. “Looks like some big doings.”

“Only lead me to Dispatch, Angela Lizardi. I anticipate no difficulty in hiring.”

Liz snorted and lengthened her stride as much as conditions allowed. A couple minutes later, she took the right into Dispatch, which was crazier and more crowded than the main hall, and forged ahead toward the counter without bothering to make sure the Liaden woman was still with her.

She broke into the clear space before the counter and grinned in sudden delight.

“Hey, Roscoe!”

The square built little guy hogging the main screen looked up, bald head gleaming under the lights. Raisin-colored eyes scanned the crowd, pinned her. The enormous mustache—black like he was twenty instead of rising sixty—lifted in a grin.

“Lizzie! I known this one bring you out from hidin’! Come over an’ tell me who you got.”

She shook her head and walked over to him, reaching across the counter to grab both shoulders.

“What happened to your pigtail?” she asked, remembering the shiny, foot-long braid that had been his pride, even above the mustache. Roscoe pulled a long face.