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CHAPTER EIGHT

Deshes tickled the tummy fur of her male partner and whinnied happily when he did the same to her. She felt deliciously wicked, enjoying the pleasures of mating without actually mating. But then, even the queen was said to so indulge herself. Of course, Deshes thought, her majesty is very wicked. Could a sub-queen do less?

The male positioned himself, so lost in ecstasy he'd completely forgotten the rules of this game.

They never learn, the young sub-queen thought, disappointed. That was the only real problem with this delightful pastime. The males tended to get overexcited. And if you like them aggressive, as I do . . . Well, then there was some attrition since they sometimes refused to take no for an answer.

With blinding speed Deshes grasped him by the neck and flung him. Carefully, so that he skidded across the floor to bump against the wall rather than splatter. The last time had been such a mess.

"No," she said aloud. Quietly spoken, without emphasis.

Deshes hoped the tone of her voice would soothe the overwrought male. However, the way he leapt back onto his feet and stood pulsating, eyes fixed, was not reassuring. He was a good soldier and she would rather not have to kill him.

He did not speak but scuttled towards her, instinctively keeping a respectful distance, but obviously not deterred from his ultimate goal.

Her chelicerae flattened in extreme displeasure. She could hardly call in more soldiers to cart him off as they would instantly fall under the spell of her pheromones as well.

Perhaps a strategic retreat, she thought. Leave him alone in here until her pheromones had dissipated and he came back to his senses. Her taskmistress, second to the queen, would never accept three such deaths in less than a month.

"Lady?" It was the voice of Sheek, her youngest daughter. "I regret the intrusion."

Sheek, being young and terribly staid, did not approve of her mother's pleasures and so, very likely, didn't regret the intrusion at all. But the sound of a second female voice had caused the soldier to flatten himself submissively to the floor, panting now in terror rather than passion.

A very welcome intrusion indeed, my daughter.

Aloud she said, "No doubt you had good cause, child. What is it?"

As she spoke Deshes moved backward towards the door of her chamber, every eye on the panting male.

"The fleet commander at Isasef Station sends word that they harry a Commonwealth vessel towards us. A light carrier he said."

Deshes perked up. "Ah, delightful!" she said. Fibian females loved to hunt as much as the males and had a stronger territorial instinct to drive them on. The intrusion of these humans aroused and pleased her very much. "I shall come to the command center directly."

"Understood, Lady. Second, out."

Deshes turned to the male, who seemed utterly cowed now.

"Stay!" she hissed, and left her quarters.

As she moved towards the command center she thought about Sheek. Her daughter never missed an opportunity to flaunt her rank. And she was indeed, despite her youth, second in command of this outpost. It was an accomplishment to be proud of, to be sure. But her obsession with it displeased her mother.

Sheek was not her first daughter. The ladies were, as custom demanded, from other clans. Only Nrgun had not sent a lady to Syaris. Deshes had given life to four; none of the others had finished their sulky, ambitious, disapproving adolescence in her presence. Fostering them out had put Deshes in debt to three of her contemporaries, and she was determined not to have to do it again.

The queen herself, only four cycles older than Deshes, had yet to birth a daughter. Though, of course, aside from personality conflicts a royal daughter would bring her own special burden of difficulties.

But her majesty was young, there was time enough for a princess.

There must be a trick to it, Deshes thought sourly. Some correct mixture of pheromones that allowed one to play safely with males and to bring a daughter to maturity. Perhaps I'm too young to have daughters, she mused. Perhaps to Sheek I seem more a peer than a parent. That might explain the child's aggressiveness. If she saw her mother as a rival . . .

Deshes made an unconscious gesture of flicking away a line of thought. She entered the command center quickly and found her couch.

"Replay the message," she commanded. She watched and listened to the communiqué and when it was over she made a little toss of her head. "Easy prey," she mocked. "So small—barely a mouthful. Create a web before the jump point and try to capture them. We'll have them for dinner."

Deshes turned to Sheek and gestured invitation to join her at the feast.

Sheek made her mother a very pretty gesture of delighted acceptance, then spoiled it by saying, "But we must remember, Lady, that these have proven a thorny mouthful before now."

* * *

It was quiet on the Invincible's bridge. The tension of never knowing when the jump exit would come up was exhausting and people hoarded their energy. Which kept talking to a minimum.

Raeder sat in the captain's chair, brooding and, like the rest of the crew, waiting. It was to be hoped that they'd lost the Fibians and that they'd come out in an unexplored and unpopulated area of space. Then they could creep back to the Commonwealth carrying their precious information. And just incidentally save their own bacon.

"Sir," Lurhman said, her voice leaden with weariness. "Computer detects a jump point. Ten minutes."

An unknown one then; Lurhman would have told him if she knew where it led.

"Sound first warning," he said.

"First warning, aye."

A muted tone sounded throughout the ship. Some would sleep right through it, but for others it would provide a friendlier waking than the subsequent klaxon. Throughout the ship crewmen and women made their way to their battle stations and tried to be alert.

On the bridge Raeder took the time to sign off on a few documents and to update his log. It was better than just waiting.

The five-minute warning sounded and any who hadn't yet found their stations now ran to them. People looked forward to not being nauseated any more, yet dreaded what they might find.

Raeder counted down the last seconds to himself, then closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his chair as they jumped back to real-space.

He opened his eyes. Oh, shit!

Before them in space was a small armada of Fibians in a globe formation. And Raeder knew, as certainly as if one of them had his neck gripped in its pincers, that there were more coming through behind him.

"Can we—?" he began to ask.

"No, sir," Lurhman answered, anticipating him. "The jump point is already active. We can't go back."

"What's forward?" The commander stared fixedly at the Fibians.

"Searching," she said.

With a gesture Peter called over Truon Le.

"Classic global formation," he said to his acting XO.

"Soon to be a complete globe," Truon observed.

Raeder gave him a look and the XO cocked an eyebrow as if to say, "Yeah, I know, but I had to say it."

With a hand to his upper lip Raeder thought for a moment.

"We'll use electronic countermeasures to delude them into thinking we're flying in all directions. Then we'll move the actual ship away from wherever the other jump point is." There'd better be another jump point. "Ms. Lurhman?" he said aloud. "How's that search coming?"

"I'm just beginning to get some readings, sir."

"Good work, Lurhman." And it was good work. The woman could practically pull information out of the ether, despite the fact that there wasn't any such thing.

"They'll be firing at everything we send out, sir. Ourselves included," Truon said.

"Yes, but we'll be sending out a lot of misinformation. Once Ms. Lurhman has that jump point nailed for us I want them to see us, just for a millisecond."

The XO's face paled for a moment and his eyes widened.

"Then we leave a final countermeasure in our place and bolt for the jump point," Raeder continued.

Truon Le looked dubious, but he knew there really weren't many options.

"Obviously, we can't surrender," Peter said. "If it looks like we can't make it, we're going to have to blow this vessel wide open. We can't let them get ahold of our technology. Or us."

The XO nodded.

"I suppose," Truon said, "that they would have done the same thing if we'd gotten them into a position where capture seemed inevitable."

"Not necessarily," Peter objected. "Even though their only real contact with human beings has been with Mollies they know damn well we won't eat them."

* * *

"Fools!" Deshes screamed. With her pedipalps she shredded the tapestries that decorated her quarters. "Pouchlings and fools!" The furious sub-queen dug her claws into the plush surface of her couch and tore it apart, flinging the stuffing around her with abandon. "You lost the prey? From an inescapable trap? Where is my ship that you should be bringing to me? Where is my FOOOD?"

"As far as we can tell, Lady, they have moved on to Sesares Sector."

Sheek conveyed this obviously unwelcome information in a carefully blank manner. Her mother had immediately raced to her own quarters and locked herself in lest she murder indiscriminately while in a rage. But Sheek was aware that her mother held the key to that door and that her voluntary imprisonment might well be abandoned in the face of any ill-timed disrespect.

Deshes froze, her fury so great that she could hardly move to draw breath. The urge to kill was almost overwhelming, but that way led to greater disgrace than she already endured.

Sesares was the domain of the sub-queen who fostered her second daughter. Deshes was duty bound to inform her of the humans' incursion. Doubly so in the face of her indebtedness for that fostering.

I don't want to! she thought fiercely. They are mine! They will be mine! 

"Follow them. Find them. Bring them," Deshes commanded, her voice flat and hard. "Or do not come back to me."

"Your will, Lady." Sheek cut the transmission and froze, considering her mother's words. At last she decided that it was not necessary for her to personally attend to the matter. Though it would be wise on her part to stay out of the sub-queen's way for a few days.

"Put me through to Huntmaster Sah Mahex," she said to a communications tech. "And bring me something to eat." It would be necessary to impress upon the huntmaster the painful nature of failure. Dining as she spoke would subtly underscore her mother's commands.

* * *

"Sir?"

Peter looked up to see Paddy looking in the door uncertainly.

"C'mon in, Chief," he said with a welcoming gesture. "How are those repairs going?"

"As well as can be expected, Commander. Considerin' that we've got emergency seam repairs on a tenth of the plating and two seriously distorted hull frames. She needs a shipyard's attentions to be fully recovered. But she'll do."

"Barring another fight like the last one?" Raeder said.

Paddy gave him a pained smile and shrugged.

"D'ye mind if I shut the door, now?" Paddy asked and closed it without waiting for the commander's answer.

The big New Hibernian came over to the desk, withdrew two small glasses from one of his pockets and placed them on the desk. Then from another he withdrew a polished flask. He looked up at Peter his tongue caught between his teeth and gave the acting captain a mischievous wink.

"To settle the nerves, ye might say, after a harrowing escape." He poured a tot. "Or perhaps, and this is my preference, to celebrate that very escape." He lifted his glass. "The Commonwealth!" he said and tossed it back.

Raeder picked up the glass warily and took a cautious sniff. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"What kind of a creature sniffs fine liquor like that?" Paddy asked with a grin.

"The kind that has to play captain."

"But I've toasted the Commonwealth," said Paddy, blue eyes wide, as though he couldn't believe the commander would so slight their beloved homeworlds.

"The Commonwealth," Raeder said, and took the most minuscule sip possible. Even so he felt his sinuses clearing. "What are you trying to do to me, Chief, drink me under the table?"

"No. But you might could use the rest, y'know. We need you functioning in all your parts, sir, if ye don't mind me saying so. Have ye slept at all these last two days?"

"Some," Raeder admitted.

"Aye, it is hard to sleep with your mind full of those Fibians, isn't it?" Paddy gave him a sidelong look. "Is there no end to them, sir? They're swarmin' like . . . like . . ."

"Bugs?" Peter suggested helpfully.

There was a chime at the door and Raeder called, "Come."

Sarah looked in with a smile. Then she spotted Paddy.

"Your card partners are looking for you," she said to him.

He turned his blocky shoulder away.

"Ahhr, aren't they always, so? No peace have they given me since we left the dock. Ten years in the service and they don't know a signal to disembark from a ship about to leave its moorings. And for this they blame me! Tcha! It's a wonder the great armathons know what the spots on the cards mean."

"I hope they're worth the trouble," Peter said, taking another cautious sip.

"Oh, they are, at their work they're grand. They don't seem to see this as the great adventure it is, though." Paddy looked aggrieved.

"Well, you know what they say about adventure, Chief." Raeder put his feet up on the desk. "Adventure is someone else in deep shit—"

"Far, far away," Sarah finished for him. "Does that mean this isn't an adventure?"

"Oh, by any standards this is an adventure," Raeder told her.

"Perhaps you should go and tell your friends that," Sarah advised Paddy. "So that they'll understand just how fortunate they are to be along."

The New Hibernian gave her a look from the corner of his eye.

"It's a hard day when a quiet drink must be interrupted for the benefit of those spalpeens," he said. But Paddy took up his glass and flask and with an informal salute and a regretful smile he left them.

Sarah closed the door behind him and took his seat before the desk. She and Peter looked at the glass Paddy had left behind.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I expect it to melt the glass momentarily." He grinned and looking up waggled his brows. "Want a sip?"

She picked up the glass and sniffed, squeezed her eyes shut and blinked a few times as she put it back.

"No thanks, I'd like to keep the enamel on my teeth for now. Besides, if Stores knew we were drinking the fluid they need to clean metallic film from plasma tubes, they might get upset."

They sat for awhile in companionable silence, then both looked up and smiled.

"So," Sarah said at last. "What do you make of all this Fibian activity?"

"Nothing good," Peter answered. "To me it looks like the Fibs are massing for a major offensive."

Sarah nodded, her face thoughtful. Of course she'd know what the mass of ships meant. She'd been trained in intelligence.

"Unfortunately we're too far from the nearest Commonwealth system to send warning. And it's deadly to go back. . . ."

"It could be just as deadly to go on," Sarah said, picking up Paddy's libation. She dipped a fingertip in it and touched it to her tongue. Her face convulsed into a hideous grimace.

"Paddy would have loved to have seen that," he said with a grin. Then more seriously, "You're right. It's deadly to go back, it might be deadly to go on. So I've decided to go on."

"Did you pick heads or tails for go on?" Sarah asked, carefully putting the drink back.

"Tai—I mean, that's what analysis indicates is the optimum course. After all, we know what's behind us."

"And they're chasing us."

"There is that."

The com chimed and Raeder touched a key.

"Sir," Truon Le said, "Ms. Lurhman reports another jump exit coming up."

"How long?" Peter asked.

"Five minutes, sir."

"Sound warning," Raeder ordered. "I'm on my way."

Peter and Sarah rushed from his office.

"Uh, I was wondering when you'd have need of some Speeds," she said.

His jaw dropped and he turned to goggle at her as they strode along.

"You fighter jocks are crazy, you know that?" he answered. "We'll need you when we don't have to make a high-speed transit through whatever Fibian minefield we find ourselves in. Remember Sutton back at Bella Vista having his boring dinners with Mrs. Hong? Only here you'd be dinner and you wouldn't live long enough to get bored."

"I agree," she said. "But I agreed to ask. Thanks for saying what I thought you would." Sarah gave him a mock frown. "All except that crazy jocks thing."

He flashed her a grin as they parted ways, he to the bridge, she back to Main Deck.

* * *

Peter swung himself into the captain's chair and brought his screen online.

"Report," he said.

Truon Le handed him a noteboard and gave him the highlights verbally.

"All battle stations are active, all weapons are hot," he finished.

"Thirty seconds to exit," Lurhman said.

Raeder focused on his screen. "Give me feed," he said after a pause.

"Sir, I can detect no naval units. If there's anything here, it's far away or powered down so far it's leaving no footprint."

That's a change, Raeder thought, nodding. For . . . what, four jumps now? Four. Each system more heavily fortified and each one with still more in the way of major Fibian units. Another two systems like the last and they'd out-mass the whole Commonwealth fleet by themselves, never mind the Mollies. 

"But there's a lot of traffic through here, sir." The ghost-traces of ships' drives came up on the screen. "I'm highlighting those the system and I think were warships. Either that or they have a lot of luxury liners."

A disconcerting number of the trails glowed green. Liners, couriers and perishable-freight carriers were the only civilian ships that had footprints anything like a war vessel's. Most of a military ship's drive capacity was useful only when you had to maneuver very violently very quickly.

"And I'm getting a hail from those buoys," Lurhman went on. "Let's see . . ."

Infraray and radar probed; passive sensors drank down every particle and computers extrapolated.

"Sir, those aren't just beacons. They're automated forts. Not much maneuverability, but they're heavily shielded and they're armed for bear. They're repeating the hailing pattern, at higher intensity—I think that's an identification-friend-or-foe-or-we-open-fire."

"Trusting lot, if that's their notion of a navigation bouy," Raeder said. "Get Ticknor."

* * *

"Ms. Lurhman, I think we should withdraw if that's possible."

"They're not coming through behind us yet, sir," the astrogator said calmly. "We'll end up back in the frying pan, though."

"That may depend on how many of their ships they sent after us," Peter said.

"The buoys have locked onto us, their weapons are hot," Gunderson said from tactical.

"Take us back, Ms. Lurhman."

"Yes, sir. Taking us back, aye."

"What if we meet them in transit?" Truon asked the astrogator.

"Theoretically we should be able to see one another. Parts of the ship, or even individuals, might pass right through one another. Theoretically," she emphasized. "No telling what will really happen."

Eeeuuw, Peter thought. What if this happens while we're leaving jump? Does that mean I might end up with six legs or claws? He shook his head. Concentrate on the matter at hand, he told himself sternly, and tried not to see himself with a tailwhip.

"Is there any possible way that we can use that?" Raeder asked. He looked at Truon, then over to Lurhman at her console. "Maybe plant a worm in their software, or something?"

Truon looked thoughtful; to a tactical officer this was an appealing idea.

"We have no idea if our computers are in any way compatible," Ashly mused.

"There might be something we could use though," the XO said. "Physics is universal, whether you've got eight legs, two, or none."

Raeder nodded. "They must have some stuff they've gotten from the Mollies, even if it's only translation programs . . ."

"I think I've got something that will answer," Gunderson interrupted. He looked embarrassed. "Something my sweetheart sent to me. It's a worm with a learning curve. It can teach itself any software code on a machine once it's established itself. Then it can destroy whatever it's learned." He shrugged at their astonished expressions. "She's very clever."

"Give her a kiss for me when you get home," Peter said. "As long as she doesn't come near any of our systems. And get ready to transmit that sucker. Attach it to anything Mollie, or . . ." He keyed up Sirgay Ticknor's lab.

"Yes," the linguist answered.

"Mr. Ticknor, do you have anything in your recordings of Fibian interactions that might be straight computer code? No . . ." he wanted to say human, but couldn't, "individual interaction, but straight machine language."

"Yes, I do," Ticknor replied looking surprised. "Most of my resources are composed of such interactions, in fact. That's what's been making a straight translation so difficult."

Before the linguist could launch into a lecture on the differences between spoken and machine languages and their relationship with human processes, Raeder cut him off.

"Please upload a sample to me now," he said. "Preferably something that's very common, as though it was the first thing any machine would think of saying to another."

"Certainly," Ticknor agreed.

He fiddled with his console and Peter relayed the information to Gunderson as it came up. He glanced over at the tactical officer, who nodded to indicate that he was getting it.

"That should suffice," Gunderson said after a few moments.

"Thank you, Mr. Ticknor," Raeder said.

"May I ask why you needed it?" Ticknor looked as though he was willing to chat all day.

"I'll let you know later," Raeder said. "Right now we've got to see if we can use it. We'll be making a jump in—" he checked his clock "—two minutes. You'll want to brace youself."

"Again? We just jumped back to real-space! I just can't take this, Commander Raeder. It's very upsetting to my system. I work best if I have regular meals and minimal stress."

"I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Ticknor." I've heard about it often enough. "But there's no help for it." He cut the connection before the linguist could mount another protest. I guess talking a lot goes with being a linguist. But you'd think the man would realize they were just a little busy here.

The truth was Raeder knew the linguist was hoping to bend his ear about the size of his lab. It actually was the largest lab space on the ship, but that didn't mean it was big. Ticknor just couldn't get the notion of "compactness" into his headspace. He flatly refused to believe that they were alloting him luxurious, by their standards, amounts of space.

"I'll have this ready for transmission, sir," Gunderson said. "Should the opportunity arise."

"Thank you, Ensign," Peter said. He didn't know if he should hope for that opportunity or not.

 

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