gouges were deepening. “I think we just trapped ourselves.”
The hammering continued. Madness raged outside, not assassins, not any sane
impulse toward hostage-taking, only desperate people with a focus for their
desperation. Q residents with a pair of stationers within reach. The scars
deepened on the plastic, almost obscuring the faces and hands and weapons. It
was remotely possible they could get through it.
And if that happened there was no need of assassins.
Chapter Two
« ^ »
i
Norway; 1300 hrs.
It was a waiting game now, probe and vanish. Ghosts. But solid enough out there,
somewhere beyond system limits. Tibet and North Pole had lost contact with the
incoming enemy; Union had about-faced, at the cost of one of Tibet’s riders… at
the cost of one of Union’s. But it was far from over. The com flow kept up, calm
and quiet out of both carriers. Signy gnawed her lip and stared at the screens
before her, while Graff tended op. Norway held position along with the rest of
the Fleet—having dumped speed, drifted, still not too remote from the mass of
Pell IV and III and the star itself. Dead-stopped. They had refused to be drawn
out. Had now to use mass to shelter them from an arrival close at hand. It was
not likely that Union would be reckless enough to use jump for entry—not their
style—but they took the precaution… sitting targets as they were. Wait long
enough and even conservative Union commanders could circle their scan range to
find new lines of attack, having probed things; wolves round the firelight, and
themselves trying to sit within it, visible and dead still and vulnerable. Union
had room out there, could get a good run started, too fast for them to handle.
And for some time there had been bad news coming out of Pell, silence broken,
rumblings of serious disorder.
From Mazian… persistent silence, and one of them dared breach it with a
communication to question. Come on, she wished Mazian, turn some of us loose to
hunt. The riders hung off from Norway in widest deployment, like those of the
other ships, twenty-seven riderships, seven carriers; and thirty-two militia
ships trying to fill up their pattern—indistinguishable on longscan, some of
them, from riderships; two of them from carriers. As long as the Fleet sat
still, not betraying themselves by tight moves and speed, whoever looked at scan
had to wonder if some of those slow, steady ships might not be warships
disguising their moves. Tibet’s rider had gotten back to mother; and Tibet and
North Pole had seven riders and eleven militia in their area, short-haulers
incapable of running, turned brave by necessity: they could not get out of the
way… so they made part of the screen. As if they could depend on attack coming
from that direction. Union had felt at them. Pricked at the organism and
vanished out of range. It was probably Azov out there. One of Union’s oldest;
one of the best. Feathertouch and feint. He had sucked in more than one
commander too good to die that way.
Nerves crawled. The techs on the bridge looked at her from time to time. Silence
existed inside as well as among the ships, contagious unease.
A comtech turned at his station, looked at her. “Pell situation worsening,” he
said off com. There was a murmur from other stations.
“Minds on your business,” she snapped, on general address. “It’s likely to come
from any side of us. Forget Pell or we get it in our faces, hear me? I’ll vent
the crewman who woolgathers.”
And to Graff: “Ready status.”
The blue light went on in the overhead. That would wake them up. A light flashed
on her board, indicating the armscomp board lit, the armscomper and his aides
fully prepared.
She reached to the comp board, punched a code for a recorded instruction.
Norway’s sighting eye began to rove toward the reference star in question, to
perform identifications and to lock in. In case. In case there was something
going on unaccounted for in their plans, and Mazian, likewise receiving that
Pell chatter, was thinking of running: their direct beam pickup was trained on