Flandry saluted. Joy sang in him. “Aye, aye, sir!”
Dragoika rose. “What were you saying, Domma-neek?” she asked anxiously.
“Excuse me, sir, I have to tell her.” In Kursovikian: “The misunderstanding has been dissolved, for the time being anyhow. I’m leaving with my skipper.”
“Hr-r-r.” She looked down. “And then what?”
“Well, uh, then we’ll go on a flying ship, to a battle which may end this whole war.”
“You have only his word,” she objected.
“Did you not judge him honorable?”
“Yes. I could be wrong. Surely there are those in the Sisterhood who will suspect a ruse, not to speak of the commons. Blood binds us to you. I think it would look best if I went along. Thus there is a living pledge.”
“But—but—”
“Also,” Dragoika said, “this is our war too. Shall none of us take part?” Her eyes went back to him. “On behalf of the Sisterhood and myself, I claim a right. You shall not leave without me.”
“Problems?” Enriques barked.
Helplessly, Flandry tried to explain.
17
The Imperial squadron deployed and accelerated. It was no big force to cast out in so much blackness. True, at the core was the Sabik, a Star-class, what some called a pocket battleship; but she was old and worn, obsolete in several respects, shunted off to Saxo as the last step before the scrap orbit. No one had really expected her to see action again. Flanking her went the light cruiser Umbriel, equally tired, and the destroyers Antarctica, New Brazil, and Murdoch’s Land. Two scoutships, Encke and Ikeya-Seki, did not count as fighting units; they carried one energy gun apiece, possibly useful against aircraft, and their sole real value lay in speed and maneuverability. Yet theirs was the ultimate mission, the rest merely their helpers. Aboard each of them reposed a document signed by Admiral Enriques.
At first the squadron moved on gravities. It would not continue thus. The distance to be traversed was a few light-days, negligible under hyperdrive, appalling under true velocity. However, a sudden burst of wakes, outbound from a large orbit, would be detected by the Merseians. Their suspicions would be excited. And their strength in the Saxonian System, let alone what else they might have up ahead, was fully comparable to Captain Einarsen’s command. He wanted to enter this water carefully. It was deep.
But when twenty-four hours had passed without incident, he ordered the New Brazil to proceed at superlight toward the destination. At the first sign of an enemy waiting there, she was to come back.
Flandry and Dragoika sat in a wardroom of the Sabik with Lieutenant (j.g.) Sergei Karamzin, who happened to be off watch. He was as frantic to see new faces and hear something new from the universe as everyone else aboard. “Almost a year on station,” he said. “A year out of my life, bang, like that. Only it wasn’t sudden, you understand. Felt more like a decade.”
Flandry’s glance traveled around the cabin. An attempt had been made to brighten it with pictures and home-sewn draperies. The attempt had not been very successful. Today the place had come alive with the thrum of power, low and bone-deep. A clean tang of oil touched air which circulated briskly again. But he hated to think what this environment had felt like after a year of absolutely eventless orbit. Dragoika saw matters otherwise, of course; the ship dazzled, puzzled, frightened, delighted, enthralled her, never had she known such wonder! She poised in her chair with fur standing straight and eyes bouncing around.
“You had your surrogates, didn’t you?” Flandry asked. “Pseudosensory inputs and the rest.”
“Sure,” Karamzin said. “The galley’s good, too. But those things are just medicine, to keep you from spinning off altogether.” His young features hardened. “I hope we meet some opposition. I really do.”
“Myself,” Flandry said, “I’ve met enough opposition to last me for quite a while.”
His lighter kindled a cigaret. He felt odd, back in horizon blue, jetflares on his shoulders and no blaster at his waist: back in a ship, in discipline, in tradition. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
At least his position was refreshingly anomalous. Captain Einarsen had been aghast when Dragoika boarded—an Iron Age xeno on his vessel? But the orders from Enriques were clear. This was a vip who insisted on riding along and could cause trouble if she wasn’t humored. Thus Ensign Flandry was appointed “liaison officer,” the clause being added in private that he’d keep his pet savage out of the way or be busted to midshipman. (Nothing was said on either side about his being technically a prisoner. Einarsen had received the broadcast, but judged it would be dangerous to let his men know that Merseians were stopping Terran craft. And Enriques’ message had clarified his understanding.) At the age of nineteen, how could Flandry resist conveying the impression that the vip really had some grasp of astronautics and must be kept posted on developments? So he was granted communication with the bridge.