Part 25 (1/2)

Should he level off now, adopt a less painful course? Your ancestors never feared pain, he reminded himself. And answered: My ancestors never had to face anything like this.

”Lord Commander Zatar, please acknowledge.”

Sezal. His voice was strained, his own endurance pushed to the limit.

”Acknowledged,” Zatar managed. Ever the slave of image, he managed to sound stronger than he was.

”We've lost Two, Eight, and Fifteen. Estimate .25 before Ten is forced to drop back. Recommend course adjustment now, while there are still three of us.”

He did not mention his own situation; that was clear in his voice. He was suffering terribly but he would endure. He was stronger than the others, and his swords.h.i.+p was the best. His compensatory system would be the most effective, and his basema.s.s was nowhere near Zatar's. He would keep up, Zatar knew-if it killed him.

”Maintain present course,” the Braxana managed. He tried to look at the computer display, saw only spots and flashes of light. Or perhaps a number, dimly lit: 2.5. It took all his effort just to live now, and all the strength he had to forget such possibilities as heart failure, asphyxiation, the collapse of his ribcage.

If Sezal could make it, he could do no less; the fact that the pilot had an easier ride than he did was barely compensation for Zatar's physical advantages. The Braxana were known for their stamina.

Swords.h.i.+p Ten was gone. Had he heard Sezal announcing it, or had he caught sight of some display, picked out a number from between the swimming lights that blinded him? He could not tell, and it did not matter. There was only raw endurance now, the darkness of pain and an eternity of waiting, which was measured in breaths and heartbeats and accompanied by the roaring of his blood in his ears, louder than any other sound in his universe. And darkness creeping in, around the corner of his vision- -got to hold on!

the spinning of lights, the pounding of blood in his veins, his heart all but bursting- I am Braxana!

and then sudden release, a ringing in his ears, the display screen flas.h.i.+ng VECTOR STABILIZATION-and Sezal was still with him. He allowed himself a second in which to recover-no more-then checked the countdown. .05.

”Prepare for enemy contact,” he managed.

.03. .01. -And there it was, right where the computer had said it would be.

The enemy.

Stronger than his s.h.i.+p, faster, and desperate for time; as soon as it saw them it shot forward into the darkness, leaving them behind. They adjusted their own speed and followed. The Azean was outnumbered, was close to home, would avoid a confrontation; they were at risk every moment they followed it, must force it to face their fire or accept certain destruction at the hands of the Conqueror.

Against his better judgment, Zatar checked the risk factor.

Thirty-two percent.

He turned off the display.

The pressure was building again, but this time he was prepared for it. The pain had taken out four of Sezal's best men without conquering him; how well would the Azean fare when put to the test? True, his compensatory system was better than most-but he was Azean, and that race had been designed to resemble Zatar's in all but coloring. The enemy would be tall, solidly built, lacking in a warrior's heritage. His ma.s.s would work to negate his advantage, making it a contest of endurance. And in that arena, if no other, Zatar knew himself unequaled.

Turn and fight, he thought to the alien s.h.i.+p, but instead it tried to outrun him.

A bad sign. It should have taken advantage of its heightened maneuverability; they would have been hard put to follow it through a series of sharp course adjustments. That it was continuing straight onward implied that it was close to home, and that meant- But he had turned the matrix off for a reason, and now he forced himself to consider other things. Such as whether they dared open fire, when the enemy had proven that it could antic.i.p.ate such action. They needed a better position first, but they would not have that until the Azean relented. . . .

The pain did not bother him as much, this time; the heat of battle dispelled the discomfort, the act of breathing was as natural as the thrust of a sword. He was distanced from his own agony, was aware of the suffering of his body but was disconnected from it, as though his corporeal form was no more than a burden he had to drag with him, only partially connected to his person. A warrior's strength, or the harbinger of dissolution? He never had to decide. The empty flesh that sat in his s.h.i.+p s.h.i.+vered in pain for a long, long time, and then suddenly it was over.

The enemy had stabilized and his own s.h.i.+p, locked insync, had followed suit. He had survived.

He took a moment to catch his breath, then dared, ”Sezal?”

The First Sword took a moment to answer. ”It's a trap, I think.”

He didn't agree-but that was instinct, not reason. How did he know that the enemy had succ.u.mbed to the pain of the chase? How was he so sure that the Azean's consciousness had flickered slowly out, encased in a body that could not stand the pressure? There was no time to wonder; every minute wasted ran the risk count even higher.

”Let's take out its field,” he told Sezal.

There was silence. Then: ”That takes time.”

”I'm aware of that.”

”What do you mean to do?”

He smiled, but did not answer. You'll see.

He opened fire upon the enemy, testing it for opposition. There was none.

Given that the Azean fighter had proven itself capable of taking out a swords.h.i.+p in the moment that it fired, its inactivity was reasonable proof that its pilot was no longer in control. Excellent.

The field absorbed his fire, glowed briefly, then dispersed the energy.

Dismantling it would require extreme precision. Too weak an offense, and the forcefield would simply disperse it. Too sustained, and it would overload. They needed that perfect balance: enough to damage the generator, not enough to make it self-destruct.

The pilot, of course, could awaken at any time.

And then there was the mothers.h.i.+p. . . .

”Go,” Zatar said, transmitting an attack sequence.

Carefully, carefully: fire just so, this strength, this rhythm, a little bit more than the forcefield can handle and then ease up, ease up quickly! and feed ever so little energy in for the final blow- EXTERIOR FORCEFIELD DISPELLED, the computer informed him.

”Well done,” he whispered.

”What now, Commander?”

He noted that Sezal's voice was unsteady; either he had been badly damaged by their flight, or he had looked at the rising risk factor. It could have been pain or fear in his voice; the result was the same.

”Now we take him,” Zatar said lightly.

Silence. No comment was necessary. He knew the pilot's thoughts as well as if they were his own. He must be crazy. He can't mean what he said.

But he did. They had to have that s.h.i.+p in order to know what they were fighting, and therefore it had to be boarded. While in Voidflight. At a risk factor so great than any sane man would have turned back long ago, under circ.u.mstances that would render the boarder defenseless.

He hesitated only a moment, then shut down his outer field.

No response.

With steady hands he checked the controls of his personal forcefield. In theory, it would protect him from the Void; in practice, it paid to make certain. But everything appeared to be in order. He reached across to his s.h.i.+pseal and unfastened it, letting the air bleed out. A tingling on his skin: that was the forcefield, using his body's conductivity as a template for activity, stabilizing itself against the pull of vacuum. The recycler clicked into Voidmode; now it would not only supply fresh air for him to breathe and maintain his body temperature, but it would monitor his infield pressure as well.

He thought of all the things that a nonpermeable forcefield might accomplish, and wondered that man had ever braved the Void without one. To face the Void with nothing but a layer of matter between one's self and the killing vacuum-that was a terrifying thought. He checked the controls one last time, then cracked the c.o.c.kpit open- And chaos, black and malignant, a.s.saulted his eyes and mind.

The superluminal Void. A secret world which nature had not meant man to see, it was a reality no human mind could grasp. An infinity of darkness in which reason defied observation-an emptiness so absolute that the mind fought to deny its existence. Where movement was lacking, the unconscious mind created it. Darkness crawled, writhed, twisted across the eyes and pierced the unwilling brain, driving back rational thought in favor of sensory chaos. There was noise, but it defied description-noise that blinded, noise that choked, a black, hollow sound that filled the universe with its emptiness. The senses mixed and merged, each seeking in the other some genuine stimulus to serve as an anchor in the eternal Nothing-and failing. The mind floundered, lost in chaos . . . and welcomed fear as a concrete thing, a familiar sensation in a universe gone mad.

”Commander?”