Part 8 (1/2)
The s.h.i.+p's main sublight drive ceased to push the s.h.i.+p, but with virtually no friction in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce, the s.h.i.+p would not slow appreciably unless a counteracting force were applied, so the braking drive, forward-aimed thrusters mounted on four projections that ringed the hull, fired at half power.
The chief watched both s.h.i.+ps' trajectories and velocities with an expert eye. He'd been handling the s.h.i.+p since the day it came out of the yard, and he was d.a.m.n good at it. He had the help of a brilliant fly-by-wire computer that adjusted the relative thrust of the braking drive thrusters so that the s.h.i.+p would continue to answer the turn being commanded by the maneuvering controls even as the s.h.i.+p slowed.
”Kill the braking drive. Engage main sublight at 28 percent.” After a few seconds, ”Drives, make it 30 percent. Pitch and yaw, steering amids.h.i.+ps on my mark... NOW. Yaw, two degrees to port... and amids.h.i.+ps... now. Captain, we're through the turn. That one was close. If she turns any tighter, we're not going to be able to stay with her.”
”Understood, Chief. I don't want to press our luck. Back us off to thirty thousand kills. Let's see if we can sneak away from this guy and go on about our business.”
Max pretended not to notice the obvious wave of relief that washed through CIC. He had to admit, though, that as the range to target reading on his own display showed a steadily growing number, he was breathing more easily as well.
An hour and fourteen minutes went by, and the range to the Vaaach s.h.i.+p was now 28,890 kilometers. Max hoped to sneak his s.h.i.+p out of the Vaaach's wake and slip away with his new haul of priceless intelligence. Max was polis.h.i.+ng off a sandwich that the galley had earnestly insisted was made from roast beef, but which Max strongly suspected came from an animal of a distinctly different heritage, when he heard Kasparov gasp.
”Captain,” the sensor officer's voice was far too loud and far too high-pitched for Max's comfort, ”the Vaaach grav curves are doing something I don't understand. The whole pattern is twisting into something like an 'S' shape.”
Max knew what that meant. That ”S” stood for ”s.h.i.+t.” Very deep s.h.i.+t.
Automatically, Max came to his feet. ”Maneuvering, pitch up hard, give me a delta Y of one-three-zero degrees, Main sublight to Emergency.” He wanted to veer off from the present course and also slightly away from the Vaaach s.h.i.+p in order to get out of its path and open up the range at the same time.
”Target has turned in its own length and is accelerating back down its previous course. They are already at point two five,” said Kasparov.
Sweet Jesus. In its own length? How was that even possible? As if that weren't bad enough, the other s.h.i.+p had dumped .42 c of forward velocity and had put on .25 in the other direction-that's a total delta V of 67 percent of the speed of light in under a minute. G.o.d only knew how many Gs that entailed. If the c.u.mberland tried a velocity change even a tenth that violent, the s.h.i.+p would tear itself apart. The biggest piece anyone would find would fit easily into a shot gla.s.s.
Obviously, the Vaaach were more advanced than anyone had suspected. The s.h.i.+ps that had so impressed the humans with whom the Vaaach had previously made contact were probably two-hundred-year-old sixth and seventh raters. Today, Max was up against a s.h.i.+p of the line.
”They're altering course to intercept. Closure is so rapid I can't measure it-I'm not sure they didn't go superluminal for a fraction of a second.” There was a violent lurch. Station harnesses kept anyone from falling out of his seat or being thrown around the CIC, but Max was certain that one of his eyeb.a.l.l.s was rolling around on the deck somewhere. ”We're being held by a very powerful grappling field, sir.”
”Power rating?”
”Over two million Hawkings, sir.”
”We'll never break that. Maneuvering, null all drives, take maneuvering thrusters and inertial att.i.tude control off line. Let's not burn out anything trying to fight a two-million-Hawk grapfield.”
The c.u.mberland hung stationary in s.p.a.ce, like a dragonfly on a collector's pin, with the now brightly lit and decidedly menacing Vaaach s.h.i.+p a scant sixteen hundred meters off the bow, stabbing it with nearly a dozen brilliant spotlights. In contrast to the familiar cylinder, ellipsoid, or elongated-box forms that dominated human, Krag, Pfelung, and most other species' design, the Vaaach vessel was a long, narrow, flattened wedge with a sharp bow and angled corners at the stern that bent back toward the central drive unit like a giant, barbed spear point aimed threateningly at the comparatively tiny Union destroyer.
”Sir,” said Tactical. It had to be more bad news. ”They've locked some sort of antimatter cannon on us. I'm pretty sure that one shot would, well...”
”I get the picture. We'll just have to convince them not to shoot, now, won't we?”
”Ready to transmit, visual, aural, or text,” prompted Chin, a bit too eagerly.
”Negative. Not when we're dealing with the Vaaach. They've got us. It would be... impertinent to speak without being spoken to. Here's the way this plays out.” He tried to make it sound like plot summary for a trid vid comedy program. ”They're going to let us hang here for about a minute and a half so that there will be just enough time for it to sink in how helpless we are and how we are entirely at their mercy, but not enough time for us to detect any weakness they might have and start to formulate a plan to get away. Then they'll hail us on visual. They don't care if the standard protocol for interspecies communication is text. They're carnivores who hunt by sight, so they like to lay eyes on who they are talking to. Or who they might be having for dinner. They like to use channel 7. The forest victor, or grove guardian, or tree tamer, or whatever his t.i.tle is will engage us in witty blood-and-guts warrior banter, after which they'll either let us go with their blessing or blast us to dust with that antimatter cannon.”
Bhattacharyya at Intel snorted softly. It was clear that the captain had asked for that briefing on the Vaaach to educate Bhattacharyya, not Rob.i.+.c.haux. ”Captain?” he interjected quietly.
”Yes, Bhattacharyya?”
”So, you've encountered the Vaaach before?”
”Let's just say for now that we've met and I'm still alive to give evasive answers about the experience,” Max answered, evasively.
Ninety-four seconds elapsed on the chrono before Chin said, ”Captain, we are being hailed. Visual. Channel 7.”
”Let's see it.”
Several screens in CIC cut to an image of a large, brownish-gray, furry face with a small black nose and white fluffy tufts where the ears would go on an Earth mammal. The Vaaach looked like an overgrown Koala bear, except for the penetrating intelligence in its yellow-green eyes, the forty-five-centimeter-wide mouth from which protruded six 20-centimeter fangs, and the 10-centimeter claws with which it was grooming the fur on its forearm. A forearm that Max knew to be twice the diameter of his own neck.
The average Vaaach was just over four-and-a-half-meters tall, weighed roughly three-quarters of a ton, and armed with nothing but claws, teeth, and att.i.tude could easily take down a fully grown grizzly bear. The grooming gesture gave Max hope. It usually represented mild condescension with a hint of rebuke, as to a wayward but promising cub.
A series of roaring sounds, interspersed with growls and snarls, thundered from the audio outputs around the room. This lasted for about fifteen seconds. Then the computer produced a translation text on a screen beside the image of the Vaaach, complete with supposedly helpful explanations, set off by brackets, of terms and cultural references. The Vaaach sat, regarding the camera placidly while it allowed the humans to read the translation.
”I am Forest Victor [a rank believed to be equivalent to a senior captain or a commodore] Chrrrlgrf of the Vaaach sovereignty, son of the perilous Rawlrrhfr Forest, slayer with these claws of the strangling Targruf [a forty-meter-long anaconda-like snake, strong enough to crush a ground car, that lives deep in the Rawlrrhfr Forest and is believed to kill several hundred adult Vaaach per year], and victorious commander at the Battle of Hrlrgr [a fleet engagement against Species 9, fought on 8 August 2313, involving more than seventy-five capital s.h.i.+ps and resulting in a decisive victory for the Vaaach]. I greet you, tiny, pink, clawless, fangless, furless human, child of the ridiculous gibbering monkeys that so amuse us in our zoos. Identify yourself and state your purpose in straying so far from the trees out of which your ancestors so foolishly descended.”
This had to be done exactly right. Max made a subtle hand gesture that the computer would recognize as a command to include his whole body in the imager shot. He stood, drew his boarding cutla.s.s, and held it across his chest in a kind of salute.
”I am Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Rob.i.+.c.haux, Union s.p.a.ce Navy, fierce son of planet Nouvelle Acadiana, a dangerous world completely infested with carnivorous reptilian alligators and swarming with venomous snakes.” A minor exaggeration: the snakes and alligators generally avoid the polar regions.
”A frigate under my personal command has vanquished a Krag battlecruiser of superior force and I have personally slain seventeen Krag with the steel you see before you, two before the sap of manhood had risen in my limbs. My people are at war with the Krag. We go to attack their s.h.i.+ps in neutral s.p.a.ce. We intend no harm to any Vaaach, nor shall we venture anywhere near your dread sovereignty.”
The Vaaach replied with more p.i.s.sed-off lion and bear sounds, this time consisting of more deep ba.s.s rumbling and low snarls. Somehow, Max got the impression that the tension level had just dropped a notch. The translation appeared.
”The Vaaach have nothing to fear from your feeble little vessel, so do not waste our time convincing us that you are not a threat to us. We can see that at a glance. You state that you travel to meet the Krag in battle. Good. They are skilled opponents, but not worthy ones. They begin wars without declaring them. They kill the innocent for no purpose. They take what they do not need. If your purpose is to kill them, we would not hinder that. The more of them you kill, the more pleased we shall be. Why, though, did you follow our vessel, like a blood-drinking pest riding a predator's tail? This act does not appear to show the respect that one hunter gives another.”
”Dread Forest Victor, many of my crew have never seen the face of the enemy and have neither drawn his blood nor had theirs drawn. Stalking skills must be practiced against a wily target or, when the trail of the true prey is found, it will elude the stalker and vanish into the trees.”
Max watched as the eyes of the huge alien warrior read the translation of his words. The black nose wrinkled twice, which Max thought was the equivalent of a nod. The claws stopped grooming the arm fur. The Vaaach held his claws with the points aimed at his own face and seemed to inspect their sharpness. A few rumbles ensued, followed by several low, almost relaxed roars.
”So, you seek to sharpen your claws on us before you sink them into the entrails of your enemy. It is very likely that your claws are longer than your fangs, but your goal is worthy. Your stalking was not proficient, but neither was it entirely unskillful. We will not kill you. At least, not on this hunt. Now, go forth to kill Krag. We may even amuse ourselves by leaving some of its fur behind so that you may take the scent. But do not stalk us again, lest we kill you for your monkey impertinence. This transmission ends now.”
The screen went blank, the grappling field disengaged, and the huge wars.h.i.+p drew away from the c.u.mberland at astonis.h.i.+ng speed.
Still alive.
”Maneuvering, resume course to the jump point, point four five c. Comms, check all EM records for the last few seconds of that transmission for something buried in that message. If there's nothing there, have the computer folks run a file survey and see if there's any new data that we didn't put there. I think the mighty forest victor just sent us a present.”
”Aye, sir,” answered both Maneuvering and Comms.
”Let me know when you find it. I'll be in my quarters. XO, you have CIC.”
”Aye, sir. I have CIC.”
Max needed to change uniforms. It would not do for the rest of the men in CIC to get a whiff of his sour, cold sweat.