The Dark Ascent Read online

  Until four hours ago, Abu Bakr had placed the entire inconvenience of it all at Laperriere's feet. Now, as he looked at the thing looming in his forward screen, he realized how foolish he had been.

  Clearly, he thought to himself, the commander of the Aragon must be thinking the same thing. But he was not Natan Abu Bakr's nephew.

  "How the hell are we supposed to fight something like that?" he said to no one in particular, leaning his chin on his folded hands as he sat in Eurydice's pilot's seat.

  "Our orders were not to engage," his exec reminded him.

  "I know that, Peter," he snapped back. "But I don't think it's here just to refuel. Someone will have to fight it sometime."

  The ship was irregular in shape, a shade over three kilometers from stem to stern; it had none of the streamlining of Imperial ships, no obvious port and starboard—it looked as if it had been constructed by pushing lumps of grayish clay together and jamming hardpoints on the outside. What they'd been able to gather from scanning suggested that the ship was in fact made up of a large number of small compartments.

  "Captain," the comm officer said, "I've lost contact with Aragon."

  "Well, reestablish it," Abu Bakr said without looking.

  "I—I can't find her, Captain."

  "What?" He looked from the forward screen to the pilot's board. He noted the Aragon's last known position and was about to say something about it, when the icon turned from green to blue—indicating that the mass-radar data was stale, reflecting a projected position change based on its current movement vector.

  "Captain!"

  Abu Bakr looked at the forward screen again. An alien vessel—not the big one, but one more his size—was closing rapidly on their position. The pilot's board was already registering weapons discharge, and the Eurydice's defensive fields were beginning to absorb energy.

  "Target and fire!" Abu Bakr said, gripping the arms of the pilot's seat. "Come to new heading—" He named a course and speed, looking to put a limb of the planet between the Eurydice and the rapidly closing enemy. "Execute! And find Aragon!"

  On the bridge of Adrianople Starbase, Commodore Jonathan Durant watched with horror as the Eurydice and Aragon opened fire on each other.

  On the bridge of Trebizond, Captain Richard Abramowicz turned from the sight of two medical orderlies bundling up the body of Vo Trang, to see someone come through the lift doors. He wasn't sure what to expect, but a man in an Imperial Navy uniform wasn't it. Still, there was something not quite right about the man—something in his eyes.

  This is your enemy, Abramowicz told himself.

  The unknown officer scarcely looked aside as the orderlies carried the stretcher off the bridge. His attention was completely focused on Abramowicz.

  "Save your energy, Captain," he said. "Your loyalty to the young man is quite noble, by human standards . . . but does very little for you now."

  "I'm supposed to be comforted by that." Abramowicz exchanged a glance with Kit Hafner, his exec, and then returned his glance to the alien.

  "It is not my role to comfort. There is something here I want, and I shall have it. The number of meat-creatures that die in the process is of very little importance to me. I believe I told you that already . . ." He crossed to the pilot's seat and sat in it, turning it around to face Trebizond's captain. "And I do so hate to repeat myself.

  "Believe me, Captain, your young Sensitive was having very uncharitable thoughts toward me, and I simply no longer needed him."

  "And you need me, I suppose."

  "Eventually not, perhaps. But in the meanwhile, I need what I came for—and you're going to take me to it."

  "Where?"

  "Adrianople Starbase. By the time we reach it, matters should be just about decided."

  The transponder code for Aragon disappeared from the Adrianople Starbase pilot's board. The energy discharge had not yet registered visually; mass-radar operated on the same principles as jump technology, and over interplanetary distances, informational update was almost instantaneous. Any explosion would come no faster than the speed of light. Aragon had a few more minutes to live, though Commodore Durant knew the truth.

  "What happened?" Mustafa asked, shaking his head.

  "You haven't read Laperriere's report; I have: This has happened before. Aragon and Eurydice saw each other as enemies. They thought—" Durant leaned heavily on his wardroom table, feeling older than he'd ever felt. "I don't know. But the enemy . . . The aliens have the ability to make you see whatever they want."

  Eurydice's transponder code suddenly winked out as well.

  "What the hell do we do now?" Mustafa said. "Throw the rest of them into combat?"

  "No, I don't think so. I think we only have one alternative."

  "Surrender?"

  "That's right. We can't escape, and I don't want to send more people out to die."

  "Like the Eurydice and the Aragon, you mean." Arlen Mustafa clenched his fists. "You knew that would happen, didn't you?"

  "No," Durant said, looking at his exec. "No."

  Mustafa looked like he was going to say something else, but couldn't decide what it was. After several moments he turned away.

  The door from the bridge slid aside. Durant turned to look and saw Dr. Edward Comeau, one of the Shiell Institute techs, enter the ready-room.

  "Doctor," Durant began, "I don't have time for you now—"

  "Yes, you do," the tech said. There was fear in his face. He took out his comp and gestured over it; the pilot's display over the table vanished and was replaced by a holo of the lab where the alien tech was being studied.

  The alien equipment was a set of a dozen odd-shaped objects made of some unknown metal, with various indentations and protrusions. From the time a Marine squad had brought them aboard the starbase from the Duc d'Enghien, they had— as far as Durant understood—shown no sign of functioning in any way.

  Now, in the holo, it was obvious that they were working—there were beams of energy connecting the twelve objects in a latticework that crisscrossed the lab. One of the Shiell Institute techs had evidently been standing in the wrong place when the equipment started working. He appeared neatly sliced in two just below the breastbone: His lower half was slumped on the floor, while his upper half, one arm thrown uselessly out, was sprawled on a table. The other techs were out of the way but were standing, immobile, looking aside emotionlessly.

  In the center of the latticework was . . . something, or perhaps a holo of something. It looked like a tall rectangular pillar filled with iridescent gas, with a silver ball floating at the surface. A limb of light extended outward from within it to touch one of the alien objects.

  "What happened?" Durant asked, after a moment during which he and Mustafa had stared at the scene, trying to make sense of it. He tried to read the expression in Comeau's face. "And what the hell is that?"

  "The objects started interacting a few minutes ago," Comeau began. "Dr. Warren was killed instantly—at least, I hope to God it was instant. Then that appeared. It commanded me to come to the bridge."

  "To find me," Durant said.

  =That is correct, Commodore.=

  Durant whirled to face the holo again. The voice he'd heard hadn't spoken aloud, but he'd heard it just the same; Mustafa and Comeau had heard it as well. It was like an abrasive, scraping noise inside his mind. It had no intonation; it remained at a steady pitch.

  It came from the box in the middle of the latticework.

  "Who— What are you? What do you want?"

  =I am the Ór,= the box said. =I want, and will have, your complete cooperation.=

  "For what purpose?"

  =This system and this base will be secured. You will cooperate completely and instantly, or you will be terminated.=

  "What does this 'cooperation' entail?"

  =You meat-creatures require so much explanation for concepts that are childishly simple,= the Ór replied. Durant could feel the contempt in its remark, though the voice never changed. =Th
e approaching vessels will take command of Adrianople Starbase and Adrianople System. You will surrender them at once.=

  "Unless I choose to blow up the whole damn starbase, and you with it." Durant looked at Mustafa, with whom he'd been discussing surrender just a few minutes earlier.

  =That is no longer an option, Commodore Durant,= the Ór answered. =The control and self-destruct pathways have already been blocked by the s's'th'r.=

  Durant didn't know what a s's'th'r was, and wasn't in any hurry to find out.

  "Then I only have one question."

  =Ask.=

  "If you're already in command of the starbase, why do you need me to cooperate?"

  =My directives are to preserve life where possible. By cooperating you save more lives.=

  "Like you saved the lives of the people aboard Aragon and Eurydice, you mean?" Mustafa asked, stepping toward the holo. "How did that serve your—your directives?"

  =Where possible,= the Ór answered. =A necessary demonstration. Would you care to be another demonstration, Commander Mustafa?=

  "Of what?"

  =Of this.= A limb of energy leapt from the Ór and out of the holo to touch Mustafa amidships.

  Mustafa turned away from the holo to look at Durant. Suddenly the anger on his face turned to horror as he looked at his commanding officer. "No," he said. "No, not—"

  "What is it, Arlen?" Durant asked, looking from the Ór to his exec. "What are you showing him?"

  =Something he fears,= the Ór said. =In thirty seconds the fear will cause a hemorrhage within his brain, causing his termination.=

  Arlen Mustafa had fallen to his knees, his hands stretched out, his eyes wide, his mouth partially open and unable to make a sound.

  =Twenty seconds,= the Ór said.

  Durant shook his head. "No. Stop it. Turn it off!"

  =Fifteen seconds,= the Ór replied. =It is a demonstration.=

  Mustafa had fallen to hands and knees, his head hanging down, his legs twitching.

  "You don't need to demonstrate any more! You—Your 'directives' are to preserve lives. Preserve his—I need him to manage this base. To manage it for you."

  =Five seconds,= the Ór said.

  As suddenly as it began, the limb of energy withdrew. Mustafa collapsed to the deck like a puppet with cut strings. Durant stepped to his side and knelt beside him.

  =A lie,= the Ór said at last. =Still, a touching example of compassion. Most instructive.=

  Durant felt Mustafa for a pulse and found one. His exec was breathing normally, as if he'd just passed out.

  "I was supposed to let him die," Durant said angrily. "For your entertainment."

  =Instruction. Do you require any further demonstrations? If not, prepare to surrender your base.=

  The holo vanished and was replaced by the pilot's display. Durant looked up to see the two large alien ships approaching the base, and the Trebizond inbound, escorted by several smaller alien vessels.

  As he watched the ships creep across the display, he hoped he'd made the right choice.

  Ur ta'ShanriGar

  Piercing the Icewall

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  WHEN THE ENEMY TOOK ADRIANOPLE, IT GAINED A BASE WITHIN THE SOLAR EMPIRE, PLACING DOZENS OF IMPERIAL WORLDS WITHIN JUMP RANGE. CICERO WAS THE FIRST STRIKE—BUT ADRIANOPLE WAS THE FIRST, MOST SIGNIFICANT STRIKE IN A LONG AND DIFFICULT WAR.

  —Oren Kemal and Mya'ar HeChra

  The Great War, volume I, 2429

  "Five. I make it five." Dan McReynolds stood on the bridge of the Fair Damsel, scowling over the shoulder of the pilot at the display board. Raymond Li, the Damsel's chief navigator, stood opposite, leaning forward on the board and looking up at the captain.

  "So there are five ships with IN flags here. What's it to us?"

  "I have to explain everything to you. Tamarind Station"—Dan gestured toward the forward screen—"is maybe forty parsecs from the nearest big naval base and we're only two jumps out of Crossover. Maybe it's a coincidence and maybe not, but we were carrying what might turn out to be a real important package."

  "I thought that the—package—belonged to the High Nest."

  "Look." Dan's scowl was enough for the pilot to stop what he was doing and look back at him. "The Imperial Navy takes care of its own. I'll bet you a liter of the best whiskey we can buy here that the dock will be covered with bluejackets."

  "I've had Tamarind whiskey, Skip, and I still won't take the bet. What've they got on us?"

  "It's just a feeling I have. Five Navy ships . . . I don't believe in coincidences, Ray."

  As a matter of course, merchanters develop instincts about situations. In the days of ocean sailors, a captain might get a feeling sniffing the wind as it blew across his quarterdeck, or sense a change in the sky or the chop of the waves on the bow of his ship—certainly not clinical observations, but often more accurate than the poor instruments the captain might possess. Instincts were the difference between an experienced sailor and a dead one.

  By comparison, space lacks many empirical clues. Wind, wave and sky have no convenient analogs; the sophisticated equipment required to navigate from star to star extends the scope and range of the senses. Perils and dangers can be perceived a long way off . . . Of course, death comes more quickly and more violently in space.

  Still, at sea or in space there are certain things in common. Merchanters know to keep their heads down and listen to warnings wherever they come from.

  As the Fair Damsel made its docking approach, Dan McReynolds got his first and only warning: He was not only expected, but there was someone waiting for him. The ship was committed and deep in the gravity well, and—as Ray Li had pointed out—nobody had anything on them.

  Knowing that there was no avoiding it, Dan made himself very conspicuous on the dock as the Damsel began to unload its cargo. It only took a few minutes for uniformed Tamarind security to take notice of their presence, and a few minutes more for a deputation to make its way across the station deck to the Fair Damsel's berth.

  "Look at them swagger," Pyotr Ngo, Dan's chief pilot, said quietly behind him. "Tough guys."

  "At least to the locals," Dan replied. People were deliberately making way for the half-dozen armed men and women making a beeline for his ship; he could see other civilians speaking furtively and looking in his direction, thinking, no doubt, There but for the grace of God go I . . . "Get the Sultan," he said over his shoulder, without turning. "And hang close."

  The group came up to where Dan stood looking over a cargo manifest. He deliberately tried to ignore them.

  "You McReynolds?" asked the leader of the group, a tall, thin scowling woman in a well-decorated brown uniform.

  "I'm Captain McReynolds," Dan said. Sultan Sabah and Pyotr Ngo took up positions behind him. "What's it to you?"

  "Man wants to see you."

  "Man got a name?"

  "Imperial Navy," the woman answered with distaste. "Asked for you personally."

  "Me?" Dan turned slightly to look at Pyotr and the Sultan. "You boys know why the Navy might want me?"

  "Maybe wants you to reenlist," said the Sultan. "Scrapin' the bottom of the barrel for officer material, you ask me."

  "I'm not interested in signing up." Dan turned back to the Tamarindi. "Tell the 'Man' that if he wants to talk to me he should send someone of his own. My papers are in order, and I've got work to do." He began to turn away.

  "Listen, you—"

  He rounded on the woman. "No, you listen to me. I've got a license to trade within the Solar Empire. I have my landing permit, my docking order, my permit to berth . . . and a published manifest that allows me to load and unload. Those are all you can question me on, Officer. If the 'Man' wants to talk to me, then the 'Man' had damn well better send his own messenger to talk to me rather than wasting my time and yours."

  He turned away again and left the woman sputtering as the three crewmen of the Fair Damsel walked back into the cargo hold. After a moment
, the woman took her cadre of guards back across the brightly lit deck.

  "You think that was such a good idea, Skip?" the Sultan asked, looking over his shoulder at the retreating brown uniforms.

  "Don't know. But I'm not going to be ordered around by some local tinhorn. I already did my time in the Service. Damn it, those papers are in order, too." He stopped at a stack of meter-high cargo cubes and sat down on one. "Give me that comp," he said to the Sultan, and began to query it for information.

  "I'd better get the troops moving in case we have to bug out quickly," the Sultan said, turning his attention away from his captain.

  "Wait a sec." Dan showed Sabah and Ngo the comp. "Says here that the biggest ship in dock is the IS Pappenheim, commanded by someone named Maartens. You guys know anything about either?"

  "Pappenheim," Pyotr Ngo said, folding his arms over his chest and looking at the readout hanging in the air over the comp. "That's not a police cruiser—looks like a ship of the line, maybe Imperial Grand Survey or a perimeter squadron. The skipper's name doesn't ring a bell, though."

  "The other ships here at Tamarind are all smaller ones. This isn't a battle fleet; it's more like a bunch of little guys that found a big skirt to hide behind."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "Unless I miss my guess, Pyotr, something big has started to happen, something that's gotten all of these ship commanders scared. Anything come to mind?"

  "Sounds like a war," Pyotr Ngo said quietly. "Meaning—?"

  "Meaning that whatever she got involved in"—and all three of them knew who "she" was—"has started."

  "So . . . what are we going to do?"

  "We go on with what we're doing, I guess," Dan answered. "And we wait for the 'Man' to come to us."

  They didn't have to wait more than an hour. Dan had returned to his own quarters, leaving the Sultan in charge dockside; he was sitting at his cluttered workdesk when a private-channel message signal sounded on the internal comm. "Captain here," he said. "What's up?"