Timothy Zahn - Warhorse

“Damn,” Marlowe snarled. “Laser’s blocked again.”

“What did we hit?” Roman asked him.

“Looked like the beam caught the edge of a sensory cluster,” the other said. “But it didn’t stay there long enough to do any real damage.”

“Still, we’re clearly on the right track,” Roman pointed out. “It wouldn’t have reacted so strongly to what wasn’t much better than a near miss unless we’d genuinely hurt it. Missile crew—status?”

“Second missile’s almost ready to go, Captain.” The crewer must have been facing away from the mike; Roman could hardly hear him over the drive. “As soon as we set the launch timer—”

And without warning Roman was thrown against his restraint straps as Amity suddenly was yanked backward.

“Yamoto!—full thrust,” Roman shouted. The order was pure reflex; already the roar of the drive was changing pitch as Yamoto kicked out all the stops. For a second the ship seemed to teeter on the verge of breaking free… and then, slowly, the pressure on the rein lines increased, and the inertial indicators began to show backwards movement.

They were caught. Caught, and being reeled in.

A dozen frantic voices shouted for Roman’s attention. He ignored them all, eyes flicking across displays for information, mind furiously sifting possibilities. The shark was only thirty-two kilometers away—apparently it had opted not to risk grabbing them until they were well within its telekene range—and closing fast. The drive was at full power, and even though it wasn’t strong enough to pull them away, all the extra heat and radiation had to be doing something to the vulture cloud. The question was whether it would do enough, and do it before the shark got close enough to rip the ship apart.

And if it didn’t…

“Missile crew: I want a fast reprogramming,” he ordered, shouting over the roar of the drive. “Shut down the proximity fusing and send the missile ahead, toward the lander’s vultures. Ferrol, you copying?—you’re to let the missile pass you and then use a standard 460 codex radio signal to trigger it when it’s in position.”

Ferrol’s voice was almost inaudible over the noise. “Captain, we can’t just leave you—”

“Shut up, Ferrol, that’s an order. Laser crew: concentrate on the vultures that are in the most direct line with the drive emissions—maybe we can blast a hole there and get through to the shark.”

“Captain, Man o’ War’s panicking,” Yamoto shouted back at him. “Hhom-jee’s having trouble holding contact.”

Roman clenched his teeth, Ferrol’s suggestion about cutting Quentin loose flashing through his mind. Was the shark really interested in Amity itself, or had it simply grabbed the ship because it recognized that Amity and Man o’ War were linked together? “Hhom-jee, is Man o’ War itself being held?” he called into his intercom.

The roar of the drive was his only answer. “Hhom-jee?—answer me!”

“He cannot reply,” came another Tampy voice. “His full speaking must be with Manawanninni.”

Roman swore under his breath. “Yamoto, what’s the strain on the tether lines?”

“Approaching critical,” she told him. “We hold this level much longer and they’ll snap.”

So the shark was indeed only holding Amity itself. Recognizing, perhaps, that taking the ship gained it the space horse, too?

But if the tether lines were cut, forcing the predator to choose between them…

A set of numbers on the tactical screen abruptly turned red. The Amity’s internal stress indicators, starting to go crazy—“Stolt?”

“Laser still useless,” the other reported. “Drive’s making a hash of the vultures, the the shark’s moved just enough off centerline that those vultures aren’t the ones directly between us any more.”

Demonstrating once again the creature’s ability to learn. It had recognized Amity as being the more dangerous of its two targets and was exerting all its force in the ship’s direction.

Apparently ignoring Man o’ War entirely…

“What about structural integrity?” Roman asked, his eyes flicking again to the red stress numbers.

“Getting some stretching,” Stolt said tightly. “Both linear and transverse—like tidal effects, only stronger. Probably the shark trying to pull us apart.”

And given the fight Amity was putting up, the shark could reasonably be expected to put as much effort into the job as it could spare. “Estimated time to damage?”

“At this strength, we’ll start popping seams in maybe thirty minutes,” Stolt said.

“But the strain will probably go up as the shark gets closer.”

Roman nodded grimly, indecision tearing at him. If Tenzing was right about the shark being a low-stamina sprinter, then it might still be possible to hold to the current status quo and try to wear the predator out.

But if Tenzing was wrong, any delay might well forfeit them their only other chance to get away.

It was a gamble they had to take. “Laser crew, cease firing,” he ordered. “Charge all pulse capacitors and stand by. Yamoto, ease up on the drive, just a little. Rrinsaa, I need to get a message in to Hhom-jee—can that be done?”

“He can hear you, Rro-maa,” the Tampy’s voice came faintly.

“Good. Hhom-jee, when I give you the word, I want you to have Man o’ War reach back and telekene away as many of the vultures between us and the shark that it can.”

“Your wishes are ours,” Rrin-saa replied.

“Yeah,” Roman muttered under his breath. “Yamoto? Range?”

“To the shark, twenty-four kilometers, Captain,” she said promptly. “The leading edge of vulture cloud is just over eighteen.”

At least two kilometers inside Man o’ War’s telekene range; maybe more. “Laser crew, stand by,” he ordered, shifting his attention to the internal stress indicators.

They would have exactly one shot at this. A little closer; just a little closer…

“Captain, tether stress is redlining,” Yamoto said abruptly. “Another minute and we’re going to lose Man o’ War.”

Roman’s hands curled into fists. This was it. “Hhom-jee: now.”

For a single, awful second he thought the gamble had failed. And then, as if by magic, a circle of black suddenly appeared in the hazy white cloud of vultures and rocks behind them. The hole spread outward like the negative of an explosion—

And behind it, clearly visible in the reflected light of the drive emissions, was the shark.

“Laser: fire!” Roman snapped. The faint line lanced out—

And without any warning at all Roman was slammed hard back into his chair.

There was no time to shout warnings or orders; but Yamoto was ready. A splitinstant of weightlessness as she cut the drive was followed by a second backwrenching slam of high acceleration as Man o’ War took up the slack in the rein lines and leaped forward.

And they were free.

“Keep firing,” Roman managed to shout.

“Shark falling back,” Marlowe called: “Range, fifty kilometers… sixty…

seventy… I don’t think it’s even trying to follow us, Captain.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Yamoto put in. “The optical net is back with us.”

Roman pushed against the acceleration to take a deep breath. “Laser crew: cease fire. As soon as you can, I want a maintenance check started on your equipment—we may need to use it again.” Leaden hands fought unsuccessfully to switch displays—“Marlowe, did the lander get away?”

“Negative,” the other said. “They’re about 230 kilometers ahead of us; bearing twenty port, five nadir.”

With an effort, Roman reached up and keyed into the comm laser circuit. “Amity to lander: report.”