Poul Anderson - Ensign Flandry

“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.

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.

Under all cheer and excitement, a knot of tension was in him. He figured that word from the New Brazil would arrive at any minute.

“Your pardon,” Dragoika interrupted. “I must go to the—what you say—the head.” She thought that installation the most amusing thing aboard.

Karamzin watched her leave. Her supple gait was not impeded by the air helmet she required in a Terran atmosphere. The chief problem had been coiling her mane to fit inside. Otherwise her garments consisted of a sword and a knife.

“Way-hay,” Karamzin murmured. “What a shape! How is she?”

“Be so good as not to talk about her like that,” Flandry rapped.

“What? I didn’t mean any harm. She’s only a xeno.”

“She’s my friend. She’s worth a hundred Imperial sheep. And what she’s got to face and survive, the rest of her life—”

Karamzin leaned across the table. “How’s that? What sort of cruise are we on, anyway? Supposed to check on something the gatortails might have out in space; they didn’t tell us more.”

“I can’t, either.”

“I wasn’t ordered to stop thinking. And you know, I think this Starkad affair is a blind. They’ll develop the war here, get our whole attention on this sinkhole, then bang, they’ll hit someplace else.”

Flandry blew a smoke ring. “Maybe.” I wish I could tell you. You have no military right to know, but haven’t you a human right?

“What’s Starkad like, anyway? Our briefing didn’t say much.”

“Well—” Flandry hunted for words. They were bloodless things at best. You could describe, but you could not make real: dawn white over a running sea, slow heavy winds that roared on wooded mountainsides, an old and proud city, loveliness on a shadowy ocean floor, two brave races, billions of years since first the planet coalesced, the great globe itself … He was still trying when Dragoika returned. She sat down quietly and watched him.

“—and, uh, a very interesting paleolithic culture on an island they call Rayadan—”

Alarms hooted.

Karamzin was through the door first. Feet clattered, metal clanged, voices shouted, under the shrill woop-woop-woop that echoed from end to end of the long hull. Dragoika snatched the sword off her shoulder. “What’s happening?” she yelled.

“Battle stations.” Flandry realized he had spoken in Anglic. “An enemy has been … sighted.”

“Where is he?”

“Out there. Put away that steel. Strength and courage won’t help you now. Come.” Flandry led her into the corridor.

They wove among men who themselves pelted toward their posts. Near the navigation bridge was a planetary chartroom equipped for full audiovisual intercom. The exec had decided this would serve the vip and her keeper. Two spacesuits hung ready. One was modified for Starkadian use. Dragoika had gotten some drill with it en route to the squadron, but Flandry thought he’d better help her before armoring himself. “Here; this fastens so. Now hold your breath till we change helmets on you … Why did you come?”

“I would not let you fare alone on my behalf,” Dragoika said after her faceplate was closed.

Flandry left his own open, but heard her in his radio earplugs. The alarm penetrated them; and, presently, a voice:

“Now hear this. Now hear this. Captain to all officers and men. The New Brazil reports two hyperdrives activated as she approached destination. She is returning to us and the bogies are in pursuit. We shall proceed. Stand by for hyper-drive. Stand by for combat. Glory to the Emperor.”