Poul Anderson: A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

In the pilot’s chair, Flandry took readings, ran off computations, nodded, and leaned back. “We won’t make approach for a good three-quarters of an hour,” he said, “and nothing’s between us and our nominal target. Relax.”

Vymezal—a young cadre lieutenant of marines, Kossara’s cousin and in a sturdy male fashion almost unendurably like her—undid his safety web. He had been invited to the control cabin as a courtesy; come passage near the enemy destroyer they were aimed at, he would be below with his dozen men, giving them what comfort he could in their helplessness, and Chives would be here as copilot. His question came hesitant, not frightened but shy: “Sir, do you really think we can get past? They’ll know pretty soon we’re not a torp, we’re a manned vessel. I should think they won’t be satisfied to take evasive action, they’ll try for a kill.”

“You volunteered, didn’t you? After being warned this is a dangerous mission.”

Vymezal flushed. “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t beg off if I could. I was just wondering. You explained it’s not necessarily a suicide mission.”

The odds are long that it is, my boy.

“You said,” the earnest voice stumbled on, “your oscillators are well enough tuned that you can go on hyper-drive deep into a gravity well—quite near the sun. You planned to make most of our transit that way. Why not start at once? Why first run straight at hostile guns? I’m just wondering, sir, just interested.”

Flandry smiled. “Sure you are,” he replied, “and I’m sorry if you supposed for a minute I suppose otherwise. The reason is simple. We’ve a high kinetic velocity right now with respect to Chereion. You don’t lose energy of relativistic motion merely because for a while you quantum-hop around the light-speed limit. Somewhere along the line, we have to match our vector to the planet’s. That’s better done here, where we have elbow room, than close in, where space may be crammed with defenses. We gain time—time to increase surprise at the far end—by A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows posing as a missile while we adjust our velocity. But a missile should logically have a target. Within the cone of feasible directions, that destroyer seemed like our best bet. Let me emphasize, the operative word is ‘bet.’ ”

Vymezal eased and chuckled. “Thank you, sir. I’m a dice addict. I know when to fade.”

“I’m more a poker player.” Flandry offered a cigarette, which was accepted, and took one for himself. It crossed his mind: how strange he should still be using the box which had snapped shut on his son, and give it no particular thought.

Well, why throw away a tool I’d want duplicated later? I’ve been taught to avoid romantic gestures except when they serve a practical demagogic purpose.

Vymezal peered ahead at the ruby sun. Yes, his profile against the star-clouds of Sagittarius was as much like Kossara’s as young Dominic’s had been like Persis’. What can I write to Persis? Can I? Maybe my gesture is to carry this cigarette case in my pocket for the rest of my days.

“What information have we?” the lieutenant almost whispered.

“Very little, and most we collected personally while we approached,” Flandry said. “Red dwarf star, of course; early type, but still billions of years older than Sol or Zoria, and destined to outlive them. However, not unduly metal-poor,” as Diomedes is where I put her at stake for no more possible win than the damned Empire. “ Distribution of higher elements varies a good bit in both space and time. The system appears normal for its kind, whatever ‘normal’ may mean: seven identified planets, Chereion presumably the only vitafer. We can’t predict further; life has no such thing as a norm. I do expect Chereion will be, m-m, interesting.”

And not an inappropriate place to leave my bones. Flandry inhaled acridity and gazed outward. With all the marvels and mysteries yonder, he wasn’t seeking death. In the last few weeks, his wounds had scarred over. But scar tissue is not alive. He no longer minded the idea of death. He wished, though, it had been possible to leave Chives behind, and Kossara’s cousin.

A magnifying screen emblazoned the Merseian destroyer, spearhead on a field of stars.

“Torpedo coming, sir,” Chives stated. “Shall I dispose of it?” His fingers flicked across the gun control board before him. A firebolt sprang hell-colored. Detector-computer systems signaled a hit. The missile ceased accelerating. Either its drive was disabled or this was a programmed trick. In the second case, if Hooligan maintained the same vector, a moment’s thrust would bring it sufficiently close that radiation from the exploding warhead could cripple electronics, leave her helpless and incidentally pass a death sentence on her crew.

“Keep burning till we’re sure,” Flandry ordered. That required a quick change of course. Engines roared, steel sang under stress, constellations whirled. He felt his blood tingle and knew he was still a huntsman.

Flame fountained. A crash went through hull and flesh. The deck heaved. Shouts came faintly from aft.

Gee-fields restabilized. “The missile obviously had a backup detonator,” Chives said. “It functioned at a safe remove from us, and our force screens fended off a substantial piece of debris without harm. Those gatortails are often inept mechanicians, would you not agree, sir?” His own tail switched slim and smug.

“Maybe. Don’t let that make you underestimate the Chereionites.” Flandry studied the readouts before him.

His pulse lifted. They were matched to their goal world. A few minutes at faster-than-light would bring them there, and—

“Stand by,” he called.

The eeriest thing was that nothing happened.

The planet spun in loneliness around its ember sun. Air made a thin bordure to its shield, shading from blue to purple to the winter sky of space. Hues were iron-rusty and desert-tawny, overlaid by blue-green mottlings, hoar polar caps, fierce glint off the few shrunken seas which remained. A small, scarred moon swung near.

It had to be the world of Flandry’s search. No other was possible. But who stood guard? War raved through outer space; here his detectors registered only a few automatic traffic-control stations in orbit, easily bypassed. Silence seeped through the hull of his vessel and filled the pilot’s cabin.

Chives broke it: “Analysis indicates habitability for us is marginal, sir. Biotypes of the kind which appear to be present—sparsely—have adapted to existing conditions but could not have been born under them. Given this feeble irradiation, an immense time was required for the loss of so much atmosphere and hydrosphere.” He paused. “The sense of age and desolation is quite overwhelming, sir.”

Flandry, his face in the hood of a scannerscope, muttered, “There are cities. In good repair, fusion powerplants at work … though putting out very little energy for complexes their size … The deserts are barren, the begrown regions don’t look cultivated—too saline, I’d guess. Maybe the dwellers live on synthetic food. But why no visible traffic? Why no satellite or ground defenses?”

“As for the former, sir,” Chives ventured, “the inhabitants may generally prefer a contemplative, physically austere existence. Did not Aycharaych intimate that to you on various occasions? And as for the latter question, Merseian ships have maintained a cordon, admitting none except an authorized few.”

“That is”—the tingle in Flandry sharpened—“if an intruder like us ever came this close, the game would be up anyway?”

“I do not suggest they have no wiles in reserve, sir.”