Drive signatures. Hundreds of them. Most of a thousand ships, all heading for home, taking a slightly acutely angled route that had hidden their drives from the main body of the fleet for the last six or seven days.
Half an hour later, it was like party time. The advance squadron was almost all the way through the system, braking hard to return in a few dozen days, and the small formations of ships between them and the main body of the fleet had been ordered to forget about follow-up high-speed passes and start decelerating at their individual safe maxima.
All the signs were that the system was almost clear of enemy ships and the Starveling Cult’s main fleet was in high-speed retreat back along roughly the course it had approached on. Even the three big targets were powering up now and heading in the same direction as the decamping invasion force. A few dozen smaller drives lit up as smaller, lighter craft got set to bail out too. There would be some clearing-up to do, and no doubt various mines and automatic munitions to try and keep them occupied while the enemy fleet made its escape, but there would be no main fleet engagement in Ulubis system, no mega-battle.
Their orders were to retake Ulubis system at any cost and hold it. A fast, light force of a dozen or so ships might be sent to harry the tardier fringes of the retreating fleet and provide continuing incentivisation for their speedy withdrawal, but they were specifically not to risk chasing en masse for some decisive battle. They had already achieved victory. They were expressly forbidden from taking the slightest risk of throwing it all away.
The command staff were celebrating. Taince lay curled in her pod, listening to her colleagues babbling with happiness and obvious relief. Various people talked to her, gabbing away about how the mere threat of their arrival could turn away a fleet three times the size of theirs, how they wished now they’d been with the advance squadron, just to have seen some action, dammit, and how they were probably going to get a heroes’ welcome when they got to Ulubis. She tried to respond in kind, mustering expressions of tension released and fears assuaged and all the time pretending to pretend that she’d have preferred a proper fight.
— Vice Admiral?
The image of Admiral Kisipt appeared in front of her, automatically displacing all the other images of celebrating crew.
· Sir. She tried to pull her thoughts away from the sick feeling inside.
· You must be pleased. We won’t have to turn your home system into too much of a battleground.
· Of course, sir. Though there will be mines, booby traps, no doubt.
· No doubt. And I’m keeping a full sweep alert in operation between here and the system, just in case. Kisipt paused. The old Voehn’s head tipped to one side as he regarded her. -1 think it has been very stressful for you, anticipating what might happen when we got to Ulubis, yes?
— I suppose so, sir. Taince wondered if he’d already been alerted to her earlier nervousness, if this was a conversation — even a kind of evaluation — inspired by that.
· Hmm. Well, the place doesn’t look too badly shot up, judging from the advance results. You ought to be able to relax soon. We’ll need you for liaison and ceremonial duties mostly, I should think. The Admiral made a smile. — That will be all right?
· Of course, sir. Thank you.
· Good. The Admiral made a show of looking around at the other images distributed about his own icon. — Well, I’d better talk to a few more people, calm them down, remind them there’s still a job to be done. As you were, Vice.
— Sir.
The Admiral’s image disappeared. Taince didn’t bring any of the others to the fore, but turned away from the social space altogether for Tacspace.
What have I become? she thought, staring into the dark volumes of Tacspace, watching and not watching coloured lines move and slowly extend, groups of figures, groups of ships tracing their way through the deep space skies bordering Ulubis system. I wanted a proper battle. Death and destruction. I wanted death and destruction. I wanted the chance to die, the chance to kill, the chance to die…
She stared into the awful emptiness as people celebrated around her.
What have I become?
* * *
Fassin felt restless as the Protreptic powered its way through the belts and zones of Nasqueron, heading for the RushWing Sheumerith, riding high in the clear gas spaces between two haze layers in Band A. The ex-Voehn ship shredded clouds as it sped through the atmosphere, keeping just under the median cloud level. Quercer Janath amused themselves by taking turns to pilot in real-time and see by how little they could miss shaving the edges of PlungeStems. This involved quite a lot of whooping and the occasional softish collision, making the whole ship shudder.
Fassin left them to it and floated away back through the ship, ending up in the chamber where their interrogation and the fight had taken place. He looked round it, at the dent-seats and restraints, at the scars and burn marks on the floor, ceilings and walls, and could remember nothing about what had happened. He felt frustrated, even depressed. He floated back towards the command space, stopping just before he got there to look inside what appeared to be the commander’s cabin, close to the flight deck.
The cabin was sparsely furnished and decorated. Fassin suspected that it had lost a few bits and pieces to some of the more acquisitive alien-ship enthusiasts back at Quaibrai. He looked at a square on the wall where something had been removed. The Protreptic shook very slightly. A distant whoop sounded from the command space, a couple of open doors and a short corridor away. Fassin experienced a shudder of his own, and a feeling of something like deja vu, or Swim.
I was born in a water moon, he thought to himself, knowing he was quoting something or somebody but not knowing what or who.
Another shudder ran through the ship. High-pitched giggles rang from the flight deck.
Zero.
— Hey! Fassin! Quercer Janath sent. — Call for you. Patch through?
— Who is it? he asked.
— No ident.
— Human female voice. Hold on, we’ll ask.
Zero, Fassin thought. Zero. It was a fucking answer.
— Aun Liss, name given.
— Any bells rung?
* * *
The RushWing Sheumerith, a thin blade across the dun sky, held no sign of Valseir. The Protreptic went off to bag more PlungeStems, promising to return. Fassin flew the little gascraft wearily along the line of tethered, oblivious, wing-hanging Dwellers, waiting for a sign.
In the end, the other gascraft was obvious. He spotted it from a couple of thousand metres away. The other device saw him at the same time and sent,
· Fassin?
· No, I’m a warhead. Who are you?
· Aun. See you’ve brought a gun.
He’d taken a Voehn hand-weapon from the Protreptic, once he’d found an armoury that hadn’t been raided for souvenirs by the ship enthusiasts of Quaibrai. Quercer Janath hadn’t objected. On the contrary, they’d advised him in rather too much detail on the differing capabilities and skill profiles of the various guns on offer when all he wanted was something robust, reliable and powerful that he could use to defend or kill himself with.