in the air only by the grace of the Gods of Irony. Impossibly, it wavered into the horizontal— fired , by Jela! on the rushing dropjet—and was lost to view.
And there, in the corner screen, the spire of that—other-ship!
The screen froze again, as if someone lacking proper information was trying to figure out—
Nelirikk broke position, took three hasty strides toward the Controller.
“Hit that ship! Do it now!” he demanded.
There was instant silence in the room. The General turned to stare. Captain Kagan’s weapon was in hand.
The screen showed the ship again, and the silly, greathearted antique, as well, rushing headlong against the cream of Yxtrang fighters. The camera showed it circling slightly as if to protect that ship—and the closing fighters lost one of their number as the antique apparently unleashed all of its weapons at once before it was shredded into smoke. But its mission had been accomplished: the attack was diverted away from the beautiful ship.
“Hit that ship now!”
“No-Troop. Explain yourself!” Kagan’s voice was grim.
On the screen, the first pair of Yxtrang fighters leveled out before the camera plane, began a sweeping turn—
Glare! Glare!
TRANSMISSION LOST
Freeze-screen came back up, picture telescoping in on the deadly ship sitting there beneath the trees, the shielding hill behind it.
Nelirikk looked at the gun, looked back at the screen.
“Scout ship,” he said, calmly. “That’s a Liaden Scout ship, Captain. If it’s not destroyed immediately it could take out a battleship!”
“Control! ID that ship!” The General at least had ears.
“Sir. No ID on record. We’ve never captured or seen one—”
“ I’ve seen one,” Nelirikk spoke before the General, against best health. “Take it now, before it’s fully activated!”
“Control!” ordered the General. “Get another flight in there. Take it out.”
“You’ll need something bigger. Call the transports back before they get in range—” Nelirikk heard his traitor voice correcting, apparently determined to have him shot. “It’s space-based—coil-fields, power magnetics—”
“Silence!”
Nelirikk fell silent; heard the mistaken order relayed.
“No-Troop will remain silent!” snarled the General. “You, Controller, will keep me informed.”
Nelirikk watched the camera screen, heard as if from another galaxy the demotions behind him: the corporals busted a level each, retaining rank but losing pay and time in grade. The over-tech was now a life private in grocery supply, proper punishment for a stupid error. To trust to training-manual performance for a thing of such importance!
The camera screen came up, showing four planes ahead of the camera plane. Munitions tumbled away, heading for the pretty ship—
Glare! Glare! GLARE! And a wildly swinging picture, smoke on the fringes—TRANSMISSION LOST
***
“General, Flight 15 is not transmitting and does not show on scans.” The controller’s voice was level, soldierly, merely imparting the facts.
The General’s voice bordered on frenzied. “I want the Barakhan . Now. No one will mention No-Troop’s insolence or this occurrence outside of this room.”
For several moments there was nothing to see, and then a new camera—from quite a distance—hazarded a looksee and then was gone: the flash of an energy weapon was unmistakable.
“Sir, Barakhan is in position and has acquired the target.”
The camera screen came up once more and Nelirikk watched as the horrific fires of proud Barakhan , dimmed only slightly by atmosphere, punched through to the scout ship, leaving bright, dancing shadows behind his eyelids. He saw, incredibly, the small ship fire back, the first wave of the battleship’s energy deflected up and away by some tremendous effort of shielding.
Now the small ship could be seen from a more distant camera, firing in several directions as the General raised his voice.
“Bring all available batteries to bear,
And there, in the corner screen, the spire of that—other-ship!
The screen froze again, as if someone lacking proper information was trying to figure out—
Nelirikk broke position, took three hasty strides toward the Controller.
“Hit that ship! Do it now!” he demanded.
There was instant silence in the room. The General turned to stare. Captain Kagan’s weapon was in hand.
The screen showed the ship again, and the silly, greathearted antique, as well, rushing headlong against the cream of Yxtrang fighters. The camera showed it circling slightly as if to protect that ship—and the closing fighters lost one of their number as the antique apparently unleashed all of its weapons at once before it was shredded into smoke. But its mission had been accomplished: the attack was diverted away from the beautiful ship.
“Hit that ship now!”
“No-Troop. Explain yourself!” Kagan’s voice was grim.
On the screen, the first pair of Yxtrang fighters leveled out before the camera plane, began a sweeping turn—
Glare! Glare!
TRANSMISSION LOST
Freeze-screen came back up, picture telescoping in on the deadly ship sitting there beneath the trees, the shielding hill behind it.
Nelirikk looked at the gun, looked back at the screen.
“Scout ship,” he said, calmly. “That’s a Liaden Scout ship, Captain. If it’s not destroyed immediately it could take out a battleship!”
“Control! ID that ship!” The General at least had ears.
“Sir. No ID on record. We’ve never captured or seen one—”
“ I’ve seen one,” Nelirikk spoke before the General, against best health. “Take it now, before it’s fully activated!”
“Control!” ordered the General. “Get another flight in there. Take it out.”
“You’ll need something bigger. Call the transports back before they get in range—” Nelirikk heard his traitor voice correcting, apparently determined to have him shot. “It’s space-based—coil-fields, power magnetics—”
“Silence!”
Nelirikk fell silent; heard the mistaken order relayed.
“No-Troop will remain silent!” snarled the General. “You, Controller, will keep me informed.”
Nelirikk watched the camera screen, heard as if from another galaxy the demotions behind him: the corporals busted a level each, retaining rank but losing pay and time in grade. The over-tech was now a life private in grocery supply, proper punishment for a stupid error. To trust to training-manual performance for a thing of such importance!
The camera screen came up, showing four planes ahead of the camera plane. Munitions tumbled away, heading for the pretty ship—
Glare! Glare! GLARE! And a wildly swinging picture, smoke on the fringes—TRANSMISSION LOST
***
“General, Flight 15 is not transmitting and does not show on scans.” The controller’s voice was level, soldierly, merely imparting the facts.
The General’s voice bordered on frenzied. “I want the Barakhan . Now. No one will mention No-Troop’s insolence or this occurrence outside of this room.”
For several moments there was nothing to see, and then a new camera—from quite a distance—hazarded a looksee and then was gone: the flash of an energy weapon was unmistakable.
“Sir, Barakhan is in position and has acquired the target.”
The camera screen came up once more and Nelirikk watched as the horrific fires of proud Barakhan , dimmed only slightly by atmosphere, punched through to the scout ship, leaving bright, dancing shadows behind his eyelids. He saw, incredibly, the small ship fire back, the first wave of the battleship’s energy deflected up and away by some tremendous effort of shielding.
Now the small ship could be seen from a more distant camera, firing in several directions as the General raised his voice.
“Bring all available batteries to bear,
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