The voice came through a crackling battle comm. "We're into 'em Sink. We've punched right through their defenses. Plan's proceeding like clockwork. They seem to be giving a little too easily."
"What do you mean? They just retreating without a fight?"
"No. They shoot good enough. I don't know. Just a hunch."
Sinklar turned to the comm, twisting the resolution controls. The battlefield terrain around the Raktan mines clarified as the comm accessed cadastral survey data. Sink plotted Hauws' movements against the suspected Regan position. The Third Ashtan Division under First Weebouw would have formed a defensive perimeter according to the book — and they should have fought like mad dogs to keep that same perimeter. Sink squinted at the comm-generated image and thought for a second.
"Yeah," Sink leaned forward in sudden understanding. "Of course! Hauws? Listen, there's a valley ahead of you, right?"
"Sure is. They seem to be falling back for it. If we can concentrate them
in that valley, take the ridges around it, we'll have them with their britches around their—"
"Don't! Repeat, do not! Hauws, it's a trap. They'll have you! You'll be like targets on the training range! They'll paste you from orbital. Uh, let's see, page 95 of the Holy Gawddamn Book. 'Concentration of the enemy forces for orbital attack through misdirection.' Remember? Can you swing right? Break their flank? Maybe pull them apart, split their forces? Ruin their balance, and you can make a fast drive for the mine offices."
"I remember. You're right. We're gone!" The staccato of blaster and pulse fire practically drowned Hauws' voice.
For long moments Sinklar glared at the comm and tried to imagine Hauws' Section as they maneuvered against Weebouw's Veteran Ashtan troops.
Then the comm crackled as Hauws' excited voice cried:
"Etarian Priest crap, Sink! I'm starting to think these guys are made of butter. Each Group sits around until the Section First tells them where to move. Then they go. No initiative. Yeah, we're putting the claws to them. They didn't think we'd break right. You called it again, Boss!"
Sink chortled, half-silly with exhaustion. "Don't get to underestimating them. They might have some guts to make up for that command deficiency."
"Sink?" Hauws' voice was barely audible as a jamming sequence from orbit tried to tie down their band. "We're making headway. Group C just got them flanked. We're pushing through."
"Excellent, Hauws. They should have to pull another two Sections to reinforce that flank. Keep it up, pal, you're buying victory!"
"Yeah. But we're bleeding for it, too. It doesn't come free."
"I know. Try and keep in touch." Sinklar rubbed his face with a gritty hand. He noticed Mhitshul had refilled his stassa cup. A go pill lay beside it. How many more could he take before the drug began to blur reality and make his decisions suspect?
Hauws was taking casualties? How many? Just how much would this Regan idiocy cost the First Targan in precious blood? Could they make it work? Was the price in blood worth a futile attempt to defeat five Regan Divisions simultaneously on seven different fronts?
"Kap? Report, Kap!"
Crackly silence.
"Ayms? You there, Ayms?"
Nothing.
"Rotted Gods, they've jammed us completely." Sinklar used a thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes as he struggled to keep his mind from going numb. All those men and women had to rely on themselves now. He couldn't help. They knew the plan, where to go, how to do their jobs. But so many things happened. Battlefields went random from the first shot fired. How many would die? How many? He cradled his head in his hands as the words repeated in his head.
"How's it look?" Shiksta's scabby voice called, breaking Sink's mental haze. The crackle of Shik's big gravity flux guns sounded through the comm.
Sinklar exhaled wearily. "Hanging by a thread. Right now, it could go either way. They've managed to cut communications with three Sections and are pinning the rest down."
"Uh." Shiksta hesitated. "What was the fancy word you used? Command overload paralysis? They heard of that yet? Want me to send a guy out with a white flag? You know, maybe remind them that they're supposed to get all confused right about now and seize up so we can beat the shit out of them?"
Sinklar started to snap a reproof as Shiksta's words penetrated his over-tight mind. Instead, a chuckle rose to his lips. "Yeah, Shik, you do that, huh? And in the meantime, I'm going to act like the Seddi and pray for a stinking miracle!"
Skyla made a final check of her ship's systems and stood, running fingers through her hair to massage her scalp after removing the weight of the worry-cap. The cockpit controls
gleamed at her in reassuring patterns. Beyond the view port, the stars directly ahead shimmered like violet lances as her craft sped for the Itreatic Asteroids.
She passed through the hatch and locked it carefully, seeing Nyklos hunched over one of the comm monitors. A cup of stassa rested forgotten by his right hand. He glanced up and smiled as she stepped into the small galley.
"Hungry?"
"Always," he told her. "You know, I could get used to being your prisoner."
She shot him a reproving glance and tapped instructions into the dispenser, deciding on Riparian catfish in a hot pepper sauce for herself, and an Ashtan dolma for Nyklos. Then she stuck her cup under the stassa dispenser and settled into the overstaffed cushions across from him. Damn it, why did he have to look at her with that wry appreciation?
"Course is set for Itreata?" Nyklos asked with an intimate smile.
She toyed with her cup, rocking it on the base so the hot liquid rolled around the brim. "It is. I gave it a lot of thought. Consider what we know. Targa is embargoed, and we have but the foggiest of ideas about how the revolt is progressing there. We know Ily spaced for Targa, and the most likely explanation for that is that somehow she got an inkling that Staffa's headed'there. I'm not going to leave Staffa's fat frying in Ily's fire."
"So you're going to Targa with the entire might of the Companions behind you? You know, if I didn't already love you…"
"Stop it."
Nyklos chuckled. "You were the one who used the Mytol. But seriously, the Companions moving on Targa will provoke Tybalt. What do you expect the poor man to do? You could be starting a major war."
Skyla took a deep breath. "Then I start one. I won't be the person to fire the first shot. We're supposed to have free passage through Regan space for nonmilitary activities."
"And a fleet of Companions headed for a world in revolt is a nonmilitary activity?" Nyklos raised a bushy eyebrow and his mustache twitched.
Skyla gave him a frosty glare that appeared to have no
effect. "I'll take that gamble. Meanwhile, I have a question of my own. Why haven't you tried anything yet? You seem to be a model hostage. You haven't even jiggled the door to your room. I don't like complaince from people like you. It makes me suspicious."
He smiled at some private thought, then said, "Quite honestly, something's gone wrong on Targa. I don't have the faintest clue as to what it might be, let alone the details. It's just a feeling. You know, the sort of intuitive hunch you get when the wording changes in the communiques. Magister Bruen is no one's fool, but I can sense that he's worried. Everything's falling apart — and it started with Staffa's behavioral aberration." He met her gaze. "If helping you leaves me in a position to help the Seddi, I'll take that chance."
"And if it doesn't?"
"I'll deal with that problem when it comes." Nyklos sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe the quanta are playing us all for fools. I should be dead back in that alley. I remember cracking that tooth, waiting for the poison, stalling for it to take effect. Someone goofed and I'm alive. In this instance, you haven't used the information you gained against us. Fortuitous? Random chance? You tell me the odds. You're supposed to be the enemy."