Timothy Zahn - Warhorse

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WARHORSE

Timothy Zahn

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Parts of this book appeared in substantially different form in the May 1982 and

March 1984 issues of Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact.

any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises 260 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10001

ISBN: 0-671-69868-0

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, April 1990

Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York,

N.Y. 10020

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

Two hours earlier, the C.S.S. Dryden had killed its rotation, moving for the first

time in fifteen days back to zero-gee. An hour earlier, the last course change had

been implemented, bringing the ship into as close a direct vector with the target

planet of Arachne as possible. And now, with five minutes remaining on the clock,

the bright red mass-line had finally appeared at the center of the helmtank and was

beginning its leisurely stretch toward the edge.

They were almost there. Almost to Arachne… and the Tampies who would be

waiting for them.

Captain Haml Roman gazed at the mass-line a moment longer, wishing one last

time that someone else’s ship could have been tapped for this mission.

Appearances and assurances apart, the outcome was about as much in doubt as

Arachne’s orbit, and it soured his stomach to have to be part of the charade. But

neither the Senate nor the Admiralty had ever been in the habit of asking his

opinion on such matters. Probably just as well.

Four minutes to go. Reaching over to his intercom board, Roman keyed for his

passenger’s cabin; but even as he did so the door to Roman’s right slid open and

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Ambassador Pankau floated onto the bridge. “Captain.” he nodded, giving himself

a push that sent him gliding across the bridge in Roman’s direction. “We have an

ETA yet?”

“I was just about to call you, Mr. Ambassador,” Roman nodded back, wondering

distantly how Pankau managed to maintain that stiff dignity of his even while

floating like a child’s balloon across the room. “We’ll be making breakout in just

under four minutes.”

Pankau caught the back of Roman’s chair to stop his momentum and set his feet

firmly into one of the vel-grip patches in the deck. “How long to Arachne from

there?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Maybe less, depending on how close in we

get before breakout.”

Pankau snorted gently, but he was clearly experienced enough to know the

uncertainties were beyond Roman’s control. At thirty hours per light-year, the

Mitsuushi StarDrive chewed up an astronomical unit every 1.7 seconds, and even

with computer control a ship was lucky to make breakout within a half-million

kilometers of its projected target. “Do your best,” the ambassador said, almost

grudgingly. “And then I want a minimum-time course to Arachne. No point

dragging this out any longer than absolutely necessary.”

At the exec’s station Lieutenant Commander Trent threw Pankau a sour look, one

which the other fortunately missed. “Understood, Mr. Ambassador,” Roman said,

keeping his own voice and features firmly in polite/neutral mode.

Pankau nodded curtly and fell silent, and together they watched the steady

lengthening of the mass-line. It was almost to the edge of the helmtank when,

abruptly, the bridge lights dimmed and half of the main status board went from

green to red and then to dark blue.

The Dryden had arrived.

“Lieutenant Nussmeyer?” Roman invited, keying on the main display. The screen

came to life, blazing with stars and, off center to the left, the red-orange globe of

Arachne’s sun.

“Dead on target, sir,” Nussmeyer reported, peering at his helm display. “We’re just

over seventy thousand kilometers upslope of Arachne.”

Upslope; which meant that the sun’s gravity would be helping, instead of

hindering, their approach. “Very good, Lieutenant. Plot in a minimum-time course

at—” he glanced at Pankau. “Keep it under 1.5 gees.”

“Aye, sir. Approximately ninety minutes to orbit, then.”

“Very good. Execute.”

The acceleration alert began its warbling, and Roman listened to the clicks and

creaks as the bridge began swiveling into position for forward linear acceleration.

The number and decibel level of the squeaks had been on the rise lately, and he

sent up a quick prayer that the equipment would hold out at least until they could

make port again. Trying to handle even a relatively small warship like the Dryden

from a misaligned bridge could get nasty very quickly. “Will you be sending any

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messages before we make orbit?” he asked, looking again at Pankau.

The other was squinting at the main screen, which now held the small crescent

shape of a planet dead center. “Probably depends on whether the Tampy

delegation’s still topside or whether they’ve gone down and sent their ship home,”

he said. “Can you get any more magnification on that thing?”

Roman turned back to his console, feeling an odd stirring of anticipation as he

keyed the screen for full mags. If the Tampy ship was indeed still standing by…

The small crescent jumped in size to fill the entire screen; stabilized and enlarged

again to become a flat strip of mottled planetary edge. The camera started a slow

scan…

And there it was, silhouetted against the lighted section: a small, dark

rectangular/cylindrical shape, trailing behind a similar but much larger cylinder.

The Tampy ship… and its accompanying space horse.

The screen’s scale came on, locked and stabilized, and someone on the bridge gave

a low whistle. “Nine hundred twenty meters long,” Pankau read, a touch of awe

seeping through the professional coolness in his voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen

a space horse quite that big before.”

“The average is supposed to be eight hundred,” Roman agreed. Even preoccupied,

he could hear the underlevel of schoolboy excitement in his voice.

Pankau obviously heard it too, and Roman could feel the ambassador’s gaze shift

from the screen to him. “Your first space horse, Captain?”

It was, fortunately, difficult to blush in zero-gee. “It’s the first one I’ll have a

chance to see close up, yes,” Roman conceded. “I have seen them from a distance,

of course.”

Pankau grunted. “It would be rather difficult for the commander of a bordership to

totally avoid them.” His eyes shifted back to the main screen and his lips puckered.

“I suppose I ought to go ahead and talk to them. At least let them know we’re

here.”

Roman nodded. He reached for the comm laser control; remembered just in time

and keyed the radio instead. The Tampies had never developed the laser

themselves, and had shown complete disinterest in acquiring the necessary

technology from the Cordonale. “It’s all yours, Ambassador,” Roman said.

Pankau cleared his throat. “This is Ambassador Pankau, aboard the Cordonale Star

Ship Dryden,” he called. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The response was immediate; clearly, the Tampies had already noted the Dryden’s

arrival. “I hear,” the alien voice replied.

The whiny, grating, set-the-teeth-on-edge alien voice. Roman clamped his teeth

together hard, trying to remember that the Tampies didn’t do this on purpose.

“I am Ccist-paa; I speak for the Tamplissta,” the other continued. “I greet you.”

“And I you,” Pankau said, his tone and manner showing none of the reflex

irritation Roman felt. But then, Pankau was far more used to putting up with

Tampy voices. “I come with open hands and goodwill, and bring the Supreme

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Senate’s desire that our differences here be resolved as quickly as possible.” He

hesitated, just the barest fraction of a second. “Can you tell me if there’s been any

change in the situation in the past fifteen days?”

There was a hint of resentment in Pankau’s voice, a feeling Roman could well

understand. Irritating voices and mannerisms were something professional

diplomats learned to live with; lack of adequate and timely information was

something else entirely. Running on the Mitsuushi for fifteen days, cut off from

access to the Cordonale’s network of planet-based tachyon transceivers, everything

the Dryden knew about the trouble on Arachne was two weeks out of date. The

Tampy mission, in contrast, would have been in contact with their own colony here

up until the time they’d had to leave their home port… which had probably been no

more than a few hours ago.

And in this case, the time-lag turned out to be significant indeed. “There has been

change,” Ccist-paa said with what sounded like a wheezing sigh. “Some of the

humans of the Arachne settlement have attacked the Tamplissta of the Tyari.”

Pankau clucked his tongue gently. “Any fatalities?”

“No humans were injured. Two Tamplissta have died.”

Roman grimaced. It was a pattern that was repeating itself more and more

frequently these days on the half-dozen worlds that the Cordonale shared with the

Tampies: simmering confrontations boiling over into sharp episodes of violence…

and always the Tampies who got the short end.

“I’m sorry,” Pankau said. “We’ll reach your ship in approximately ninety minutes.

I’d be honored if you would allow me to transport you to the surface.”

“The honor is mine,” Ccist-paa said. “However, there is no need. My lander is

capable of providing me with transport.”

“Ah,” Pankau murmured. “In that event… perhaps you’d be kind enough to give

me transport.”

There was a short silence from the Tampy end. “We have no filter masks aboard,”

Ccist-paa said.

“I have one of my own.” Pankau hesitated, glanced down at Roman. “It seems to

me that, in the light of recent events, it might be good for us to discuss this matter

in private before we talk to the settlers themselves.”

Another pause. “You are welcome to ride in my lander,” Ccist-paa said, without

any trace of emotion Roman could detect. “If you will come alongside, my lander

will join with your ship.”

“Thank you,” Pankau said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

“Farewell,” Ccist-paa said, and a moment later the aliens’ radio carrier cut off.

Roman keyed off the Dryden’s own radio. Behind him, the rising drone of the

ship’s main fusion drive became a dull roar, and weight began to return. “Drive

activated, Captain,” Nussmeyer confirmed unnecessarily.

“Very good,” Roman nodded. “Start calculating the intercept vector to the Tampy

ship whenever we’re close enough.” He looked up at Pankau. The other’s face

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suddenly looked older; but then, it might have been merely the effect of returning

weight. “I hope you were prepared to deal with an outbreak of violence,” he

commented quietly.

Pankau made a face, his eyes still on the main display. “What else is there when

humans and Tampies get together?” he said sourly. He looked down at Roman, his

gaze intensely thoughtful. “It doesn’t bother you to be moving your ship in close to

a space horse?” he asked, his tone oddly challenging.

Roman cocked an eyebrow up at him. “Not really. Should it?”

The searchlight gaze continued for a moment, then seemed to flicker out. “There’s

a lot of misinformation floating around concerning space horses,” Pankau said

obliquely. “False and embellished stories, general paranoia—that sort of thing.”

Straightening his shoulders, he stepped off the velgrip. “I’ll be down in my

quarters, preparing my pack. Let me know when we reach the Tampy ship.” He

hesitated. “Or if anything… unexpected… happens.”

Roman glanced at Trent, saw the exec looking steadily back at him. “I’ll do that,

Mr. Ambassador.”

“Tampy lander away,” Trent reported. “Trajectory… right on the money.”

“Acknowledged,” Roman nodded. “Stay on it, Commander—make sure it stays

that way.”

The other threw Roman a glance before turning back to his displays. “You think

Pankau knows something we don’t?” he asked over his shoulder.

Roman shrugged. “I’d guess he’s just being cautious. On the other hand, there has

been at least one incidence of violence down there already.”

Trent snorted. “And since Pankau’s instructions are probably to give the Tampies

whatever they want…?”

Roman shrugged again. Ours is not to reason why, he quoted silently to himself.

Though that didn’t mean any of them had to like it.

Ten kilometers away, their orbit just below the Drydens, the Tampy ship was

pulling slowly away. “Keep us with him, Lieutenant,” Roman instructed

Nussmeyer, studying the velocity readouts on his tactical display. A kilometer

ahead of the alien ship floated the dark mass of their space horse… “On second

thought, let’s do more than just catch up,” he corrected himself suddenly. “I want a

closer look at that space horse. Slow approach, parallel course, and keep us about

two kilometers away.”

The background hum of quiet conversation abruptly cut off. Nussmeyer looked at

Trent, and Trent looked at Roman. “Something, Commander?” Roman asked

mildly.

Trent’s lip twitched. “The Tampies aren’t going to be pleased if we spook their

space horse.”

“That’s why we’re staying two kilometers away,” Roman told him.

“What if that’s not far enough?”

Roman cocked an eyebrow and glanced around the bridge. “We’re not exactly

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TimothyZahn-WarhorseWARHORSETimothyZahnThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoi cidental.Copyright©1990byTimothyZahnPartsofthisbookappearedinsubstantiallydifferentformintheMay1982andMarch1984issuesofAnalogSci...

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