Linesman (23 page)

Geraint Jones was as tall and as skinny as a whippet, with ash blond hair. This man was sitting down. Ean couldn't see how tall he was, but his shoulders were broad, his arms were muscled, and his head was shaved. Not Jones, so it had to be Jordan Rossi.

According to Rigel, Rossi was a wily political manipulator with a voice an orator would be proud of. Ean smiled to himself. Gospetto would probably be pleased to teach him. Funny that Rigel had never said Rebekah was a political manipulator, too.

Losan finished examining Michelle. “We should have brought the medic with us.” He moved over to Radko. “Let's look at your shoulder.”

“Is she—?” Sale asked.

“I don't know. Best thing we can do is get her back to the commodore as soon as we can.”

“So let's see what we can do about that. Craik.” Craik was standing over the pilot, her weapon at his head. “Get him to contact the commodore.” Sale swung back to Jordan Rossi, who had moved again. “Linesman, you don't get many warnings.” She waved the weapon at the other prostrate hostages. There were two of them. One wore Rickenback colors but no lines. An assistant. Rigel had refused to pay for assistants. Wasted money, he called them, and Ean secretly agreed with him. What could an assistant do that you couldn't do yourself? The other man could have been one of the bureaucrats dining at the buffet on Michelle's ship every night. He looked what he was. A government official.

“Ean,” Sale said. “Make sure it's only our ship he calls.”

He nodded, hoping he could, and looked at the crowded pilot's seat. “Do you still have the comms?”

Sale tossed it across.

Ean caught it. “Go,” he said to Craik.

Something hit the shuttle side on, knocking them everywhere. Ean made a clumsy grab for the comms, which had been jerked out of his hands.

“Strap Princess Michelle in,” Sale ordered, but Losan was
already doing that, dropping a stretcher from the specially marked berth along the wall, clipping it into place, and settling Michelle with care into the webbing. There were two stretcher bays and three stretcher logos at each, one near the floor, one toward the ceiling, and the other halfway between. Only a military shuttle would expect to have to carry six stretchers at once.

“Minor damage to the landing gear,” Craik reported. “A warning shot.”

Captain Gruen's voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, the shuttle. This is Captain Gruen of the GU ship
Gruen
. You have fifteen seconds to surrender.”

The lines were still wide open to him, and Ean knew without knowing how he knew that they would do anything he asked of them. Even Gruen's ship. Except line eight, which he knew now would always protect its ship first. He was heady with the sudden power, nervous, too. Lines trusted each other, and he couldn't afford to break their trust.

He thumbed the speaker on the comms and started to sing, taking back control of line five on the ship, so Captain Gruen couldn't order the gunners to fire again. This time, instead of stopping it with him, he sent it on, out through the comms channel, so Abram's ship could hear it because he couldn't hold Gruen's comms closed and keep a line open for Abram at the same time.

“Attention the shuttle.” He sent Gruen's message straight through to Abram's command center. Could almost see—hear—Captain Helmo and Abram standing together, identical frowns on their faces, listening. “We have given you warning. Surrender now or we will fire again.”

The pilot was already preparing for evasive action.

“This is your last warning. If you do not surrender now, we will fire.”

Then the command to the gunners, which didn't go through. “Fire preset one.” And after she realized they hadn't heard her, “Fire preset one,” again.

“Get down there and press that button,” Captain Gruen ordered someone on the bridge.

Ean locked the doors. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

Abram's ship launched a weapon.

Captain Gruen tried to open another comms line. “Wendell. Get your sorry ass online now and tell me what it is we're dealing with.”

“Ean. Ean. Listen to me.” Even that came out through the comms.

Radko stood in front of him and clicked her fingers. Ean stopped fighting line eight and slowly came back to real space.

“Commodore Galenos is talking to you.”

It was Abram's voice. “Ean. Listen to me.”

“I don't believe it,” Jordan Rossi's rich voice murmured. “It's crazy Ean Lambert. Singing to the lines.”

Ean half heard Sale's sharp, “You have a problem with that?”

He concentrated on Abram. “Sir.” It came out as song.

“I want to talk to the captains.”

“Gruen?”

“And Wendell. Yes.”

Ean clicked them through, fighting with line eight for supremacy of line five. Ean won, just.

“Captain Gruen,” Abram's crisp voice said. “There is a missile headed toward you. I hope you see it. We will detonate it if you do not stop firing on the shuttle.”

At first, all he got in answer was a wordless snarl, then, “What in hell have you got here, Galenos?”

“We are trying to prevent a war Gate Union started,” Abram said, which didn't answer her question at all. “If you harm anyone on that shuttle, you will escalate this war. Are you prepared to accept the consequences?”

Ean got the feeling Abram wasn't talking to Captain Gruen but to Captain Wendell.

“Ean, a private line please. You to me,” Abram said.

Sure enough, as soon as Ean flicked over, Captain Wendell was on the line to Gruen. “If Lady Lyan is on that shuttle, then for heaven's sake, stop firing on it.”

“We wanted her out of the way to destabilize the Alliance,” she said.

“But if you kill her, the Alliance will come after us. They
have to. Not to mention they have that ship out there that can cause God-alone-knows what damage.”

Ean couldn't keep listening to two conversations at once, and Abram was insistent in his ear. “Ean. Talk to me.”

“Talking,” he said, and hoped Gruen listened to Wendell and stopped firing because by talking to Abram, he'd lost control of most of the lines. “Michelle's here,” because that was what Abram wanted to know most. “She's not—” He stopped. If he told Abram the ship would know, then what would happen?

Radko pushed off on the wall and came to a gentle stop in front of Ean. She held out her hand for the comms. He passed it over.

“Sir. Spacer Radko. We have eight personnel here. Two of our people are injured. One badly.” That would be Michelle, unless she wasn't considered as personnel. “Four prisoners. All Alliance personnel are accounted for. Sale's in charge.”

“Thank you, Radko.” Abram's voice was crisp, but Ean could feel through the lines the tired sigh that followed. “They will fire on our ship shortly. Do what you can to get the shuttle to safety.”

“Yes, sir.”

At first, Ean misunderstood. “They'll fire at us.” They hadn't gotten anywhere, then. They would still have to surrender to avoid being hit.

“They'll fire on the
Lancastrian Princess
.”

“Lambert isn't known to have much grasp of logic,” Jordan Rossi said, “but this once he does have a point. They'll fire on us, sweetheart.”

Radko just gave him a flat, disinterested stare. “Do all tens continually put other tens down? Not you.” She patted Ean's shoulder. “But you're not really a ten, are you.”

He didn't want to hear that joke about line twelve again.

“He just likes the sound of his own voice,” Sale said. Ean hoped she was talking about Rossi, not him. “So the commodore has bought us some time. What shall we do with it?”

How had he bought them time?

Radko saw Ean's expression. “He reminded them Princess Michelle was on this shuttle,” she said. “They don't
want to kill her, so they will try to prevent Captain Helmo's reaching us.”

“But that's—”

“And they're all coming to get us,” Sale said. “So if we stay here, we end up stuck in the middle of a three-way fight. You”—she pointed her blaster at the pilot—“show us on-screen.”

He brought up the star chart.

There were three green dots, one red dot, two yellow dots, and one blue. Two of the green dots were close together. The red, yellow, and green dots made up an arc—almost a quarter circle—all around the same distance away from the central blue dot. The red and green dots were all moving, most of them toward the innermost green dot.

“This is stupid,” the pilot said. “You can't outrun them.”

Even as they watched, a smaller orange dot started out from the green dot that was farthest away. It headed for the red dot.

“Which one are we?” Ean asked, suddenly anxious. It looked like someone had fired on the red.

“Red,” Sale said, succinctly.

The pilot pounded on the panel. “This is us,” he said, pointing to the innermost green dot, the one close to the other green. “Now let's move, or we'll get caught in the cross fire.” He was already sliding bars up, despite Craik's blaster at his head.

Ean understood what Sale meant. Red was Captain Helmo's ship. The green that had fired on it had to be Gruen. Why had Abram told Captains Wendell and Gruen that he was firing on them? As a distraction, he supposed, so they turned their attention to protecting themselves, leaving the shuttle alone.

“Make for the alien ship.” Michelle's voice was hoarse behind them. “The sooner we get somewhere we can use—” She coughed weakly and couldn't continue.

If Ean couldn't control the lines before the alien ship fired on them, they'd be dead, but right now that seemed less important than getting there before Abram and Captain Helmo were blasted beyond repair.

“Go,” Ean and Radko said, together, to Craik, and she waved the blaster in the pilot's face. “Do it. Toward the alien ship. Now.”

“You're insane.”

Ean could smell the pilot's fear. He didn't need the lines to tell him what the pilot would do next. Craik didn't either. She brought her blaster down on his skull even as he jumped out of his chair. She was already in the chair before he'd properly fallen.

Ean and Losan dragged the pilot over to a seat and tied his hands and feet before strapping him in.

“Ninety kilometers,” Craik said.

Everyone was quiet.

On-screen all three ships—red and green—were firing at each other. So far the red dot was still there. Ean wanted to hear what was happening but knew he couldn't afford the time.

Craik did something to the screen, so they could see the dots on one half and the reflective sphere on the other.

“Eighty.”

“Strap in,” Sale said. “You, too,” to the other three prisoners. “Put them at the front, so we can see them.” Ean didn't strap in. He needed to stand to sing.

“Seventy.”

The bureaucrat went ballistic. “Get us back. Get us back now.” He unclipped his restraints and launched himself at Craik. Sale and Losan launched after him. “We'll die.”

They subdued him with a swift uppercut to the chin.

“Strap him back in,” Sale said.

“Sixty.” Craik's voice was calm.

Line eleven was getting stronger. Ean took a deep breath.

“Can you feel it?” Jordan Rossi asked, his voice full of wonder. “It's like—” He broke off, as if he couldn't describe it. “The confluence—”

Ean was going to be very disappointed if he got to the confluence and couldn't feel it. Maybe line eleven was blocking it. Or maybe the trainers were right. Maybe he was defective.

Don't be stupid, he told himself. Line eleven was remarkable enough.

“Fifty.”

He started to sing.

EAN LAMBERT

LINE ELEVEN ANSWERED,
a powerful surge of joy that knocked Ean off his feet.

He forced himself not to panic, and to breathe when he could.

Subliminally, he heard the linesman's assistant cry out—the first sound he'd made—“The linesman,” and Sale's seemingly disinterested voice reply, “He's fine. He always does that.” She didn't sound worried although she had to be.

“He's choking.”

“Oh, that one. He's having a heart attack,” then, more sharply, “Give him some oxygen, then get back into your seat. There's nothing anyone can do for him right now.”

“You're coming home,” line eleven said.

“Forty,” Craik said.

“Oh God,” Losan said, and gripped the seat.

“I'm coming home,” Ean agreed. Line eleven was part of him now. He knew that suddenly. He had a place in the lines here. The lines of the other ships echoed his thoughts. A place. He belonged. “Provided you don't kill us on the way in.”

“Kill?”

“That thing you do.” Line eight probably did it. Ean
changed his song to include all the lines. “When another ship comes close.” He sang, as best he could, a description of the green field that came out and vaporized anything it came in contact with.

For a moment he didn't think they understood.

“Thirty,” Craik said. He could hear the start of nerves in her voice because it vibrated along the lines. He didn't think anyone else could tell.

The lines hummed and thought for an eternity almost as long as the void. Finally line eight said, “The automatic-defense system.”

“Can't you turn it off?” Temporarily, at least. He didn't want the ship damaged.

“No one has ordered it yet.”

“Twenty.”

He could feel the perspiration spreading out under his arms, down his back. Another time, another place, Radko would tell him he stank. Right now, he wanted to be in that other time and place.

“Please.”

“It needs to be an order,” line eight said gently.

“Who can order it?” He spoke through the comms. “I hope you're stopping, Craik.” He didn't hear her reply, but the backthrust knocked him off his feet again, so he hoped it was all right.

“Why, you can.”

It couldn't be that simple. “That's an order then,” Ean said. “Turn off the automatic-defense system.” Did the other lines accept him because line eleven had, or did they just accept the orders of anyone who could talk to them?

The lines heard his thoughts.

“You're of our line,” line one said.

The acceptance of the lines engulfed him completely, overwhelming him so that he couldn't breathe. It was almost as bad as a line-eleven-induced heart attack. Ean laughed shakily. “Thank you.” They were of his line, too. He would protect them and nourish them. Even if Lancia sold his contract.

Craik whooped at the panel. “Yes.”

Ean turned to see. It took effort to see through his eyes
and not through the lines. The ship on-screen was no longer a reflective sphere. Instead, it was a long, low cluster of linked hexagons.

The others were cheering, too.

“Can I go forward?” Craik asked.

Through the lines, Ean heard Captain Gruen change her missile targets.

Craik didn't see it for seconds, then, “Shit. The ship we were just on launched a weapon at the alien ship.”

Which was now unprotected, at Ean's request. “Protect yourself,” he ordered the lines. “But please don't kill us, or Captain Helmo's ship.” The lines would never recognize it as Michelle's ship. To them, the owner would always be the man who controlled the lines.

“Captain Helmo?”

He sang the distinctive ship music. Even before he was done, line eight had fired an offense. All Ean could do was pray.

He couldn't see the screens anymore, his head was filled with the sound of the lines. Sounds were magnified. He could hear twelve hearts beating, all a little irregularly, two more irregularly than the rest. The whoosh of the oxygen being forced down Jordan Rossi's throat. He even heard Rossi murmur, “If I die now, it's worth it, for whatever this thing is.”

He couldn't have spoken more truly although right now, Ean was more worried about going deaf than dying.

“Take us in, Craik,” he said, and prayed again.

No one spoke as she moved the controls forward.

“Ten kilometers,” Craik said. “And this ship has counterfired against the Gate Union ship.”

That had been forever ago.

The shuttle engines were loud, and Ean could hear the whoosh of the air as it circulated. He even imagined he could hear the flicker of the lights on the panel Craik was handling with such finesse. Sights, sounds, smells, and taste were all combining together. He couldn't differentiate between them anymore.

“Seven kilometers,” Craik said.

He'd missed eight and nine totally.

The shuttle sounds were gradually overtaken by the deeper throb of the engines of the alien ship. Impossible, because there was no way they could hear that until they were on board.

Gruen's ship had stopped firing.

“Six.”

“Where do we go?” Ean asked the ship.

“Turn your engines off at—” Ean didn't recognize the distance in real space, but he could understand it in line space. “We guide you in.”

“Five.” The numbers were farther apart now. Craik was going slowly.

They reached the line space limit. “Turn off your engines,” Ean said.

Craik obeyed instantly. They drifted for half a minute before something grabbed their ship and moved them sideways. Gravity returned with the movement. Ean, the only one standing, was knocked to the floor again.

“You should strap in,” Radko said, and Ean crawled to a seat.

“Gravity close to Earth norm,” Craik said. “And we're 4.73 kilometers from the ship.”

“Hell of a kick for something that far out,” one of them said.

“Suit up,” Sale ordered, and from the way everyone checked the seals on the suits they were still wearing after their trip through the shuttle bay, Ean realized she wanted them ready to switch to the suits if necessary. Losan checked Michelle's suit, and Radko checked Ean's. “Prisoners suit up, too, if you can.” Guards had to help the unconscious bureaucrat and pilot into their suits, while Jordan Rossi pulled his own on. The pilot, who was half-suited anyway, came round while they were checking his suit and nearly knocked Losan out struggling.

At least it would be one less person to carry. Or would they leave them on the shuttle? They definitely wouldn't be leaving Michelle. Or Radko.

Craik's quiet countdown went on. “We have moved 2.3 kilometers from our original position. Still at 4.73 kilometers from the ship—2.4, 2.5. Still at 4.73.”

Two and a half kilometers had to take them some way around the ship.

“Totally under the other ship's propulsion now. We are, effectively, stationary,” Craik said, just as another force took them and jerked them closer. The guards suiting Rossi went flying. “One kilometer. Still 2.5 laterally; 2.8, 2.9, 3.0, 3.2.”

They were moving smoothly now. “Only 0.8 kilometers out.”

“Almost a complete circuit of the ship,” someone said. “Counterclockwise.”

“Strap in,” Sale ordered, and the guards suiting up Rossi strapped in hastily as Craik counted down—“0.4, 0.2, 0.0.”

Ean didn't even feel them stop.

“Suits on,” Sale ordered, and Radko leaned over to clip Ean's helmet on and ensure oxygen was flowing, even as she did the same to her own.

Now what?

They just sat there for a time. Ean thought they were waiting for him to do something. He unbuckled his seat belt.

“Wait till the all clear,” Sale said.

He buckled it back on again.

Rossi still had problems with his breathing, but he'd obviously decided no one was going to do anything about it. He stood up and pulled himself properly into his suit. The Allied soldiers watched him.

A strong man. They would probably prefer a ten like Jordan Rossi rather than the one they had. Well, they had what they had, Ean decided.

Michelle had regained consciousness. Ean could see her face behind the translucent Plexiglas helmet, looking around with interest—and no small amount of pain. Her deep blue gaze met Ean's, and she smiled, and half nodded.

Ean smiled back.

Craik finally said, “Air contains mix of oxygen, nitrogen, and xenon with lethal amounts of radon. If you take your suit off, you'll be dead in half an hour.”

“Suggestions, anyone?” Sale said. We're five able bodies, four prisoners, and two injured and one—”

“Liability,” Ean suggested. It was the literal truth.

Sale sighed. “I wouldn't call you a liability, Ean. We
wouldn't be here without you, and Princess Michelle would still be on the Gate Union ship. But you need protecting as much as Princess Michelle does.”

“Two go with Ean to the bridge,” Losan suggested. “The rest of us stay here to guard the ship and mind the sick.”

“Or take all of us,” Radko said. “We can use the stretchers. If Ean can vouch for us, the lines will protect us.”

“Lines protect us,” Jordan Rossi murmured. “You have a strange idea of how the lines work, sweetheart.”

Everyone ignored him.

“The lines will protect
me
,” Ean said. He knew that for certain; he wasn't sure about the others.

Their highest priority was to stop the Gate Union ships shooting at the
Lancastrian Princess
. He could see only two ways to do that. Find superior firepower on this ship and blast the Gate Union ships out of space, or take control of their lines and forcibly stop their firing. He preferred the second option, but how could he do it?

Michelle said, her voice weak, “I'd like to see the ship.”

“What about anything else on the ship?” Ean asked. “Aliens, for example.”

“You said days ago you think there's no one alive here,” Michelle reminded him.

“I did?” He was still certain of that, but to risk Michelle's life.

Michelle looked at Radko and Sale. “We can't come to the biggest find in centuries and not look around.”

“Okay.” And this time, Radko made the decision. “I'll go on the same stretcher as you. We strap Mr. Bureaucrat down on another, tie the pilot and them—she nodded at the two Rickenbackers—to it, and they push that stretcher. Do you need to sit, Ean?”

He hardly heard her. The only way he really controlled the other lines was when he was in the void with line eleven. Could he do something then? Or maybe he could somehow delink the two Gate Union ships. Then if Captain Helmo jumped—and he'd have a jump ready, surely—he'd lose the enemy. And if Gate Union started firing on the alien ship instead, this ship could take care of itself.

“Ean?” Radko touched his arm gently. She was never afraid to touch him even if it meant getting zapped. She should be.

“Um.”

Jordan Rossi was watching him with something approaching contempt. What must the other linesman think? A bumbling fool who couldn't even walk by himself. Once he'd been proud to call himself a ten. Now he was acting like he was the idiot half brother they were all ashamed of. And a little scared of, too. Worried he'd go berserk.

“I can walk.”

“Let's do it, people.” Sale handed out oxygen from the shuttle store, while Losan and two others set up the second stretcher and tied the prisoners to it.

Michelle reached out to pull Ean close enough that their helmets touched. “He's only a ten,” she said softly. “Not worth your worrying about.”

Rossi obviously heard the comment. He stood tall, sure of himself and his place, and raised a cynical eyebrow. But the observation somehow diminished him and made him suddenly ordinary. Ean smiled and gently patted the side of Michelle's Plexiglas. “Thanks.”

•   •   •

RADKO
checked Ean's oxygen. “When we get back to ship, he does basic space survival,” she told Michelle.

Michelle nodded.

“A linesman who works on ships regularly would already know that,” Rossi said, and the inference was obvious. Tens worked on ships because they had the higher lines. If Ean didn't know basic ship survival, he wasn't a real ten.

Even that didn't diminish Ean's peace.

“Comms.” Sale held out her hand with the comms Ean hadn't even realized he'd dropped.

“You could use the shuttle comms,” Jordan Rossi said.

Ean knew what Sale wanted. He took the portable comms and sang to alien ship line five. A song of communication and contact: a song to Abram.

The reply was instant. “Galenos.”

Ean handed the comms to Sale and kept singing.

“We've landed safely, sir. Atmosphere inside the ship is lethal within half an hour. We're 3.2 kilometers from our entry point, sunside. We're now off to find the ship controls.”