He had listened, and he remembered every word. But he had not understood. He had known only a growing, impatient desire to have one of those sleek little ships for his own.
* * * *
Now Velmeran understood only too well. He had been content as a mere pilot. Now he was pack leader. With that came the responsibility for eight lives beyond his own, the greater responsibility to defend his ship, and the fear of failure in those duties. He dared not fail. With that also came the relentless need to know that he was doing the right thing whenever he led his pack into battle, that there really was some justification for the death and destruction, the lives that were risked and sometimes lost; and above all else he needed to know, for his own satisfaction, that he was not just a machine made for war, with no life or will of his own.
He had no answers to any of those questions, but still he took his pack out and fought. Perhaps that in itself was answer enough, but he did not yet have the experience to understand what it meant.
Velmeran paused when he saw his reflection in the black monitor screen that dominated the upper part of the fighter's console. The Starwolves, the Kelvessan, were a race apart, vaguely human in appearance but not derived from human stock. They were small in size, disproportionately long of limb with powerful arms and legs that looked to have been matched to a body several sizes too small. Far more than just an extra set of arms and unnatural strength separated Kelvessan from men.
Indeed, as he peered at his reflection, he thought that he could never pass as human. His eyes, outsized for good light sensitivity, were more than twice as large as they should have been. His ears, equally outsized and set farther back on his head, had been tapered to a delicate point for purely aesthetic reasons. He also thought that his nose was about half the size it should have been, and his mouth was too wide. And he had always been told that a Starwolf's shaggy mop of brown hair, remarkably thick and soft, was natural padding against helmet and collar.
Other, more extensive refinements were not visible. His bones were not calcium but precipitates of iron, and quite as hard as iron bars of equal thickness. His cartilage and tendons could withstand tons of stress and his nervoussystem was electrical rather than electrochemical, allowing reflexes that were thousands of times faster than those of humans. His strength was tremendous, to allow him to not just withstand but function under forces that would kill an ordinary man. He was a machine, the living control center for an equally remarkable starship.
But was there also a person within that carefully engineered machine? He certainly was not human. He accepted that. But if not human, then what was he? He was a Kelvessa, a Starwolf. His only hope was that those simple words described something more than just a fighting machine.
The Vinthra military complex was by far the largest free-orbiting station in the Rane Sector, an immense, imposing structure that sprawled across several kilometers of space. Over a thousand ships, from tiny couriers to the vast, threatening hulks of battleships and heavy carriers, could be docked and serviced there, while another fifty could slip into its airdocks for extensive repairs. Between the firepower of the ships stationed there and the shields and cannons of the planetary defense system, not even a Starwolf carrier could approach this world in open hostility. For this was Vinthra, and Vannkarn, its port, housed the government and military command for this entire sector.
A single ship moved swiftly toward the station, braking gently with its forward engines. Its lines were those of a Union destroyer, sleek and powerful, with a slender hexagonal hull and armor plates concealing its drives. Now it was the private yacht of the High Councilor of the Rane Sector, a fact that was proven as other, sometimes larger ships moved quietly out of its way. Its path was centered upon a single portion of that vast station, a set of moorings near the shuttle bays set aside for diplomatic vessels.
A single figure stood at the window of the carpeted and paneled corridor that adjoined those mooring berths.
He was a tall man, at two meters a giant by modern standards, lean and well-muscled. Although no longer young, he was far from being old. Indeed he was well thought of as handsome in a rugged way that was now rare in his diminished race. And yet there was a sense of darkness about him, a ruthless, mercenary quality reflected in the hard, measuring glare of his black eyes. His physical presence was far more threatening than his rank, so that those who crossed that section of corridor passed through quietly.
A muted vibration ran through that portion of the station as the incoming ship nudged cautiously into its moorings. Attendants assembled quickly but quietly to service that ship as soon as its one, infinitely important passenger was discharged. A last metallic clang announced the opening of the ship, and a moment later the inner doors of the airlock rolled back. A pair of guards with rifles stepped out to take positions to either side, followed a moment later by an older man pursued by the automated carrier that bore his luggage. He was a tall man as well, not as tall as the Sector Commander — even allowing for his slightly bent back — but still far taller than anyone else within sight. And like the Sector Commander, he was clearly of older, purer Terran stock, his features rougher and more clearly defined than the norm. But there the resemblance ended. He wore no uniform but rich if subtle civilian dress, with an unruly mane of long white hair and deep blue eyes that were alert and held a glint of skeptical humor, as if he was amused with his own pretensions.
"Hello, Don!" he exclaimed when he saw the one who awaited him. "How nice of you to come all this way up here to meet me."
"Richart couldn't make it," Commander Trace said tightly, but with no regret. "But how did it go?"
"Well enough. But not here," the Councilor said, with a subtle gesture for him to remain silent.
Donalt Trace nodded in agreement. "I understand. I have a shuttle waiting."
"Your ship?" Councilor Lake asked. He knew that Trace would have flown himself in a launch borrowed from the pool. If so, there was little chance that anyone would overhear, accidentally or otherwise, what they had to discuss.
"I had one called up for servicing this morning — and then I chose another at random," he explained as they started toward the shuttle bay.
The Councilor laughed. "Don, you are the suspicious type!"
"I learned from you, Uncle Jon," Commander Trace replied.
The shuttle was indeed a small one, hardly large enough to seat six. An in-system fighter would not have been much smaller. Donalt Trace slipped the tiny shuttle out of the bay and shifted easily into their designated path of descent. Since the military station was on the opposite side of Vinthra from the port, they had to make a fairly quick descent in only half an orbit. That added somewhat to the roughness of the ride, since they would be braking most of the way down. But Councilor Lake had anticipated this, and two glasses of his favorite wine beforehand helped smooth the bumps somewhat.
"Well, they bought it," Lake said, leaning back in a seat that was too small.
Commander Trace made a derisive sound. "They bought it, after the problem became so bad that it could no longer be ignored. Then they accept your theories and plans? All of it?"
"Nearly all of it," Lake replied, grinning. "They certainly bought more of it than I thought they would. You will get your weapons, Don. Even the big, expensive one. And I get my plan of genetic population control. The only thing we don't get is a Union Fleet Commander. A High Council of Sector Commanders, yes. But the sectors are by no means ready to give up their old political and military autonomy. We will cooperate for the good of all, but we live or die by our own efforts."
"But that was the most important part!" Trace protested. "We cannot fight the Starwolves separately. They have a unified command…"
"We assume."
"Jon, you know they do. They will fight together, when there is need. They just seldom have to, since a single carrier can take on anything an entire sector can throw at it."
"And there are more carriers in the Wolf Fleet than we have sectors," the Councilor added. "Obviously we cannot fight them, one on one or all together, not the way we have been going about it. We have to find new ways to fight them. That's why I consider that a small loss. You have only one carrier to worry about, and her name is Methryn. You find a way to destroy her, and then we can go after the rest."
Which was much easier said than done, Councilor Lake reflected. And just the beginning of his own problems. The human race was dying, or at least degenerating to the point that it could no longer care for itself. The genetic message that made a human was deteriorating; random, detrimental mutations were not only occurring at an alarming rate but were being passed into the common genetic pool. There was no determining the exact cause, although the Councilor preferred to believe that mankind had been too long removed from the laws of natural selection that had guided its evolution.
People were smaller than they had been in the first days of space flight, slighter of build and gentler of mood and feature. Unfortunately, people were also less intelligent than they had been, less able to reason and remember. Mental deficiency and imbalance claimed a fourth of the population, and another fourth was genetically sterile. It was a problem that had been a very long time coming, but it had finally become so bad that the High Council could no longer ignore it. For in another thousand years the machinery of the Union, of huthan civilization itself, would grind to a halt for want of maintenance. That might seem like a very long time, but for a problem fifty thousand years in the making, it was already too late.
Still, Councilor Lake wanted to save what he could. And if stern measures were taken now, a large part of the Union could be saved. The only solution was to enforce the sterilization of large segments of the population, intervening where nature had failed. The general population would not take such controls lightly. The military would be needed to enforce order, especially on those worlds that bore little love or loyalty for the Union from the start. And for that, the problem that the Starwolves represented would have to be eliminated. Or at least reduced to a thanageable level.
That was Donalt Trace's responsibility as Comthander of the Sector Fleet. Never before had the Union been able to fight the Starwolves effectively. They had technology that the Union did not and now would never have, ships that were faster and pilots that were better. The Union's only advantage lay in its seemingly inexhaustible resources, its ability to replace ships, supplies and personnel as fast as they were lost. But the old resources were disappearing, and new ways had to be found to fight and win.
It was up to Donalt Trace to find those answers. He had been selected for that task at an early age. Every aspect of his training, all of his education in strategy and military concepts, had been selected and guided by the elder Lake, just as the Councilor had selected and trained his grandson Richart to be his replacement. But there was that element in Trace that was unpredictable, a blind, self-righteous confidence in his own abilities and his hatred for his enemy. Councilor Lake was aware that his weapon was flawed, but he had no choice. The fact remained that if Don could not do this, no one could.
"Then everything is ready here?" Lake asked, roused from his reflections when the shuttle began to buck as it slipped into the upper air.
"The trap is laid," Trace assured him. "I don't give this old ploy a chance of working, but it will put the Starwolves off their guard."
Valthyrra Methryn found her prey after five hours of waiting. It was, as she had anticipated, a medium bulk freighter. Bulk freighters were about as big as they came and generally ships of the inner lanes, while smaller ships of three hundred meters or less ran the fringe. The packs caught one of the largest bulk freighters, wallowing monsters of nearly six hundred meters, perhaps once a year.
This was a bulk freighter of just over five hundred meters, and just the right size for a pack of students. Designed to move heavy cargoes inexpensively, she was too underpowered to ship a full load, and too slow and barely thaneuverable under ordinary speeds. The difficult part of this task was that the pack was not trying to destroy the ship but disable it with a minimum of damage, and without touching the holds at all, so that her cargo and most of her parts could be salvaged. Bringing down a freighter intact required some very delicate shooting.
Velmeran was in a more hopeful mood once he knew what they would be hunting. But as always, it seemed, his timing was bad to the end; the call had caught him when he had just removed his armor. He was still securing the suit as the lift carried him down to the bay while a fright deck crewmember, already in her white armor trimmed in black, assisted him. He was still setting the controls when the lift door snapped open.
The others were already at their ships, either in their cockpits or waiting nearby as crewmembers made final adjustments. Vayelryn was already in her ship, strapped in and helmeted; he hoped that her eagerness would be reflected in her flying. She was the slowest, shakiest pilot of the lot; he had moved her to the far right of the pack formation in the hope that she would not run into anyone if she rode on the outside.
The twins Ferryn and Tregloran comprised the middle part of the pack's right wing; Velmeran kept them together, since they seemed to work best that way. They were his best pilots, perhaps because they had more ambition than the rest. But Tregloran was also his greatest embarrassment; in the last month he had once landed gear-up, although with no damage to his tough little ship, and he had been the one who had ripped open the hold of that first freighter. His problem was that he was entirely too eager. Ferryn's problem was that she spent too much time watching out for her brother, and not enough watching her own business.
Of the rest Velmeran had few worries. Merkollyn and the other two girls, tall Gyllan and tiny Steena, would make good, reliable pilots. Delvon would also be a good pilot once he lost his fear that he would lose control in a tight turn.
Velmeran found Tregloran and Ferryn between their ships, either conspiring or consoling each other. They looked up guiltily when they saw him watching them, and all but shook inside their shells when he started in their direction. Velmeran put on his charm, hoping that he radiated mature affection and concern as befitted their teacher and pack leader. It was a difficult task, considering that he was only five years older than they.
"Treg, you run in first and go after her star drive," he said. "Ferryn, I want you be ready to go in second. You can have four turns each."
"Us, Captain?" Tregloran asked. "Is this punishment for last time?"
"This is what you are here to learn," Velmeran insisted. "Take your time and set up your shots carefully — I am sure you can do it. Consider it practice, for you are under no stress to bring this ship down. Although the one who does take her gets first choice of anything on board… within reason."
"Fair enough!" Tregloran exclaimed, as if that was all the encouragement he needed to fly like a hundred-year veteran. Velmeran sent the younger pilots to their ships and then hurried to his own. But at the last moment he discovered the seeds of another plan, a way to solve his remaining problem, and paused at Keth's fighter.
The older pilot was already in his cockpit, arguing With his attending crewmember about the condition of some system on board his ship. He saw Velmeran and waved the frustrated crewmember away.
"I was just thinking that you and I should hold back," Velmeran called up to him. "I am giving this one to the twins for practice. Valthyrra says that this is a big, slow ship, so they should have no problem. They need the confidence as much as the practice."