To Challenge Heaven, page 16
PUNS RELENTLESS,
SHONGARU PLANETARY ORBIT,
SHONG SYSTEM,
241.5 LY FROM EARTH,
MAY 4, YEAR 41 TE.
“Have you lost your fucking goddamned mind?!”
“Rob!” Sharon Dvorak half-snapped.
Her brother looked at her, his expression almost incredulous, and matching blue eyes glared back at him. He closed his mouth and inhaled deeply.
“Better.” She shook her head at him. “You know, after all these years, even a Marine—even a Space Marine—should be able to string together at least three consecutive sentences without an obscenity.”
Wilson looked more than a bit apoplectic. Clearly the language he’d chosen to use was, in his considered opinion, totally beside the point.
Sharon looked at him levelly for another handful of seconds, then swiveled those blue eyes to her husband.
She, her brother, Dvorak, Vlad, Buchevsky, Merahl BryMerThor, and Alex Jackson had the briefing room to themselves. Arguably, she shouldn’t have been there. Technically, Sharon Dvorak had no formally defined slot in the Shongair Expeditionary Force’s command structure.
Technically.
“Despite Rob’s language,” she said now, to the man who commanded the entire Expeditionary Force, “his question stands. Have you lost your fucking goddamned mind? Not even you could possibly consider something like this!”
“I’m afraid I can,” Dvorak told her, and there was something like a note of pleading in his voice. “I really can, Babe.”
“Dave.” Her voice was soft, her eyes dark, and he reached out to take her hand.
“It’s the symbolism,” he said. “The opportunity to nail this thing down, once and for all. The truth is, I can’t not do this.”
“The hell you can’t.” For the first time most of those present could recall, Rob Wilson spoke to his brother-in-law with more than a hint of genuine anger, and Dvorak’s eyes moved to his face. “I frigging well nearly lost you in the goddamned woods in North Carolina. Then you got your stupid ass the next best thing to blown to bits on Sarth. And now you wanna do this?! Damn it, Dave, I am sick and tired of picking you up with a brush and a dustpan and hauling your ass home on a shutter!”
“Hasn’t been a whole bunch of fun from my side, either,” Dvorak said with a crooked smile. “And I didn’t exactly plan on getting myself sent to the body shop those other times, you know. But you and Malachi lost too many of your people getting us to this point for me to not step up when it’s my turn. You know that, Rob.”
“Under their own damned code of honor you choose the place and the time. You can demand that Haymar come here, aboard Relentless, to make his submission, and it’s his duty, his honor responsibility, to do exactly that. Jukaris is completely clear on that point.” There was precious little give in Rob Wilson’s eyes. “There’d be plenty of ‘symbolism’ in that, too, and it’s exactly what his message just offered to do. It’s how he’s assuming it’ll work!”
“It is.” Dvorak nodded. “And that’s why I’m not going to do it. This isn’t just about Jukaris, Rob. Oh, it is about what we can demand from them under Shongair custom and law. Of course it is! But that’s really my point, and you know it. Because it’s even more about what happens after they submit, and it’s about how we accept that submission. And, to be honest, it’s more than time we injected a little human DNA into this submission mechanism of theirs.”
“I don’t—”
“Peace, Rob,” another voice said, and Wilson’s eyes snapped to the speaker.
Technically, that speaker had no more official place in the Shong Expedition’s command structure than Sharon Dvorak, but he was also Vlad Drakulya, Prince of Transylvania, the being—the man—who had defeated the Shongair invasion of Earth.
“I understand your fears, Rob,” he said gently. “And God knows I saw enough and more than enough treachery in my own life as a breather to understand the depths to which men—or, I suppose, aliens—can sink to stave off defeat. But I think Dave has read Shathyra Haymar correctly in this, and he is right that if we are not to deal with the Shongairi the way I would have chosen to deal with them, then anything that helps to bind the bleeding wound between us must be considered.”
He looked at Merahl, one eyebrow raised, and the Sarthian’s nasal flaps framed a deep, heartfelt sigh.
“I am … less than happy about this,” Dvorak’s sherhyna said. “And I can’t speak for these Shongairi; they’re no more my people than they are human. But if your xenologists have interpreted them correctly, then the Clan Ruler is right when he looks at the difference this could make. And if Shongairi were Sarthians—if they were Dvorakians—this would absolutely be the proper move to secure far more than their simple submission.”
Rob Wilson looked around the compartment at all of the other faces, then at his sister. The one person he knew could change Dave Dvorak’s mind. She looked back at him in silence for several seconds, and then her head bent. She looked down at the table, and Wilson’s shoulders drooped.
“So you’re really gonna do this?” he challenged his brother-in-law.
“I’m afraid I am.” Dvorak quirked a smile at him. “I know it pisses you off, Rob, but I really think it’s the way to go. The way we have to go.”
“We don’t have to do anything of the goddamned sort,” Wilson shot back, although there was at least a hint of his usual tartness in it this time.
“Okay.” Dvorak nodded. “Let me rephrase. This is the way we’re going to go. And, as always, it’ll be your job to scrape up the pieces as best you can if it turns out I’ve screwed up again. But the truth is, I really, truly don’t think I have.”
“No, and you didn’t think you had on Sarth, as I recall,” Wilson shot back.
“I remember something I read once,” Buchevsky said thoughtfully. “It was a naval officer’s fitness report, I think. And his superior said that the officer in question was ‘possessed of a superabundance of that quality which in myself I should call tenacity and maintenance of purpose, but which in his case I can describe only as pure bloody-minded obstinacy.’ I always thought that kinda suited you, Dave.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Dvorak replied, and even Wilson chuckled.
“I think perhaps we can set at least some of your concerns to rest, Rob,” Vlad said. “While I doubt from my review of the records of the expedition to Sarth that it would have made a great deal of difference to events in Dianzhyr, my reading of Jukaris suggests that there is no reason Dave should not be accompanied by his own retainers. Given his rank—and Haymar’s—I believe we could easily send a half dozen or so of those retainers with him.”
“Really?” Wilson looked more cheerful than he had in quite a while. “And just which half dozen would you happen to have in mind?”
“Actually, I was thinking of Stephen, Taki Bratianu, Longbow, Calvin, and Francisco.”
“That’s only five,” Wilson pointed out.
“Is it, indeed?” Vlad shook his head. “Forgive me, I was ever a poor mathematician. Perhaps I should accompany him, as well, then. Simply to make up the numbers, you understand.” Wilson snorted and Vlad smiled, but his eyes were serious.
“And while we could not prevent the Shongairi from blowing him up as the Qwernians did on Sarth,” he continued, “I rather suspect that the six of us would be ample to demonstrate the error of the Shongairi’s ways should they harbor any other last-minute designs of treachery.”
His smile grew broader, and his canines lengthened ever so slightly.
HIGH TEMPLE OF DAINTHAR,
CITY OF SHERIKAATH,
PLANET SHONGARU,
SHONG SYSTEM,
241.5 LY FROM EARTH,
MAY 6, YEAR 41 TE.
The temple was enormous.
Like the medieval cathedrals of Earth, its construction had been the work of lifetimes. That construction had begun almost two Shongair centuries ago, and even today, the temple remained a work in progress, ever growing and changing as generations of worshipers completed their irshika, the ceremonial pilgrimage to Dainthar’s Home on Shongaru. As part of the irshika, each pilgrim was required to leave the work of his own hands behind. That work could be large, or it could be small. It could be the work of one set of hands, or the combined work of many. But it had been ongoing for over two hundred and eighty Shongair years—almost seven hundred Earth Years—and so the temple was surrounded by landscaped gardens, ornamental trees, spectacular beds of flowers, statuary, and prayer shrines.
It was the highest and most holy spot on the surface of the planet. Indeed, in the hearts and minds of all Shongairi everywhere, and word that the aliens who had invaded their home star system had chosen this site, of all they might have selected, had spread across the planet like wildfire. Among their own people, they knew, it would have been a gesture of honor, a recognition of how valiantly their warriors had met the stern demands of Jukaris. But they were aliens, these humans. Who knew how they might view their demands?
It was also, Dave Dvorak thought, one of the most beautiful places he’d ever seen, and he pushed down a reflex surge of bitterness as he thought of the Vatican, the Temple Mount, the Dome of the Rock, the Taj Mahal, and a hundred other “beautiful places” a Shongair named Thikair had destroyed forever.
You’ve told everyone else it wasn’t these Shongairi, he reminded himself. Might be a good thing to remind yourself from time to time.
The air car which had unloaded from his Starlander at the Sherikaath Spaceport was far more stylish than the modified Airaavatha APCs the expedition to Sarth had used, nor was it escorted by a single Starhawk or even an armed drone. It was almost as heavily armored as an Airaavatha, however, and equipped with an even better electronic warfare suite … and a point defense system no one had tried very hard to disguise. All that armor and all those defensive capabilities couldn’t have prevented its destruction if the Shongair Empire had opted for treachery, of course, but that wasn’t really the point. Besides, Jukaris or no Jukaris, the Shongair were just as capable of producing lone lunatics as any other species.
Now that air car descended smoothly, silently, to the waiting landing pad just outside the temple’s precincts.
An enormous crowd—it looked like the entire population of Sherikaath, although it couldn’t really have been more than a couple of hundred thousand Shongairi—filled the vast Temple Square to capacity and beyond. Shongair troopers formed a cordon, holding them well clear of the landing pad, but the deep susurration of at least forty or fifty thousand murmuring conversations flowed through the cool morning air like some invisible sea.
The air car hatch opened, and all of those conversations ceased in an instant as Stephen Buchevsky, in the uniform of a United States Marine Corps master sergeant, led the way out of it. By now, every living Shongair must have seen imagery of the vengeance-seeking aliens who’d come to their star system, but this was the first time anyone in that enormous crowd had ever seen a human being with his or her own eyes.
Buchevsky looked around, brown eyes hard, probing with all of the enhanced senses of the “vampire” he’d become. He’d led the way for several reasons, not least the fact that the Shongairi had demonstrated no weapons that could kill a vampire. But that wasn’t the only consideration, by a long chalk, and he felt his dead wife and daughters at his back as he set foot on the soil of the world from which their murderers had come.
He stood a moment longer, then stepped to one side, and Calvin Meyers, also in the uniform of the U.S. Marines, Daniel Torino, in the uniform of the U.S. Air Force, and Francisco Lopez, in the uniform of the U.S. Army, joined him. There was a message in those uniforms, although Buchevsky doubted anyone in that crowd understood it.
Yet, at least.
They formed a short arc around the hatch as Dave Dvorak stepped through it in civilian dress. For this occasion, he was accompanied by two of his Sarthian sherhynas: Merahl and Brykira. They stood at his back, as fragile and killable as he himself, and he felt their calm presence behind him as Vlad Drakulya and Taki Bratianu joined them. Like Dvorak, Vlad and Bratianu wore civilian clothing, but the short sword at Bratianu’s side was just as functional as and—in a vampire’s hands—far more lethal than the Sarthians’ holstered pistols.
A single horn sounded. Not a trumpet, not a brass of any sort, but the voice of an ancient, gem-encrusted kyrmath horn. The kyrmath was the fiercest, although far from the largest, herbivore of Shongaru, with a personality that would have been right at home in a Cape buffalo. Indeed, it rather resembled the “caffer,” although it was about ten percent larger with a horn spread more reminiscent of a Texas Longhorn. For millennia, the taking of a kyrmath had been one of the traditional avenues by which a beta proved his right to challenge his pack lord for supremacy, and the kyrmath was a totem animal of Dainthar Himself.
The crowd parted, opening an avenue from the landing pad to the broad flight of shallow steps that led up to the temple portico. A priest of Dainthar, in elaborate ceremonial robes, stood on an outthrust balcony, holding the kyrmath horn (which was very nearly as long as he was tall), while another, even more elaborately garbed cleric, stood upon the temple steps themselves. He raised his hands in a gesture of blessing, and his amplified voice sounded clearly across the crowd.
“Let he who has proved himself hyrsara come forth to the house of the Great Hunter that all may know him.”
Dvorak drew a deep, hopefully unobtrusive, breath and started forward along that opened avenue, flanked by his protectors. The walk was no more than fifty meters, but it seemed far longer, and the sound of his own heels on the ornamented pavement was clearly audible in the utter stillness and silence echoing about him.
They reached the temple steps at last, though, and the cleric—the high priest of Dainthar, which made him the senior prelate of the entire Shongair people—held up one hand as he reached them.
“Who comes to the house of the Great Hunter?” he asked.
“My name is David Dvorak, son of Radomir and Alicia Dvorak,” Dvorak replied in a clear, strong voice, and his translator rendered it in flawless Shongair.
“And by what right do you come to this house, David Dvorak?” The high priest’s attempt to pronounce the human name was not a success, although it was obvious he’d practiced hard ahead of time.
“By right of Jukaris,” Dvorak said. “By pack lord right. By strength of arms.”
“And these things you have proven?”
“I have.”
The high priest looked at him for a moment, then lowered his raised hand and inclined his head.
“Then pass into the Great Hunter’s house, David Dvorak, and there take up that which is yours.”
A great sigh whispered its way across the crowded square as the cleric stepped aside and Dvorak—and his guardians—stepped past him into the vast, dimly lit beauty of the High Temple.
For all its size, it was very nearly empty. Only three Shongairi awaited them before the high altar. That altar was flanked by a life-sized, magnificently sculpted kyrmath, rearing in rampant challenge, faced by an equally magnificent sculpture of a lion-like urgaro. The urgaro—Shongaru’s most fearsome hunter (after the Shongairi, themselves)—bore a very strong resemblance to a six-hundred-kilo sabretooth tiger. With the kyrmath, the urgaro enshrined the duality of Dainthar’s nature as both Lord of the Hunt and Protector of the Prey, and Shathyra Haymar-dur-Tyru-zik-Shayma stood in the temple’s sanctuary, between those exquisitely rendered statues, flanked only by his father, Yudar-zik-Shayma, and System Commander Brath-dur-Jyrak-ir-Horal.
They watched as Dvorak followed the high priest down the long nave toward them. They stood with their heads and ears high, waiting, and Dvorak watched Haymar’s steady eyes.
The high priest halted just outside the sanctuary and looked at his Shathyra.
“One comes who claims right of hyrsara,” he said.
“I behold him.” Haymar’s tone was level, his eyes unflinching.
“Does one come who testifies that he has proved right of hyrsara?” the priest asked.
“I do,” Haymar replied. “I have seen that proof, written in blood and honor. As the Law requires, I bring with me witnesses who have beheld that proof at my side.”
“And do they testify to that proof, as well?”
“I do,” Yudar said.
“I do,” Brath echoed.
“And have you seen proof that honor has been met by these, who recognize your right of hyrsara, David Dvorak?” the high priest asked, turning to the human.
“I have seen that proof,” Dvorak said. That was all he was required to say, but he looked past the priest, holding Haymar’s gaze with his own, and continued steadily. “I have seen that proof … and more. I have seen the valor with which my people’s challenge was met. I have seen the blood of those who died, striving even in death to uphold the honor of their people. And I have seen the honor their courage, and their sacrifice, and the deaths of so many worthy foes, have paid to my people. I declare, before you and before Dainthar and before my own God, that no one could have more valiantly and gallantly contested the right as Jukaris demands. The fashion in which their champions upheld the honor of all the people of Shongaru upon the field of combat will be sung in the hymns of the Shongairi so long as the Shongair people exist.”
The high priest’s eyes widened, and despite his high office, despite his decades of service, his ears twitched ever so slightly. Yet that was the only betrayal he allowed of his astonishment, and he recovered himself quickly.
“And will you accept the submission of your tukarasi, David Dvorak?”
“I will.”
Haymar moved then, stepping to his left, taking a position under the kyrmath’s raised, rearing hoofs. He stood under the shadow of those hoofs, waiting, and Dvorak stepped into the sanctuary. He moved to his own left, until he stood before the urgaro. He was taller than any Shongair had ever dreamed of being, and the urgaro’s curved, dagger claws were level with his own ears as he faced Haymar.
And then the Shathyra of all Shongairi bent his head deeply, covering his eyes with his hands.
