Yvan Dragomilov - The Ghosts of Chebotar

Beneath a sky the color of wet iron, underlit by fearful flashes of lightning, a cold wind swept the moss-covered, somehow weary-looking contours of the Burial Plain of Chebotar, carrying with it the moisture that was not quite rainwater.

"Burial, in the place-name, referred to something that had lived here, eons in the past, so long ago that archaeologists, amateur or professional, were locked in constant conflict over whether some particular item which had just been found was artificial or a product of erosion. Whatever it was, this monumental enigma, it had not been remotely human. It had built, loved perhaps, fought (nothing would grow upon the Plain save moss, so altered was the soil by the radiation of war), and died, leaving artifacts so durable no tool known to the imperia-conglomerate would mar their seamless surfaces, so ancient that weather had softened their shapes into unrecognizability.

Waiting for his captain to return, Putin ran a hand over the opalescent monolith beside him. It thrust out of the tiny-leaved vegetation ten lines. The Chebotarean steersman of their litter had told him that this, and twenty-two identical objects within the radius of a verst, reached into the crust of Chebotar so deeply that their bases had never been found. It made Putin shudder. That something so unspeakably enormous, so inexpressibly old, could be reduced to an amorphous memento of its once-powerful maker filled him with terror. The wind lashed wet, straggling fingers across his face, mocking him. The big man shivered, not only at his unaccustomed exposure to the elemental forces of a planet's surface. He was thinking of his captain.

For the remainder of his life, Putin sensed, Yvan Dragomilov would divide eternity into halves: After Tris and Before. The first time took a man that way. Over the past days, the boy had never offered to share, not even with a friend and loyal lieutenant, his feelings upon discovering that she had taken the opportunity Yozhov-Zykin's visit to flee the Scopa, and (it was presumed that this accounted for his silence) his own presence.

Receiving his message from Mistress Petrovka, it was not for Genrich that Yvan Dragomilov had set sail. From the start, Putin was aware, the boy had realized his path would lead him homeward, sooner or later. Having accepted his captaincy, and again become master of his destiny, he had given the matter much thought, discussed it at length with the giant baker, even undertaken certain preparations against the day. Thus he had ordered Putin to lay an inward course, away from the enveloping cometary shell of which Lusin was an outpost, towards the outlaw sanctuary of the twinned planets Tzitzeron and Ovidu, where, rather than the liberty he (and his crew) had long wished for, he began at once selling valuables for hard currency, arranging bizarre purchases, persuading crewbeings that the enterprise they were about to undertake would be worth any minor sacrifice he asked them to make, and holding a succession of meetings with an odd assortment of individuals, not all of them human.

"And spending rather too much energy, I think." Putin had ventured into this solicitous if insubordinate opinion during their first orbits within the complicated influence of 2 planets, although it was only to his wives he had spoken (the captain having been left his first officer out of his planetside arrangements), not just of Yvan Dragomilov, but of a boy who had once been called Zakh. He had little time to spare for such concerns. Constant adjustments needed to maintain their position occupied his full attention. "I know the signs. He works himself to death as an alternative to thinking about life."

"Too much time, he says." Anna covered a bowl of dough that had not risen to her satisfaction. "Is he that anxious to be away from here?"

"That he is." Putin bent over a half-drunken glass of steaming caff he had meant to pour here and carry to the quarterback. "But not until he's done starting certain machinations. Before you ask, no: I don't know what they are. I don't even give a shit, frankly. He'll tell me when the time is right, and whatever he plans will work. That much I've learned of Yvan Dragomilov. The conversation I believe he'd most profit by, he won't have with me, nor anyone else."

The women had clucked and frowned over this sad but undeniable wisdom. Putin took his caffglass and his troubles to the quarterback. For a while he stood at the taffrail, gazing through the purge-field at the planets. As with Scopa, it was impossible to achieve a stable orbit around Tzitzeron or Ovidu. Where the icebound fragment possessed insufficient gravity, these boasted a surplus, deriving from two sources, overlapping to cross purposes. This precluded repulsorlifting, and constituted the system's final natural defense against invasion. Arriving ships assumed station at a liberation point, to be met by variations upon their own auxiliaries. Annihilator-powered, using water for reaction mass, these transferred cargo and passengers to the surfaces below.

Many operators vied for custom. It had been aboard one such vehicle that Yvan Dragomilov had condescended to take Putin upon what he explained would be his final errand before leaving Tzitzeron-Ovidu behind. A buffeting re-entry had tinged the leading edges of its stubby wings dull red, coming near to using up whatever courage Putin had taken with him to the excursion. That, and a horrific descent through a local thunderstorm, had consumed hours and had been nothing like the calm ride in a repulsorlift, with its rigid, purge-reinforced cabelle to absorb the vagaries and violence of planetary atmosphere.

"Wait for me, if you will," the boy had asked once they had set down in the empty, ruin-cluttered desert, "for I shall not be long."

Putin was glad of the outing, doubly glad it was to Chebotar, which did not remind him of the ordeals of his youth. He felt frustrated by his captain's reticence. What could he not be trusted to help with? What secret of Yvan Dragomilov's would he ever betray? As always, the boy was accompanied by a sleemov, over whose trailing end the first officer stumbled climbing from the glitter. "By the Premier's shorts---pardon my asking, sir, but what is this thing's name?"

He raised an eyebrow, glancing between his friends. "I fear neither of us could say it, as I should know who have given it my best. Clicks and whistles I gather even his own people find hard to pronounce."

"You don't say."

"That's the point. He rather fancies adopting a human name."

"And what might that be, sir?"

Yvan Dragomilov grinned. "Moissey."

The Burial Plain had been an obvious place for a rendezvous. Before too many minutes had seen them huddled against huge artificial stones which seemed to suck the warmth from their bodies even more efficiently than wind and rain, another small craft, of obvious alien design vague with distance and the weather, swooped out of the overcast and settled upon the mossy ground without disgorging passengers. It was at this point that Putin had been asked to wait. Boy and alien made their way towards the other machine, the former stooping beneath its backswept wing, and limned by its golden inner glow, climbed into its belly. Even a hundred lines away, t through the whistle and spatter of the weather, Putin could hear metal and plastic ticking as both vehicles cooled.

Time passed. After what seemed a long wait until Putin glanced at his timepiece and learned better, Yvan Dragomilov emerged with his sleemov companion, lingering to converse with something that resembled another animated bathing towel. Soon, enveloped, as it seemed to Putin, in a glowing mist trailing off into evaporating tendrils---from reflex, Putin raised one of his quickblades in a gesture protective of his captain, realizing, as he did, how silly it was---the boy and flatznik strode and flowed respectively across the damp moss towards the monolith. Putin had no idea what the light-filled fog was--had been, for it had now vanished. Yvan Dragomilov waved from several measures away.

"I am quite unharmed. What you saw was no more than the residue of a harmless and beneficial virus. Don't be afraid, good comrade."

Putin disobeyed him. "A virus, sir?"

"Indeed, what we achieved centuries ago with rare metals and wafers of silicon---the ulsic---the sleemov undertook with microorganisms. It is their greatest accomplishment, more compact and portable than our contrivances. The virus replicates themselves, saving the need of manufacture."

"To what purpose, if I may ask, sir?"

"To what purposes do we put the ulsic? They can work cumulatively, combining their minute capabilities, or parallel, creating great calculatory engines, say for navigation. They can enfile and relay messages or be used directly over a limited distance. This is the means by which the sleemov saved my life, having infected me whilst I was feeding them because they liked me!"

Putin shook his head, the idea of infecting one's friends with a virus being somewhat scandalizing, whatever its purpose. By now the boy walked beside him, sleemov following, as they approached the waiting glitter.

"One reason we are here is simply to catch up with the latest virus-borne gossip. I am afraid that must serve you for an explanation. All will be made clear in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, wake up our steersman, for we are free to depart, not just from this funereal planet, but the system it belongs to."

"To Genrich, sir?"

"To Genrich, sir. May whatever gods still linger in a universe long ago grown weary of them have mercy upon my enemies, for surely I will not!"249Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX5ljpsVs6j
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When Scopa crossed the vague margin of Tzitzeron-Ovidu's cometary halo and stretched her figurative wings on the empty reaches of the Deep, the weather proved no better than upon the Burial Plain. A neutrino storm was brewing, and, if Putin was any judge, it would be rare and ferocious, a hard test of the mettle of both starship and crew. It seemed to Putin the captain was grateful for an excuse to take charge, to issue orders in a harsh shout beginning to betray traces of his full-grown voice, to steer with his own hands the tiller-ball on the quarterback, even to fling himself aloft with topmen to reef starsail and inspect rigging for worn cabelle which could spell death for them all, did the screaming hurricane of particles to which purge-permeated mesh was not selectively transparent seize on them in its mighty rage.

At present, Putin rolled the tiller under his own broad palm. Two-thirds of a verst above the arm-slanted maindeck, Yvan Dragomilov trod a footcabelle and clung to the outer tip of the dorsal foreyard, supporting himself by his armpits, edging towards a broken cleat upon which the dorsal forestaysail had snagged, cursing like the crewbeings behind him the need to do so, yet, within him, exulting in the fact that he possessed such strength and courage, as well as the frequent chance of testing it.

Already the fringes of the storm lay hard upon them. Forward of the staysail, the margin lashed and billowed under the seething assault, throwing off globes of coruscation wherever its energies doubled over upon themselves. The starship heaved and pitched, her entire fabric shuddering in endless, only partially successful adjustment to the asymmetric stresses. The great mast of the Scopa dipped and swayed in a titanic figure eight. The yards swung with an odd complex rhythm all their own, thrashing against the standing rigging straining to hold them, carrying the crewbeings clutching at them in swooping, stomach-wrenching ellipses as they struggled for sanity and survival.

As he fought to clear and reef his portion of the twisted starsail, Yvan Dragomilov kept a part of his attention on the purge-field chasing itself about the ship in an orgy of swirling colors. Mor significant, he thought, lay in the pattern than could be accounted for by the storm, and he was quite right. As he bent the gaskets into place about the folded mesh and began edging inboard towards the comparative stability of the forecrotch, he heard a voice, pitiful and piping against the screaming storm's energy. He could not quite make out the words, but hearing them was enough to confirm his judgment. Scopa's course was being intersected by another starship!

He shouted against the storm, which seemed to muster strength with every second, ordering his topmen to the mast, but reversed himself until he clung again to the outer extremity of the yard. Seizing a shroud running parallel to a great diagonal staysail which spanned the gulf between dorsal foreyard and maintier, he leaped from the yard, mindful of the now unstable purge-field margin, and, twining the shroud about one leg, let it pass through his hands. He fell swiftly aft to the outboard end of the starboard mainyard. A similar route took him to the crotch of the mizzentier, where he climbed the more conventional ratlines to Putin's side on the quarterback. Shielding his eyes against blasts of light, he peered aloft, shouting at the giant struggling with the tillerball. "Where away, Mr. Putin?"

The man shook his shaggy head, never taking his eyes from the pinnacle, stooping as he watched to shout into the captain's ear. "No telling, sir! Nor or what she is! Dammit, there's enough trouble on our hands as it is!"

Staggering against a sudden lurch of the deck, Yvan Dragomilov nodded exaggeratedly so that Putin could see it in his peripheral vision. "I would be pleased to hear you call General Quarters, Mr. Putin." Putin's head turned against his will. He stared at the boy, open-mouthed. "If you will."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Pskov, call General Quarters!"

Throughout the already embattled starship, alarms struggled against the overwhelming noise of the storm as crewbeings, looking about at each other in shocked disbelief, appeared at their pointed stations. Ordering those in charge on the several gundecks, mostly his canny strozad projectors, to blade when they found something to blade at, Yvan Dragomilov determined to stay on the quarterback, requesting Mr. Putin to stay beside him. Both allowed themselves preparatory glances at their personal quickblades and at once returned their attention to the management of the Scopa.

Nor were they a moment too soon. The desperado reeled under another kind of onslaught as the impact of projectibles was felt everywhere throughout her. Rigging, mast and spars, held through the pounding. They had been stripped and reinforced before the storm. It was soon apparent from the pattern and direction of the kinergic thrusts that Scopa had more than one pursuer.

"Four would be my guess, sir, unless it's fewer ships better projectibled. It appears they chose to spring their trap a mite earlier than we thought they would."

Yvan Dragomilov shook his head, wearing of the need to shout each word. "We have it yet to arrive at the trap, Mr. Putin. Someone jumped the gun, likeliest that Red October two-decker. By the Premier's bright blue balls, we shall make that slutspawn Yozhov-Zykin pay the price of impatience!"

The Desperado's many projectibles began speaking for themselves, following his standing order to anticipate, when possible, the enemy thrusting and meet his energy with theirs, so that the annihilation might do greater damage than kinergic power alone. This time, they were only partly successful, although the unseen enemy's rhythm became disturbed and erratic and his rate seemed to fall off. Being a hundred versts aft of the Scopa, they were only starting to appreciate the full intensity of the weather. A runner, unable to push his small voice past the double fury of neutrino storm and combat, tugged diffidently at the captain's tunic. Yvan Dragomilov turned. Being scarcely more than a boy himself, and slight of stature into the bargain, he did not have to bend far to place the boy's mouth at his ear.

"C-compliments of the liftdeck chief projector, sir. We've got damage to the lift and stern chasers. Two functional, one out of commission altogether."

"What of the crewbeings?"

"17 dead, sir, as I was sent forward, wounded as yet uncounted. Chief's a replacement, sir. Belousov, the assistant cook."

Yvan Draogmilov set his mouth in a grim line. The pursuers imitated his use of heavy bow chasers, hanging aft of Scopa where he might not bring as many projectibles to bear. As he opened his mouth to reply, she lurched in a manner telling him she had taken another deadly blow.

"Very good, Mr. Balabanov. Compliments to Mr. Belousov. If he lives, he may consider himself warranted. Inform him and the other chief projectors upon your way aft that they will have targets soon enough. Now get your ass below!"

The boy stepped back and saluted. His captain could only see him mouth his next words. "Yes, sir."

Yvan Dragomilov turned to Putin who had spared half an eye for the previous conversation. "Alert all hands aloft, Mr. Putin. I want the starboard forestaysail loosed, also the port mizzensail, after which they will have to look to the lives. We shall veer and wallow and, if lucky, end up full aback. But we shall get in some thrusting as our main projectibles bear! I shall summon the watch officer myself to assemble a boarding party."

Putin grinned. "Yes, you want her figurehead among his mainyards?"

Yvan Dragomilov nodded. "Pick us a good fight, Putin, to the Premier with the tariff. Choose the biggest of our foe. Let her run full upon us. And mind, as she murders us, that you ruin her for life!"

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The Ghosts of Chebotar

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