He watched the hatch close behind the last of his staff before he turned to Hinam with a wry expression.

 

 

"I gather my battle plan fills you with less than total enthusiasm, Holiness?"

 

 

"It does not fulfill the Synod's bidding, Second Admiral," Hinam said frostily. "The Prophet will not be pleased."

 

 

"And do you think / am pleased?" Jahanak asked more acidly. "Holiness, I am but mortal, as is my staff. Indeed, even the Synod and the Prophet are mortal. and fallible." Hinam swelled with indignation, and Jahanak smiled thinly. "Recall, Holiness,' he said softly, "that even my holy grandsire met occasional failure in Holy Terra's service.

 

 

Hinam's mouth closed with a snap, and Jahanak hid a grin. His kinship to the First Prophet wasn't a card he dared play often, but when he did, it was with effect.

 

 

"As mere mortals, Holiness Hinam," he went on calmly, "we can but offer Holy Terra our best. You saw my staffs initial reactions. They served First Admiral Lantu - as I, myself, have - and they've learned to expect victory in Holy Terra's cause. They don't understand what happened, but they can't believe - or won't, perhaps - that it was Lantu's fault, nor do I know that I blame them. / wouldn't have believed he would retreat from the Satan-Khan himself, yet he withdrew. And, Holiness, anything we may do for the jihad begins from that point. and depends upon those officers. I must enjoy their support, and I won't win it by casting aspersions upon the officer they believe saved their Fleet for Holy Terra's further service."

 

 

"I. can see that," Hinam said unwillingly. "Yet to take it upon yourself to alter the Synod's strategy is - "

 

 

"Is one of the functions of a flag officer, Holiness," Jahanak interrupted as he sensed victory. "I don't challenge the Synod's essential strategy, but they cannot be as well aware of the severity of the situation as we who directly confront it. Had Lantu done his duty and secured Redwing, thus breaking The Line decisively," Jahanak felt a brief twinge at his own words but continued smoothly, "then I could do mine by continuing the advance. As it is, I dare not expose our battle-line to the infidels' fighters. Too many ofour ships are out of action to confront fighters and fortresses until we have carriers of our own. I'm sorry, Holiness, but my sorrow can't change facts. I must gain my officers' trust, renew their courage and faith in Holy Terra, and build my own strength before I once more challenge The Line. The Synod," he finished gently, "will thank neither of us if we compound Lantu'sfailure by a more serious one of our own."

 

 

The fleet chaplain sat silent, staring down as he turned his ring of office on his finger. Jahanak leaned back, waiting patiently. Given his birth, he'd seen more of senior churchmen than most officers, and he felt confident of Hinam's final reaction.

 

 

"Very well," the chaplain sighed at last. "I don't like it, and the Synod will be displeased, but perhaps you're right. I will support you in this, Second Admiral." He raised his head and tried to put a glint of steel into his gaze. "For now."

 

 

"Thank you, Fleet Chaplain," Jahanak said gratefully. and carefully kept the laughing triumph from his own yellow eyes.

 

 

Ivan Antonov tried again.

 

 

"You see," he began as he poured another round for himself and Kthaara, "your race's unity came after a series of wars that almost destroyed it. Whole nations and cultures vanished, and those that were left were smashed down to bedrock. So when one group finally established control over what was left of your home planet, it was able to remake the entire race in its image. Culturally, the slate had been wiped clean." He paused, saw that Kthaara understood the expression, then resumed.

 

 

"So all Orions today share a common language and culture. We got off lightly by comparison. Our Great Eastern War was destructive enough, but not on the scale of your Unification Wars - there was no wholesale use of strategic nuclear weapons, and we avoided biological warfare entirely. So our cultural diversity survived our political unification, and today we still cling to what's left of it. Some of us," he added, raising his glass, "more than others. Za vashe zdorovye!"

 

 

"T'chaaigarna," Kthaara responded, and tossed off his vodka. Alcohol affected the two species in the same way, and both had surrounded its use with traditions, including the according of special prestige to imports. Since the Alliance, the Orion upper classes had acquired a fondness for bourbon. At least, Antonov thought, he'd managed to cure Kthaara of that.

 

 

"I think, perhaps, you overstate the consequences of the Unification Wars somewhat," the Orion said, claws combing his whiskers thoughtfully. "Unlike Old Terra, we had enjoyed a single world-state within our own recorded history, long before we ever discovered the scientific method. Yet it is true our cultures were far more diverse before their differences were overwhelmed by the survival imperatives which followed the Wars."

 

 

"Precisely," Antonov replied, leaning over the table. "But that didn't happen to humans."

 

 

"Yes," Kthaara said slowly, "and it explains much we find incomprehensible about you - and not just the idea that an advanced, united race can have so many different kinds of personal names! My people have always looked at your pluralism and seen chaos, but now much becomes understandable - including your notorious inventiveness." His tooth-hidden smile reminded Antonov anew that the Orion face (like humanity's, and unlike Terran cats') had evolved as a tool of self-expression.

 

 

"That has always been hard for us to understand. Naturally, we could never accept the idea that you were simply more intelligent, nor was there any scientific evidence for such a notion. My sire, Komazh'zarthan, had a theory, which I see now was correct - though he used to get into terrible arguments with my grandsire, the first Lord Talphon! He believed your secret was your unimaginable diversity. What a constant creative tension it must generate! And what an incredible range of options it must open to each individual: a banquet of novel perspectives and modes of thought!" He -sighed, an almost startlingly human-like sound. "Thus it must have been on Old Valkha once, before the Unification Wars. We have lost much."

 

 

They were both silent for a space, gazing out the transparent view port in Antonov's quarters, one of the privileges of rank the admiral most treasured. Kthaara had become a frequent visitor here during his and the admiral's off-duty hours. Socially, his position was ambiguous: still officially a mere commander in an ill-defined staff position, but with the "permanent rank" of small claw of the khan (approximately a commodore) and more and more Antonov's de facto fighter commander. Anyway, Antonov liked him.

 

 

The communicator chimed, and Captain Tsuchevsky's face appeared in the screen as Antonov keyed acceptance.

 

 

"Admiral, the debriefs from our latest QR-107 raid are complete. They seem to confirm what we've seen the last few weeks. The Thebans aren't seriously opposing entry by small groups of raiders, now that we ve demonstrated we have enough battleships to clear the warp point of any defense they seem inclined to mount just now. At the same time, we've encountered enough opposition deeper in to make it appear the enemy could fight a major fleet action if we force one by entering the system in strength. I'll download the full report later."

 

 

Kthaara leaned forward into a near-crouch, mobile ears twitching in a way Antonov had come to recognize. "So, Admiral, they are willing to continue this war of raids and counter-raids, gaining experience in anti-fighter operations and thinking we lack the strength to seek a full-scale fleet engagement." The ears flattened. "So perhaps now is the time to force such an engagement! We could brush aside the light forces on their side of the warn point and transit our new fleet carriers before they realized what was happening!" Beneath all of Kthaara's sophistication lay an elemental Orion, Antonov reflected. When a large-scale decisive battle beckoned, the philosophical detachment which had recognized the need to defer use of the SBMHAWKs went by the boards, a feeble thing to set against the instincts of all Orion history and prehistory.

 

 

"No," the admiral said slowly. "The new Theban commander - and I'm convinced they have a new one - is trying to gauge our strength. We'll let him think we don't have enough of the big carriers to risk a pitched battle yet. For now, we'll continue our probes and raids as planned." He smiled at the disappointment which confronted him. "Remember what you've told me of the lessons of the Wars of Shame, Kthaara'zarthan!"

 

 

Kthaara relaxed, seeming to deflate a bit.

 

 

"You are correct, of course, Ivaaan'aantaahnaav," he said with the same surprisingly expressive smile as before, and reached for his vodka glass once more.

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Stewards of Holy Terra

 

 

"Your presence honors us, First Admiral."

 

 

Colonel Fraymak's respect actually seemed genuine, Lantu thought. Perhaps it was. Despite his disgrace, the Ministry of Truth had labeled his last campaign a resounding triumph, though it hadn't occurred to him the Church might lie to its own warriors. He toyed with the notion of telling Fraymak the truth, then pushed the thought aside. It would only undercut his own authority, and he disliked his own strange, base temptation to shake the colonel's faith.

 

 

"Thank you, Colonel," he said, "but our work is cut out for us. Have you caught up with the terrorists who killed Archbishop Tanuk?

 

 

"Ah, no, First Admiral." Fraymak looked out the window of Lantu's new and luxurious - very luxurious - office, and frowned. "In fact," he continued unhappily, "I don't expect to, sir."

 

 

"No?' Lantu rocked back in his chair and stroked his cranial carapace. It took a certain courage to make that sort of admission to a superior who'd been on-planet barely three hours. "Why not, Colonel?"

 

 

"Sir," the colonel focused his eyes above Lantu's head like a first-year cadet, "I have one reinforced infantry brigade, supported by one light armored regiment and two vertol battalions. That's not enough to garrison the re-education camps and organize reaction teams on a planetary scale."

 

 

"Why should you have to garrison the camps?" Lantu asked in some surprise. "They're the responsibility of the Inquisition and Wardens."

 

 

`The archbishop. requested" - Lantu noted Fray-mak's careful phrasing - "that I assist the Wardens, sir." His suddenly lowered eyes met Lantu's. "That was right after the New Selkirk inmates massacred the Warden guard force and escaped en masse."

 

 

"I see." Lantu stroked his carapace even more thoughtfully. No one had reported that little fiasco to Thebes. "So basically we're just chasing around behind the infidels after they hit us?"

 

 

"Unfortunately, that's a fair way to put it, sir."

 

 

"How many terrorist groups are we talking about, Colonel?"

 

 

"We're not certain. None of the New Hebridans still awaiting re-education ever see anything, of course, but our best estimate is between seven and fifteen major groups. There are at least three here on Aberdeen, two on Scotia, and one each on Hibernia and New Gael. So far, there are none on the islands, but even with confiscated transport, I can't move troops around quickly enough to cover all four continents."

 

 

Lantu ran the tip of a letter-opener over the map on his desk, hiding a wince at the contour lines of the continental interiors. No wonder the colonel had problems. "And they hit targets near the mountains, then pop back into them and laugh at you, right?"

 

 

"Yes, sir." Fraymak made no effort to hide his relief at Lantu's understanding tone, but he shifted uncomfortably for a moment before he continued. "And, sir, with all due respect to the archbishop and Father Shamar, I don't really believe we should consider them'terrorists.'"

 

 

"No?"

 

 

"No, sir. They hit mainly military targets, sir, and they've got excellent tactics. They're short on heavy weapons, but that actually lets them move faster and through rougher terrain. By now, about half their weapons are captured equipment. Every time I stick a squad or a platoon out on its own to cover the Wardens, I might as well be handing that many weapons over to them," he ended bitterly.

 

 

"I understand, Colonel, but we're here to support the Church, not vice-versa." The colonel nodded, and Lantu dropped his letter-opener. "Have we considered moving our installations out of reach from the mountains?"

 

 

"We can't, sir. The continental coastal strips are barely two hundred kilometers wide and heavily forested, and these trees are incredible; a mature `banner oak' stands over ninety meters, with foliage too dense for thermal scan penetration. The guerrillas don't have any heavy equipment, so there aren't any electronic emissions and magnetic detectors are virtually useless. Small parties just filter through the trees, link-up, hit their targets, then disappear again. It's like trying to spot fish in muddy water, sir."

 

 

Lantu understood the colonel's frustrated professionalism perfectly. The late archbishop had scattered his troopers in penny-packets, and the terrorists - guerrillas, he corrected himself, mindful of the colonel's point - held the initiative. All Fraymak could do was react after he was hit.

 

 

"I assume they have bases. Can't we even locate them?"

 

 

"Warden Colonel Huark raised that same point, sir," Fraymak said tonelessly. "The answer is no. These mountains are riddled with caves and deep valleys. Without more scan sats, I can't even cover the valleys adequately, much less spot them through thirty or forty meters of rock."

 

 

"Colonel Huark raised the point?" Lantu was surprised. The Warden colonel hadn't impressed him when he greeted his shuttle.

 

 

"Yes, sir," Fraymak said even more tonelessly. "I believe he intended to call in nuclear strikes on them."

 

 

Now that / can believe. It's just the sort of idiocy a Warden would come up with. I'm surprised he hasn't suggested a saturation bombardment of the entire continental interior! Lantu started to say as much, then stopped. It would only be another attempt to shake Fray-male'sfaith. Besides, the colonel's expression made him half-afraid Huark had suggested just that.

 

 

"I think," he said instead, ` that we have the resources - properly used - to kill this fly with a slightly smaller sledgehammer, Colonel."

 

 

"Yes, sir!' The colonel's profound relief made Lantu smile.

 

 

"All right. I think we'll begin by informing Colonel Huark that camp security is his responsibility. Pull in your men and organize battalion-sized reaction forces, then work out a deployment grid that gives us optimum response time to all our own installations."

 

 

`Yes, sir." The colonel paused, manifestly struggling with himself, then took the plunge. "Uh, sir, while I agree whole-heartedly with your orders, I think I should point out that we're going to get hit hard, at least initially."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"The Wardens aren't - well, they aren't very good at security, sir, and the guerrillas really hate them. Especially the extermination squads."

 

 

"The what squads?" Lantu asked very quietly, and Fraymak swallowed.

 

 

"The extermination squads, sir. They're special units."

 

 

"So I gather. But what, exactly, do they do, Colonel?"

 

 

"They re in charge of reprisals, sir,' Fraymak said uncomfortably.

 

 

"Reprisals.' The single word came out with glacial coldness.

 

 

"Yes, sir. Counter-reprisals, really." Lantu crooked his fingers, inviting the colonel to continue. "The guerrillas make a point of hitting installations near the camps with the highest execution totals. They. don't leave much behind when they do. So Warden Colonel Huark and Father Shamar organized the extermination squads. Whenever we get hit, they pick out hostages or a village that hasn't been brought in for re-education yet and they, well, they exterminate them, sir."

 

 

Lantu closed his eyes, and his own words about supporting the Church were bitter on his tongue. How could something like that serve Holy Terra? He sat very still for a moment before he opened his eyes. "Well, Colonel Fraymak, you're under my orders, not Colonel Huark's, and we'll do this my way. Adjust your deployment to cover dependent and civilian housing, but the extermination squads are just going to nave to look after themselves."

 

 

"Yes, sir." The colonel's gaze met his with grim satisfaction before he executed a snappy salute and withdrew.

 

 

Lantu watched the door close and shook his head. Extermination squads. Sweet Terra, no wonder this planet was a shambles!

 

 

Not until much later did he realize Fraymak hadn't used the word "infidel" once.

 

 

"First Admiral?"

 

 

Lantu looked up at his secretary's soft, sweet voice and smiled. Hanat was tall for a Theban woman, her head reaching almost chest-high on him, and he'd instantly recognized who really kept things moving around here. She was a curious blend of the efficient and the traditional, managing somehow to handle everything that crossed her desk without ever overstepping the bounds which would set an old-fashioned male's teeth on edge.

 

 

"Yes, Hanat?"

 

 

"You were due in the fleet chaplain's office ten minutes ago."

 

 

"What?" Lantu looked at his chronometer and grimaced. "Damn. Excuse me," he apologized automatically, and she laughed softly. "Fortunately, I've known him a long time - I doubt he'll have me shot just yet." He stood and took down his pistol belt, buckling it distastefully. He shouldn't have to walk around armed inside the HQ compound.

 

 

"Don't forget your meeting with Colonel Huark at fourteen-thirty, either," Hanat admonished.

 

 

"As if I could." Lantu didn't bother to conceal his opinion of the Warden. "Did you get those figures to the fleet chaplain?"

 

 

"Yes, sir," she said with revulsion. That was why he didn't hide his contempt for Huark from her. "You were right. They're twelve percent over Archbishop Tanuk's execution ceiling."

 

 

"Terra!" Lantu muttered. "Well, I'll read them when I get back. Copy the data to my computer while I'm out."

 

 

"Of course." She reached out to adjust his pistol belt's buckle. "There. Can't have my boss looking sloppy."

 

 

Lantu grinned at her and walked out of the office, humming.

 

 

"Sit down," Manak invited, and the admiral dropped into a chair. His pistol caught on its arm, and he muttered a curse as he wrestled with it.

 

 

"Language, my son. Language!" Manak's gentle mockery made Lantu feel better. The old chaplain had been monosyllabic and despondent for days after their conviction by the Synod. Even now there was little of the old sparkle in his eyes, and Lantu sometimes thought he sensed a disquieting brittleness about his inner strength. Lantu had been a baby when his parents died, and the fleet chaplain had raised him as his own son. Seeing him so cavalierly reduced was one more coal in the admiral's smoldering resentment.

 

 

"Sorry," he said, then sighed in relief as the pistol came unsnagged. "Holy Terra, I hate having to wear this thing."

 

 

"As do I." Manak frowned and looked around what had been Archbishop Tanuk's office. Its splendid luxury had yielded to the fleet chaplain's spartan hand, and Lantu found its present austerity far more comfortable.

 

 

"I've received word from the Synod," Manak continued. "They've decided - for the present, at least - to confirm me as acting archbishop." He snorted. "I imagine none of the regular bishops wanted the job."

 

 

"Wise of them." Lantu was careful to limit the bite in his tone.

 

 

"Unhappily true. But that means 7 set policy now, and that's what I wanted to see you about. Colonel Huark and Father Shamar have both protested your new deployment orders."

 

 

`I'm not surprised, Holiness, but if they want to stop these attacks instead of just responding to them, then - "

 

 

"Peace, my son. I know you too well to question your judgment. unlike some others." The fleet chaplain's face was momentarily bitter, but he shook the expression aside. "I've told them you have my full support. In return, I'm going to need yours, I think."

 

 

"Oh? In what way, Holiness?"

 

 

"I've read the report your charming secretary put together." Manak smiled slyly, and Lantu grinned - Manak had badgered him for years about his duty to take a wife as Holy Terra expected - but the churchman sobered quickly.

 

 

"You're right. The execution totals are far too high, even excluding reprisals. If your figures are as accurate as I expect, we've killed almost thirteen percent of the population. That is not the way to win converts."

 

 

Lantu nodded feelingly.

 

 

"What you may not realize," Manak went on, "is that our conversion rate - our claimed conversion rate, I should say - is under five percent. I find that truly appalling. Surely infidels should be willing to at least pretend conversion to escape death."

 

 

"They're stubborn people, Holiness," Lantu said mildly.

 

 

"Indeed they are, but this is still highly disturbing."

 

 

"I suspect, Holiness," Lantu said cautiously, "that the Inquisition has been. over zealous, let us say, in its use of punishment."

 

 

"Torture, you mean," Manak corrected bitterly, and Lantu relaxed. That sounded like the Manak he knew and respected. "One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, perhaps, especially not of martyrs in the cause of Holy Terra, but Tanuk never could tefl right from left without an instruction book."

 

 

"I never knew the archbishop - "

 

 

"You missed very little, my son. His faith was strong, but he was ever intolerant. It's one thing to carry the jihad home against the infidels; it's quite another to slaughter them out of frustration, and that's precisely what the Inquisition is doing. If they prove impossible to reclaim, then we may have no option, but the Inquisition will win more converts with love than with hate. And whatever they may have become, they are still of the race of the Messenger. If only for the love we bear him, we must make a true effort to restore them to their Faith."

 

 

"I agree, Holiness. But I think our problem may be more difficult than simply restoring their Faith."

 

 

"Oh?"

 

 

"Holiness," Lantu considered his next words carefully, "I've been studying the planetary data base ever since we got here. There are many references to Holy Terra, but only as another world - the mother world, to be sure, but with no awareness of Her divinity. Could the infidels be telling the truth when they say they never heard of the Faith, much less rejected it?"

 

 

"Of course they are.' Manak sounded a bit surprised. "I thought you understood that, my son. The Satan-Khan's influence is pervasive. All references to the Faith have been suppressed."

 

 

"But, Holiness," Lantu said cautiously, "I see no gaps, no evasions. Could something so profound be suppressed so tracelessly?"

 

 

"Lantu, this planet was settled nine years after their apostate Treaty of Tycho. Believe me, it wouldn't be difficult to delete all reference to the Faith from a colonial data base and keep it deleted. When we liberate Holy Terra, we'll find the evidence."

 

 

He sounded so positive Lantu merely nodded, but the admiral found his very assurance disturbing. The Church had always been zealous to protect its children from spiritual contamination, which was why access to the original Holy Writ in Starwalker's computers was so restricted. But Manak's confidence suggested something else. Was it possible he knew how simple it would be to suppress data because it had already -?

 

 

He chopped off that dangerous thought in a hurry.

 

 

"Getting back to my original point, though," Manak continued, "I'm going to disband the extermination squads - which Huark will hate - and I'm going to cut Archbishop Tanuk's camp execution levels in half. Sha-mar will hate that, and he'll hate it even more when I send in chaplain inspectors to limit his use of torture and make sure ne abides by my quotas. They've both got powerful sponsors in the Synod, too; thats why I need your support."

 

 

"You have it, of course. What do you need me to do?"

 

 

"Just stand around and look efficient," Manak said dryly. "I'm basing my case on military expediency by arguing that a reduction in `punishment' and the death totals will undermine popular pressure to support the terrorists."

 

 

"I see." Lantu fingered his muzzle. "It should have that effect, to some extent, at least. But it won't end it, Holiness."

 

 

"I know, but if I can justify it militarily long enough to raise the conversion rate, I won't need to justify it on any other grounds."

 

 

"I see," Lantu repeated, nodding with renewed respect. "And if I should just happen to score a few successes in the field -?"

 

 

"Exactly, my son," Manak said, and smiled.

 

 

"Jaysus!" Angus MacRory threw himself flat as yet another vertol swept overhead. A cluster of armored GEVs snorted through the underbrush like a herd of near-hippos barely a klick down-slope, and he heard the putter of infantry bikes following the paths the GEVs had flattened.

 

 

"My sentiments exactly," Caitrin muttered, and raised herself cautiously, peering uphill. "I think the rally point's still clear."

 

 

"Aye, and let's hope it stays clear." Angus drew the AP clip from his grenade launcher and replaced it with one of shaped-charge HEAT grenades. They had enough punch to deal with a lightly-armored GEV. assuming they got past the reactive armor's explosive strips first.

 

 

The thick smoke billowing through the canopy of distant treetops on the lower slopes had been a Shellhead extermination center, and Angus hoped the hostages they'd released had made a clean getaway. The guerrillas' civilian supporters were waiting to spirit them out to isolated farmsteads beyond the OZ, and they should be safe there. If they ever got there.

 

 

The speea of the Shellhead reaction had been almost as astounding as its strength. There must be at least two companies out there, and they'd dropped out of the sky before he and his people had gotten more than fifteen kilometers from the site of the raid. Fortunately, the Grampians thrust a stony tentacle close to the coast here, but -

 

 

He looked up as a rocket motor snarled and a captured Shellhead SAM raced for a lumbering personnel vertol. Its proximity fuse exploded close to the port engine, and the aircraft lurched away, trailing smoke. Angus smiled grimly. They weren't going to find any handy clearings to set that beastie down in.

 

 

His smile vanished as a heavily-armored attack helicopter darted at the SAM team's position. A ripple salvo leapt from its rocket pods, followed by a hurricane of tracers. Then the chopper flashed over the spot, and the orange glare of napalm belched through the shattered trees.

 

 

Unless that team had been very, very lucky, it was dead. These new, powerful response teams were going to make things ugly.

 

 

"Weel, let's gae,' he sighed, waving for Caitrin to proceed him while he lay still to cover her. She darted to their next chosen bit of cover, and he rose, jogging quietly past her.

 

 

It nad to be the new Shellhead military type. The one called Lantu. The Shellhead com techs had finally begun to develop an awareness of basic security - probably another gift from this Lantu - but the resistance was still picking up enough to identify its new foe.

 

 

It might, Angus mused as he flopped down behind a fallen tree and waited'for Caitrin to lope past him, be worthwhile to see if they couldn't find a way to send him to join Archbishop Tanuk.

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Blood of Warriors

 

 

The surge of the electromagnetic catapult, the queasi-ness of departure from the snip's artificial gravity, the indescribable twisting sensation of passage through the drive field, the instant of disorientation as "up' and "down" lost all meaning in the illimitable void of space (lacking even the reassuring reference point of a sun in this segment of nothingness men had labeled "QR-107"), the familiar grip of the fighter's drive as it assumed control of acceleration and inertia - all were behind him now. Kthaara'zarthan stretched out as far as the confines of the Human-designed fighter's cockpit allowed, then relaxed, muscle by muscle, and heaved a long sigh of contentment.

 

 

The Humans had modified the cockpit of this fighter to accommodate him and link with his Orion-designed life support suit months before. He had taken her on practice runs in Redwing until she responded like an extension of his own body, with a smoothness of control that could hardly have been bettered by that "direct neural interfacing" of which the Khan's researchers (and, he had been amused to discover, the Humans', as well) had blathered for centuries without ever quite overcoming those irritating little drawbacks which would kill a pilot outside the safe confines of a laboratory. Especially in the stress of battle.

 

 

He snorted into his helmet - a very Human sound of amused disgust that ended in a high-pitched sound no Human could have manufactured. He would believe in neural interfacing when one of those droshokol mizoa-haarlesh who preached its virtues were willing to risk their own pelts flying it in combat. Which, he reflected, nudging his controls with sensual pleasure, was not to say he would welcome it, for it was difficult to believe anything could equal the sheer delight of holding his fleet little vessel's very soul between his claws. Yet not even this pleasure could substitute for personal combat against his cousin's killers. Even the Humans - some of them, at least - could understand that.

 

 

Humans. Kthaara gave the clicking sound equivalent of a man's rueful headshake. Who could understand them? He had seen them in battle, and he would have words for the next cub of his clan who called them cho-faki. Yes, and more than words, if more was required. But the fact remained that there was no understanding them, with their wildly inconsistent ethics and their seemingly limitless capacity for self-deception. Howard Anderson had once quoted to him from a Human philosopher: "We have met the enemy, and he is us." A great philosopher indeed, Kthaara had acknowledged. Truly, Humans were a race forever at war with themselves - at once the source of their unique vitality and the price they paid for it. The Theeerlikou'valkhannaieee, knowing precisely who and what they were, could see the universe precisely as it was; their follies resulted from inability to subordinate their innermost nature to some bloodless balancing of advantage and disadvantage, and not from the strange tendency of most Humans to painstakingly construct an unreal universe and base their actions thereon. Not all Humans - certainly not Ivan Antonov.

 

 

There was, of course, another barrier to empathy with Humans which no well-bred Orion would ever dream of revealing to them. Besides, Kthaara was a cosmopolite; he had long since learned to overcome the physical revulsion any normal mind must feel in the presence of such a species. But it was hard. It would have been better if they were completely hairless; their spotty, patchy growth made them look diseased. It was fortunate they had the decency to keep their bodies covered with fabric. most of the time.

 

 

He had learned that since their industrial revolution they had abandoned their nudity taboos. Well, most of them had, at any rate, he amended, marveling anew at the multiplicity of utterly incompatible value systems Humanity embraced. It was maddening. Each time he thought he had brought a definitive idea of what Humans believed within claws' reach, he discovered yet another level of disagreement within their complex melange of cultures. He still couldn't imagine how they kept track of it, much less how any rational species could be expected to do so. And those who had discarded the traditional religious view of the naked human body as an obscene sight were actually proud of themselves. Kthaara couldn't imagine why.

 

 

Yet the faces were the worst, flat, without the slightest trace of a muzzle, with eyes and mouth surrounded by bare and unmistakably wet-looking skin. The males, in obedience to the dictates of current fashion, made it even worse by shaving what facial hair they did possess in an odd and perverse throwback to primitive self-mutilation.

 

 

But give them their due: though they might not be aware of their own ugliness, they at least recognized the handsomeness of the Orions - which must, he reflected, be intrinsically obvious to any truly sensitive mind! He had, however, been taken aback to learn that the Human reaction to his own species was due in part to a pleasing and comforting resemblance to a Terran domestic animal!

 

 

He shook loose from the thoughts as he maneuvered his fighter into place in the strike formation. Excessive concern with appearances was an adolescent characteristic few Orions completely outgrew until old age. But it, too, could be overcome. He reflected on the insignificance of the physical body that housed an Ivan Antonov, and thought back to the staff conference that had led to his presence here.

 

 

"No, Admiral Berenson," Antonov had said implacably. "This has been discussed before. Our probes have established that the ingress warp point is covered by light craft, supported by nothing heavier than battle-cruisers. The SBMHAWKs must not be used until we reach a warp point defended by heavy units."

 

 

"With great respect, Admiral," the commander of Second Fleet's light carriers replied, not sounding particularly respectful, "we have to fight our way through QR-107 before we can even reach such a warp point! And I cannot answer for the ability of my units to contribute much to that end after the losses they're bound to take in forcing the warp point under the present plan." He drew a deep breath. `Sir, I believe an unused weapon is a useless weapon. As you've so rightly pointed out, we know exactly what ship classes are waiting on the other side of the warp point. This makes the situation ideal for SBMHAWK deployment; they can be programmed with precision."

 

 

Antonov scowled. He could count on solid support from his own staff on this - Tsuchevsky had come around to Kthaara's way of thinking. But Berenson, a relatively recent arrival who possessed a solid reputation as a fighter pilot and commander of fighter pilots, remained unconvinced.

 

 

"Our battle plan has been formulated with an eye to minimizing losses to your light carriers, Admiral," Antonov replied in his very best effort at a conciliatory tone of voice. "Of course, the fighters can expect a certain percentage of casualties, but our assessment is that these should be within acceptable levels - "

 

 

"`Acceptable levels,' Admiral?" Berenson cut in, shocking even his own supporters in the room. (Nobody interrupted Ivan the Terrible.) He glanced at Kthaara, who was known to have been one of the plan's principal authors, then back to Antonov. "Perhaps, sir, what we need here is a human definition of `acceptability'!"

 

 

"Yob" tvoyu mat'!" Antonov exploded, with a volume that seemed to cause the entire orbital fortress to vibrate. Even Berenson flinched visibly. "Who the fuck ever told you this was safe occupation? It is objective that matters. We - all of us - are expendable. Your pilots understand that even if you don't, you motherless turd!" He paused, then continued in a mere roar. "I have broken bigger men for less cowardice than yours, Admiral! For cowardice in face of enemy, I swear I will have anyone - whatever his rank - shot! If you feel you cannot carry out plan as it stands, it is your duty to so inform me, so I can replace you with someone who can. Do I make myself

 

 

Ci"

 

 

clearr

 

 

"Perfectly clear, Admiral." Berenson's face was paler by a couple of shades, but he hadn't gone into a state of shock like almost everyone else in the room. "Your orders will, of course, be carried out to the letter."

 

 

"Good." Antonov rose. "This meeting is adjourned. Captain Tsuchevsky and Commander Kthaara, please accompany me to my quarters."

 

 

Once the three of them were in the elevator, Antonov sighed deeply, knowing what was coming next.

 

 

"You're going to have a stroke one of these days, Ivan Nikolayevich," Tsuchevsky scolded sternly, and Antonov held up his hand wearily.

 

 

"I know, I know, Pasha. I promise I'll stop losing my temper." He glanced at Kthaara, who was looking ill at ease, and smiled faintly. "What, nothing about your request?!"

 

 

The Orion relaxed slightly. "This is hardly the time, Admiral. I find I owe you an apology." Antonov raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Kthaara explained bleakly. "I now understand what you meant at our first meeting when you spoke of the problems I would cause you."

 

 

"Oh, that!" Antonov gave a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort, "Don't give it another thought. You see, Berenson was talking about me as much as he was about you."

 

 

"I know there are those among your officers who feel you understand my race all too well - better than a Human has any right to," the Orion replied slowly. "They may have a point." A sudden carnivore's grin signaled the mercurial mood-shift the two humans had come to know so well. "So perhaps it is time to renew my request!"

 

 

A low moan escaped Antonov.

 

 

"Kthaara, you can't really be serious," Tsuchevsky put in. "You know better than most what a problem command-and-control poses in strikefighter operations, even under the best circumstances! And you know you can't take your talker along in a single-seat vehicle!"

 

 

"Command-and-control is not a factor, Paaavaaaal Saairgaaiaavychhh," replied Kthaara (who'd been around these two long enough to grasp the nuances of modes of address), "for I seelc to command no one. It will be enough if I am assigned to a squadron whose commander understands the Tongue of Tongues, so that I will be able to report to him.'

 

 

Antonov gazed narrowly at the being who stood before him like Nemesis, overhead lights gleaming on midnight fur. "Do I understand, then, that you're requesting to take part in the coming battle as a common fighter pilot? And do you understand how much more good you could do - how much more damage you could do the The-bans - on the flag bridge?" He drew a deep breath. "Kthaara, as much as I'd hate to see you do it, I must tell you you could go home to Valkha right now and know you'd avenged your cousin many times over by what you've already contributed. You don't need to do this!"

 

 

"Yes, I do, Admiral." Kthaara's reply was quiet, but the elemental predator looked out of his slit-pupilled eyes. "You know I do. I have only planned and organized the killing of Thebans by others. No amount of this can meet the demands of honor. Ever. This may be unreasonable. but honor itself is unreasonable.'

 

 

A couple of heartbeats of brooding silence passed before Antonov spoke, with the kind of gruffness that told Kthaara he'd won. "Well, if you must play the fool, I believe Commander Takashima understands Orion well enough."

 

 

The emergence of the first wave of Pegasus-class light carriers from warp told the Theban defenders of QR-107 another raid was underway. The second group, and the third, made them wonder. They'd expected any major infidel incursion to be led by battleships. But Ivan Antonov was still hoarding his battleships.

 

 

At any rate, Admiral Tharana, CO of the light covering forces and fifteen floran-class battle-cruisers that supported them, knew his duty. He reported the attack to Beet command, five-and-a-quarter light-hours away near QR-107's other warp point. Then, while his messages winged across the endless light-minutes, his units converged on the invading carriers, which were their primary targets. Their new anti-fighter training told them fighters with their bases destroyed were only temporary threats, but Antonov also knew that. On his orders, the light carriers now performed an old trick - one that was an Orion favorite and, in particular, of Kthaara'zarthan.

 

 

The reactionless drive didn't really cancel inertia, and Berenson's carriers couldn't instantaneously reverse direction without loss of velocity like those "flying saucers" Terrans had been wont to observe during the decades of endemic mass hysteria preceding the Second Millennium. But they could (and did, immediately after launching their fighters) make a far tighter 180-degree turn than would have been imaginable in the days of reaction drives, and vanished back into the warp point, leaving the fighters to slash into badly bewildered Theban formations. Back in Redwing space, they swung about again, paired off with Sctrmtor-class battle-cruisers, ana returned to the carnage of QR-107 in time to retrieve and rearm their fighters.

 

 

It was the kind of complex tactical plan which ordinarily invites disaster by requiring a degree of precision which cannot be counted upon in the field. It worked because it was conceived in the cross-fertilization of two winning - but very different - traditions, practiced to exhaustion under the lash of Ivan Antonov'swill, and executed by David Berenson, whose abilities were such that Antonov had to tolerate him. The Thebans were thrown onto the defensive against an enemy whose strength grew steadily as more and more ships emerged. By the time Admiral Tharana finally exercised the discretion the communications lag had forced Second Admiral Jahanak to grant him, it was almost too late.

 

 

The battered Theban survivors withdrew from the vicinity of the warp point, and as they did, it became harder and harder to render accurate reports of the number and tonnages of the arriving infidel ships. But it wasn't until his rampaging fighter squadrons had driven them out of scanner range altogether that Antonov allowed certain ships to disappear.

 

 

Electronic countermeasures had always been a crucial element of space combat, in which the unaided human eye was largely useless. Early-generation ECM suites had operated purely in fire-confusion mode; their only function was to make the ships that carried them more difficult targets, for the massive energy signature of an active drive field was simply impossible to hide. Later systems could play more sophisticated games with enemy sensors and make a ship seem, within limits, to be significantly more or less massive, but no one had ever been able to devise a way of concealing from today's broad-spectrum active and passive sensor arrays the fact that something was out there. Until now.

 

 

The new system was hideously expensive, and too massive for small ships, but its capabilities were on a par with its cost and tonnage penalty. It could perform all the functions of the earlier-generation systems and more for any ship which mounted it. Sophisticated computers wrapped a force field bubble about the betraying energy signature of its drive field - a very unusual bubble which trapped the energy that turned a starship into a brilliant beacon and radiated it directly astern, away from hostile scanners. Other, equally sophisticated computers monitored the strengths and frequencies of active enemy sensors, playing a fantastically complex matching game with their frequency shifts and sending back cunningly augmented impulses to blind their probing eyes. For the first time since humanity had abandoned primitive radar, true "stealth" technology had become feasible once more.

 

 

It wasn't infallible, of course. Though passive sensors were useless against it, active sensors had been found to be able to penetrate the ruse between fifteen and twenty percent 01 the time. But active scanners were far, far shorter-ranged, and that success rate had been achieved in tests whose participants had known exactly what they were looking for. Against an enemy who didn't even suspect the device's existence.

 

 

Thus it was that Antonov's eight Wolfhound-class fleet carriers ceased masquerading as light cruisers. They vanished from the ken of detection instruments and split off from the emerging Terran formation, advancing deep into the void of QR-107 on a wide dog-leg, unaccompanied by their usual escorts and protected only by the invisibility conferred by a new and untried system.

 

 

Second Admiral Jahanak's thumb caressed the switch on his light pencil in an unconscious nervous gesture as he waited. Tharana had waited overlong to break off, he thought sourly. But sufficient light units remained to maintain a scanner watch over the advancing infidel fleet while Tharana's surviving battle-cruisers fellback on the main body at maximum. Now Jahanak watched Captain Yurah listening intently to the voices in his earphone and possessed his soul as patiently as he could.

 

 

"Second Admiral. Holiness." The flag captain paused to nod politely to both of his superiors and Jahanak managed not to snap at him. "Admiral Tharana's reports indicate this is a major attack. His units have been pushed back to extreme scanner range, but he estimates the enemy's strength at approximately six superdreadnoughts, twelve battleships, nine battle-cruisers, and twelve to fourteen light and heavy cruisers. They appear to be accompanied by eighteen to twenty destroyers and eight to ten of their cruiser-size carriers. They are advancing directly towards us at five percent of light-speed. ETA is approximately ninety-three hours from now."

 

 

`Thank you, Captain." The switch on Jahanak's light pencil clicked under his stroking thumb, and he switched it quickly off again, then slipped it into his pocket. It would never do, he thought sardonically, to admit he, too, could feel anxiety.

 

 

"Well, Holiness," he turned his command chair to face Hinam, "it seems the infidels are finally seeking a decisive battle. The question is whether or not we grant it to them."

 

 

Hinam leaned forward, looking alarmed. "Surely, Second Admiral, there can be no question! The infidels are so inferior in both numbers and tonnage that not even the diabolical weapons their satanically-inspired cunning has allowed them to develop can."

 

 

Jahanak tuned it out, maintaining a careful pose of grave attention, and thought hard. Yes, they were obviously counting on their fighters and those incredible new warheads to make up the force differential. But how many fighters could they have? The reports from the fighter-development project back on Thebes gave him a fair idea how much carrier tonnage it required to service and launch each fighter. The approaching fleet included only cruiser-size "light carriers" such as had been encountered at Redwing, and not many more of them than had been engaged there. Was the enemy's supply of fighters - or pilots - subject to some unsuspected limiting factor?

 

 

It seemed unlikely from captured infidel data, but there clearly couldn'tbe enough fighters aboard that handful of carriers to even the odds between the two fleets. Especially not here, where there could be no ambush and the infidel fighters would have to approach from ahead, through the entire range of his AFHAWKs. Of course, the enemy's antimatter warheads would be a problem, but the infidels couldn't know his Prophet-class battleships and the refitted Roran-class battle-cruisers he'd held back from the warp point now carried copies of their own long-range missiles - as did the external racks of all his other capital ships, as well. If their previous tactics held good, they would close to just beyond standard missile range in order to maximize accuracy, allowing him to get in the first heavy blows, and once they closed to laser range -

 

 

Yet the infidel who'd commanded at Redwing was manifestly no fool. Still, one didn't have to be a fool to fall victim to overconfidence.

 

 

He realized Hinam had stopped for breath, allowing Yurah to resume. "Only one thing bothers me," the flag captain frowned. "There seems to be a discrepancy between the ship counts reported during the earlier stages of the battle and the ones we're getting now. A few light cruisers seem to be missing from that formation."

 

 

"The earlier reports were confused and contradictory," Hinam declared dismissively. Which, Jahanak knew, was true. "And the infidels could now be using ECM in deception mode to confuse us." He turned to Jahanak, eyes bright. "This is your hour, Admiral! Don't spum the chance Holy Terra has offered - seize it!" His gleaming eyes narrowed shrewdly. "The Synod will hardly complain about minor past deviations from policy on the part of the hero who smashes the main infidel fleet!"

 

 

Jahanak hid an incipient frown. Little as he liked Hinam, the fleet chaplain's last point had struck home. A decisive victory would vindicate his strategy, demonstrating that he'd been right and the Synod wrong. (Oh, of course he wouldn't put it that way. But everyone would know.) He lifted his head and spoke urbanely.

 

 

"As always, Holiness, I am guided by your wisdom in all things. Captain Yurah, the battle-line and all supporting elements will engage the enemy as per Operational Plan Delta-Two."

 

 

"At once, Second Admiral!" Yurah's eyes blazed, and Jahanak smiled, remembering the hostility of their first meeting. The flag captain's eagerness augured well.

 

 

The second admiral leaned back, watching his display as the fleet moved forward. Forward, but not too far forward. They'd had time to consider, to plan for all contingencies that might arise in QR-107, and now the Sword of Holy Terra unsheathed itself with practiced smoothness.

 

 

Eleven superdreadnoughts, fourteen battleships, and thirty battle-cruisers took up their positions, screened ahead and on the flanks by massed cruiser flotillas and destroyer squadrons. Even if those carriers had lost no fighters at all in breaking into QR-107 (and they had lost, Jahanak thought coldly), they wouldn't be enough to even those odds. Not against snips who knew, now, what fighters could do. and what to do about them, in turn.

 

 

Yet it wouldn't do to become overly confident himself. That was why he'd selected Delta-Two, which wouldn't take his battle-line overly far from the Parsifal warp point. If the infidels were foolish enough to come to him, he would oblige them by crushing them, but his fleet represented too much of Terra's Sword to risk lightly.

 

 

The two fleets swept closer and closer, and the phantom carriers swung wide around the ponderous Tneban formation, circling until they entered its wake, cutting between it and the Parsifal warp point. They had plenty of time to position themselves before the two battle-lines drew into capital missile range. And just as the opening salvos were oeing exchanged, two hundred ana forty fighters, piloted by two hundred and thirty-nine humans and Kthaara'zarthan, entered the Theban battle-line's blind zone from nowhere.

 

 

Kthaara felt an almost dreamy sense of fulfillment as his squadron charged up the stern of the Theban super-dreadnought. The massive vessel, warned by frantic reports from its screening units, began an emergency turn - slow and incredibly clumsy compared to a fighter. and too late. Far too late. His fighter shuddered, slicing through the curdled space of the huge ship's wake, closing to a shorter range than he'd ever thought possible. His entire being, focused on his targeting scope, willed his heavy, short-ranged close-attack missiles through the wavering distortion of this unreal-seeming space as the 509th Fighter Squadron fired.

 

 

Neither he nor his Human farshatok could miss at this range - electromagnetic shielding and drive field alike died in a searing cluster of nuclear flares, and the stern of the mammoth ship seemed to bulge outward, splitting open in fissures of nellfire, as a warhead Kthaara was certain was one of his made the direct physical hit no mobile structure could withstand. No human who heard it would ever forget his banshee howl of vengeance.

 

 

"Let's keep the noise down," Commander Takashima called as they pulled up with a maneuverability possible only to craft such as theirs. There was no reproach in his voice - his understanding of the Tongue of Tongues, and those who spoke it, had turned out to be far less superficial than Antonov had implied. "Good job, everyone. Let's get back to the barn and - "

 

 

Takashima's voice died in a burst of static as the glare of his exploding fighter almost overloaded their view ports' automatic polarization. It faded, revealing the Theban light cruiser that had, by who knew what fanatical efforts, managed to swing about and come within AFHAWK range on a converging course that would soon bring it close enough to use its point defense lasers, as well.

 

 

"Evasive action!" The voice in Kthaara's helmet phones was that of the squadron ops officer, a painfully young lieutenant. (But ne also understood tine Tongue of Tongues, Kthaara had a split second to reflect; yes, perhaps Antonov's choice of a squadron to attach him to hadn't been so casual after all.) "Back to the ship - fast!"

 

 

"A course for the ship will carry us directly through the Theban's optimum AFHAWK envelope, Lieutenant Paapaas," Kthaara said without having time to reflect. "We can turn about and outrun him, but such a course will take us further from the carrier than we can afford to get." Let's see. how to put this? "May I suggest that the squadron reform on me, as I seem to be in the best position to."

 

 

"Certainly, Commander!" Pappas couldn't quite keep the gratitude out of his voice. Kthaara waited For him to give the other pilots the order, then wrenched his fighter around and accelerated directly towards the Theban, corkscrewing madly. He had time to see that Pappas and the others were glued to him, and to feel a kincf of pride in them that couldn't be put precisely into any Human language.

 

 

The Theban crew were new arrivals; they'd trained intensely and listened to the stories of the veterans of Redwing. But they'd never actually faced fighters. And they were shaken to the core by what Holy Terra was allowing to happen to their fleet. Their point defense should nave taken toll of these fighters that so unexpectedly swept past them at an unthinkable relative velocity, clawing their ship's flanks with lasers. But in less than an eye-blink the little crafts were in their blind zone, receding rapidly. and Kthaara saw that all four of his companions were still with him.

 

 

He was, he decided, really getting too old for this.

 

 

"But where are they?" Hinam's voice wavered on the edge of hysteria as he stared over the scanner crews' shoulders, searching as they for the carriers to which the mysterious fighters had returned. "Where - -"

 

 

"Be silent, Jahanak said curtly. Shock had the desired effect - fleet chaplains simply weren't spoken to that way. But on this flag bridge at this time, no one noticed. Hinam subsided, and Jahanak continued to absorb reports that told of the light carriers' massed fighter launch - a launch whose delay was no longer quite so inexplicable. Those fighters would hit his badly shaken fleet while the first attackers were rearming aboard their phantom carriers, and dealing with this fresh strike would require a compact formation which couldn't spread out to search for the invisible ships which had launched the first one. Meanwhile, the infidel battle-line was keeping scrupulously out of laser range and continuing the long-range capital missile duel in which their antimatter warheads nearly canceled out his own more numerous launchers.

 

 

"Signal to all units, Captain Yurah. Withdraw immediately and transit to Parsifal." This contingency had also been planned for. Turning to meet Hinam'sstricken gaze, he continued smoothly. "It would seem, Holiness, that we've achieved our minimal objective of learning more about the infidels' capabilities and lulling them into overconfidence before unleashing our own fighters upon them. We can thus withdraw to Parsifal. as we intended to do all along."

 

 

Hinam stared at him, then shifted his gaze to a repeater screen showing the fleet's damage reports, then stared back at Jahanak again, as at a lunatic. He tried to speak but failed, and Jahanak went on remorselessly.

 

 

"You will, of course, be able to help explain our true intention in seeking this battle - as you urged my staff and myself to do - to the Synod." His eyes held the fleet chaplain's for a cold, measured heartbeat before he continued thoughtfully. "It is, after all, essential that we present a consistent report to avoid any possible misunderstanding on the Synod's part. Wouldn't you agree, Holiness?"

 

 

ai.a gave MS attention to the battle. Yes, Hinam would go along, if only out of self-preservation. That, and the occasional, judicious mention of his own lineage, should tunity for one more strike before his survivors were through the warp point to the safety of Parsifal.

 

 

The lighter, faster Terran units, including Berenson's command, were already closing in on the Parsifal warp point, surging ahead of the lumbering battle-line when the battle had turned into a pursuit, and the cloaked fleet carriers, having dodged the retreating Thebans with almost ludicrous ease, moved to join them. The only living Thebans in QR-107 were the scattered light units that hadn't made it through the warp point with the main body, and which were now being hunted down.

 

 

Kthaara - just arrived by cutter aboard Antonov's new flagship - entered TFNS Gosainthan's flag bridge to see Rear Admiral Berenson's face, contorted with suppressed fury, filling the main com screen.

 

 

"Your orders have been carried out, Admiral," Beren-son was saying through tightly compressed lips. "Three Shark-class destroyers have been detached, ana have now transited the warp point. No courier drones have been received, as yet. Wait." He turned aside, listened to someone off-screen, and spoke briefly. Then he turned back, and the fury in his race had congealed into hate. "Correction, Admiral. A courier drone - one - has returned from Parsifal. I have ordered its data downloaded to the flagship." Even as he spoke, the information appeared on a screen. "You will note," Berenson went on in a tightly controlled voice, "that it concludes with a Code Omega signal for all three ships."

 

 

Antonov, face expressionless, studied the data. "Yes," he finally acknowledged in a quiet voice. "I also note thatt hey were able to record tor the drone their sensor read-Outs on the Theban defenses." Kthaara saw it, too; the shocking total of orbital fortresses in whose teeth that had emerged into Einsteinian space.

 

 

conference: to employi

 

 

to know exactly what is waiting at the other end of the warp line. We now have that information. And, as / said on the same occasion, it is the objective that matters." As the message crossed the few light-seconds that still separated them, he cut the connection. Then he turned to face Kthaara.

 

 

"You look like shit," was his greeting. For once, the Orion hadn't taken time to groom himself.

 

 

"So do you." Nothing ever really wore Antonov down; he was like planetary bedrock. But he was showing a certain undeniable haggardness.

 

 

"I heard what you did out there." Was it possible the Human smiled, a trifle?

 

 

"I saw what you just did here." Kthaara spoke seriously, but he, too, showed the beginning of his own race's smile. "You are more like my people than even Baaara-aansaahn thinks. And that is why." He seemed to reach a decision. "You know of the oath of vilkshatha, do you not?"

 

 

Antonov blinked at the seeming irrelevancy. "Of course. It's the `blood binding' that makes two Orion comrades-in-arms members of each other's family."

 

 

"Correct: two farshatok of the Zheeerlikou'valkhan-naieee. To my knowledge, the ceremony has never involved a member of any other race. But as Humans say, there is a first time for everything. Ivaaan'zarthan!'

 

 

For a couple of heartbeats, Antonov was as motionless as he was silent. Then he threw back his head and bellowed with gargantuan laughter.

 

 

"Well," he managed when he had caught his breath, "I hope you know what you're doing. Kthaara Komazhovich!"

 

 

He turned away from the now speechless fleet chaplain and gave his attention to the battle. Yes, Hinam would go along, if only out of self-preservation. That, and the occasional, judicious mention of his own lineage, should get them past this debacle, in spite of the hideous losses his fleet still must take. Thank Holy Terra they hadn't ventured too far from the Parsifal warp point. The fighters from the cloaked carriers would only have the opportunity for one more strike before his survivors were through the warp point to the safety of Parsifal.

 

 

The lighter, faster Terran units, including Berenson's command, were already closing in on the Parsifal warp point, surging ahead of the lumbering battle-line when the battle had turned into a pursuit, and the cloaked fleet carriers, having dodged the retreating Thebans with almost ludicrous ease, moved to join them. The only living Thebans in QR-107 were the scattered light units that hadn't made it through the warp point with the main body, and which were now being hunted down.

 

 

Kthaara - just arrived by cutter aboard Antonov's new flagship - entered TFNS Gosainthan's flag bridge to see Rear Admiral Berenson's face, contorted with suppressed fury, filling the main com screen.

 

 

"Your orders have been carried out, Admiral," Beren-son was saying through tightly compressed lips. "Three Shark-class destroyers have been detached, and have now transited the warp point. No courier drones have been received, as yet. Wait." He turned aside, listened to someone off-screen, and spoke briefly. Then he turned back, and the fury in his race had congealed into hate. "Correction, Admiral. A courier drone - one - has returned from Parsifal. I have ordered its data downloaded to the flagship." Even as he spoke, the information appeared on a screen. "You will note," Berenson went on in a tightly controlled voice, "that it concludes with a Code Omega signal for all three ships."

 

 

Antonov, face expressionless, studied the data. "Yes," he finally acknowledged in a quiet voice. "I also note that they were able to record for the drone their sensor readouts on the Theban defenses." Kthaara saw it, too; the shocking total of orbital fortresses in whose teeth the three destroyers had emerged into Einsteinian space. An-tonov continued just as quietly. "You said it yourself, Admiral Berenson, at the last staff conference: to employ the SBMHAWKs with maximum effectiveness, we need to know exactly what is waiting at the other end of the warp line. We now have that information. And, as / said on the same occasion, it is the objective that matters." As the message crossed the few light-seconds that still separated them, he cut the connection. Then he turned to face Kthaara.

 

 

"You look like shit," was his greeting. For once, the Orion hadn't taken time to groom himself.

 

 

"So do you." Nothing ever really wore Antonov down; he was like planetary bedrock. But he was showing a certain undeniable haggardness.

 

 

"I heard what you did out there." Was it possible the Human smiled, a trifle?

 

 

"I saw what you just did here." Kthaara spoke seriously, but he, too, showed the beginning of his own race's smile. "You are more like my people than even Baaara-aansaahn thinks. And that is why." He seemed to reach a decision. "You know of the oath of vilkshatha, do you not?"

 

 

Antonov blinked at the seeming irrelevancy. "Of course. It's the `blood binding' that makes two Orion comrades-in-arms members of each other's family."

 

 

"Correct: two farshatok of the Zheeerlikou'valkhan-naieee. To my knowledge, the ceremony has never involved a member of any other race. But as Humans say, there is a first time for everything. Ivaaan'zarthan!'

 

 

For a couple of heartbeats, Antonov was as motionless as he was silent. Then he threw back his head and bellowed with gargantuan laughter.

 

 

"Well," he managed when he had caught his breath, "I hope you know what you're doing. Kthaara Komazhovich!"

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "I need those ships!"

 

 

The Marine honor guard clicked to attention in the echoing spaces of the superdreadnought Gosainthan's boat bay, and Antonov stepped forward to the VIP shuttle's ramp. "Welcome to Redwing, Minister."

 

 

Howard Anderson didn't acknowledge the greeting. He merely stared, then pointed with his cane. "And just what the hell is that?"

 

 

"I believe it's my face." Antonov was all imperturbability. Anderson was not amused.

 

 

"You know what I mean!"

 

 

"Oh, that." Antonov rubbed his jaw. At least the stubble phase was past. It was getting almost fluffy. "Well, I've always wondered what I'd look like with a beard. Somehow, it just came up in conversation with Commander Kthaara'zarthan." He gestured in the direction of the big Orion, who was looking insufferably complacent. "He urged me to try it, just to see how it would turn out. I think it's coming along rather well, don't you?"

 

 

"You look," Anderson replied, eyeing the burgeoning facial hair with scant favor, "like something out of an early twentieth-century political cartoon about Bolsheviks!" Then he glanced at Kthaara again. There was, he decided, no other way to describe it: the Orion looked like he'd swallowed a canary built to scale.

 

 

"Well," Anderson sighed, setting down his empty glass with a click. "Congratulations, Ivan. I don't need to tell you what you've accomplished here." Antonov, silhouetted against his stateroom's view port, gave an expressive Slavic shrug.

 

 

"We've been lucky. And part of our luck has been the new hardware you've sent us - especially the new ECM. Trying to guess what Father Christmas will pull out of his bag next has become the Fleet's favorite pastime."

 

 

"Ho, ho, ho! Well, as it happens, I do have a little something to satisfy your curiosity. I'm sure you've read the preliminary reports on how the Thebans manage to produce those lasers of theirs?" Antonov nodded. `And may I assume you're not particularly wild about the thought of exploding nukes rolling around the insides of your own ships?"

 

 

"You may, indeed." There was very little levity in Anto-nov's rumbling voice. "But if there's no other way to match their beams - " He broke off with another expressive shrug.

 

 

"Ah, but there is another way!" Anderson looked briefly very like Kthaara'zarthan as he smiled. "What would you say to a laser with about seventy-five percent of the Thebans' range, no bombs, and damned near two-thirds again as many projectors per tonne?"

 

 

"Bozhemoi!" Antonov said very softly and sincerely. "There truly is such a weapon?" Anderson nodded smugly, and the admiral grinned. "Then Father Christmas nas outdone himself, Howard!"

 

 

"No, this time it's Mother Christmas," Anderson corrected. "In the form of Rear Admiral Timoshenko. She calls them `hetlasers,' and I saw a full-scale field test just before I personally rammed her promotion through the board. You should have heard old Gomulka howling about promoting her out of the zone!" His eyes gleamed with fond remembrance.

 

 

"They don't pack quite as much punch per projector, but the numbers more than make up for it across their range, and I've had BuShips modify the plans for the new superdreadnoughts and battleships. I in afraid it'll put our building schedules back a couple of months, but I was pretty sure you'd think it was time well spent."

 

 

"Indeed,' Antonov nodded. "The only real tactical advantage the Thebans have left is in energy-range combat. With that gone, and with an initial SBMHAWK bombardment, there's no way they'll be able to keep us out of Parsifal. And we haven't used the extended range capability of the standard SBMs yet, either; as far as they know, their missiles' range will match ours, now that they've developed capital missiles of their own."

 

 

He paused and frowned slightly. "But, Howard, under the schedule you've just outlined. we'll have enough SBMHAWKs long before we have enough new capital ships. And the longer we wait, the more time they'll have to strengthen their defenses. Why not refit my existing heavy ships with hetlasers now?"

 

 

"That's been thought of, of course. But withdrawing your battlewagons to Galloway's World for refitting - even in shifts - will mean going on the defensive for now in QR-107."

 

 

Antonov looked at him sharply. "Why, of course, Howard - by definition. The whole purpose is to enable us to break into Parsifal without crippling losses, so naturally we won't be attacking until the work is completed. Besides, we've already taken up a mobile defensive posture that doesn't involve capital ships. Rear Admiral Berenson is in command there now, with the cloaked Wolfhounds as well as his own light carriers, disposed to sting the Thebans to death if they try to counterattack from Parsifal. Surely," he went on, looking unwontedly concerned, "you understand -

 

 

"Of course I understand, Ivan. Whatever you think, I'm not senile yet. I only mentioned the point because of political factors."

 

 

"Political factors?" Antonov started to take on a dangerous look. "What political factors? We're talking about a military decision!"

 

 

Humanity had left instantaneous communications (and the tendency to micro-manage military operations to death) on Old Terra, and the Federation had always granted its admirals broad authority to run wars on the Frontier. If it hadn't, it would long ago have been replaced, as a simple matter of natural selection, by a polity that did.

 

 

"Remember, Ivan," Anderson said, "this isn't a normal situation. Having gotten us into this mess in the first place, the politicos are still shitting their pants. Once we unmistakably gain the military upper hand, I expect them to turn vindictive; at present, they're merely scared, and they won't respond well to any suggestion of `irresolution' on the military's part! Trust me - I'm talking from seventy years of political experience."

 

 

`Experience I don't envy you in the slightest!" Antonov snapped. He visibly controlled himself. `Look, Howard, surely even politicians can understand an elementary matter of military necessity like this - at least after you explain it to them. Can't they?"

 

 

Anderson laughed shortly. "Not these fuck-ups. And don't count on my explanations doing much good - at least as far as Waldeck goes. You know he hates me about as much as I do him."

 

 

"Suokin sin! Son-of-a-bitch! So the military objective - and the lives of my people - are secondary to enabling gasbags like Sakanami and slime molds like Waldeck to evade the consequences of their own stupidity?"

 

 

Anderson gave a theatrical wince. "I do wish you wouldn't say things like that, Ivan! Where's your respect for properly constituted civilian authority?"

 

 

Antonov exploded into a spate of Russian, and the little Anderson understood made him just as glad he didn't understand the rest. Finally, the massive admiral calmed down sufficiently to communicate in Standard English.

 

 

"Why am I even surprised? Mass democracy! Hal The divine right of political careerists!" He glowered at Anderson. ` Does such a regime even deserve to survive?"

 

 

"Hey," Anderson saidT alarmed. "Don't go Russian-nihilistic on me, Ivan! Not now!"

 

 

Antonov let out a long breath. "Oh, don't worry, Howard. I'll follow orders. But," he continued grimly, "in order to do so, I need those ships. You'll just have to explain the facts of life to Sakanami and Waldeck and even that cunt Wycliffe." (This time Anderson's wince was sincere.) "If my battle-line has to go into Parsifal without hetlasers, or if I have to wait for the new construction, the losses will make them really shit in their pants." He leaned forward, and his voice dropped even deeper than was its wont. "I need those ships!

 

 

"Well," Anderson said mildly after a heartbeat or two, "we'll just have to see what we can do about getting them for you, won't we?"

 

 

The cloud-banded blue dot swelled on TFNS Warrior's visual display, and the light cruiser's captain turned to the old man at the assistant gunnery officer's station.

 

 

"You know, Admiral, it's eight years since I last saw Old Terra. She sure is pretty, isn't she?"

 

 

"Indeed she is, Captain. And thank you for letting me watch. It's been a lot more than eight years since I last saw her from a command deck."

 

 

"In that case, Admiral, would you care to take the con?"

 

 

Commander Helen Takaharu smiled, and Howard Anderson grinned back like a schoolboy. Then his grin faded.

 

 

"No, Captain. Thanks for the offer, but I'm afraid it's been too long. Besides, I'm not really an admiral anymore."

 

 

"You'll always be an admiral, sir," Takaharu said softly, "and I'd be honored if you accepted."

 

 

Color tinged Anderson's cheeks, but for once he felt no ire. There was no sycophancy in Takaharu's voice. He hesitated.

 

 

"Please, sir, I know I speak for Warrior's entire crew."

 

 

"Well, in that case, Captain Takaharu," he said gruffly, "the honor will be mine.' He stood, and Takaharu rose from her command chair. "I relieve you, sir," he said.

 

 

"I stand relieved," she replied crisply. He settled into her chair, and she moved to stand at his shoulder, her face creased in a huge smile.

 

 

"Maneuvering, stand by for orbital insertion."

 

 

"Standing by, aye, Admiral," the helmsman replied, and Howard Anderson stroked the command chair's armrests almost reverently.

 

 

"Out of the question," Irena Wycliffe said sharply. "Totally out of the question! I'm astonished Admiral An-tonov could suggest such a thing."

 

 

Anderson leaned back and looked around the conference room. Hamid O'Rourke looked unhappy and avoided his eyes, and several other ministers fidgeted uncomfortably.

 

 

"Ms. Wycliffe," he said at last, "I fail to understand exactly which aspect of the Ministry of Public Welfare qualifies you to nold such a pronounced opinion?"

 

 

Wycliffe flushed and glanced angrily at the president. In point of fact, she wasn't expressing her opinion. She was one of Pericles Waldeck's closest supporters, his eyes and ears - and mouth - in the Sakanami Cabinet.

 

 

"I may not have your own long - and long ago - military experience, Mister Anderson," she shot back, "but I'm quite conversant with the course of this war! Admiral Antonov held Redwing by the skin of his teeth, and now, when he's finally pushed the Thebans back at last, he wants to weaken his forces? Even I know the thing for the Thebans to do is counterattack as quickly as possible!"

 

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, please!" Sakanami intervened mildly. "This is not a question to settle on the basis of personalities." He glanced at both disputants. "I trust I make myself clear?'

 

 

Anderson snorted in amusement and nodded. Wycliffe distributed her glare almost impartially between him and the president.

 

 

"Now, then," Sakanami continued. "Admiral Antonov is entitled to make his own tactical dispositions. No one disputes that. But I do feel we have a right to question the wisdom of such a fundamental strategic redistribution. Admiral Brandenburg?"

 

 

The chief of naval operations was a spare, white-haired man. Seventy years younger than Anderson, he actually looked older as he sat quietly erect in his space-black and silver uniform. Five years as CNO had taught him the tricks of the political jungle, but he'd commanded a task force himself in ISW-3, and he frowned thoughtfully.

 

 

"As a rule, Mister President, the commander on the spot usually has a clearer appreciation than GHQ, and Antonov's record to date certainly seems to suggest he knows what he's doing. I suppose there is a possibility of a counterattack, but as I understand it he's not talking about pulling the battle-line back en masse, is he, Howard?"

 

 

"No. He wanted to, but I convinced him it'd cause undue concern" - Anderson grinned wryly - "back home. Besides, Fritz, we're heavily committed to the new construction programs. We can only free up the space to handle about a third of his battle-line at a time without disrupting things, so we're talking about a temporary reduction, not a total rollback."

 

 

"Indeed?" Wycliffe put in. "But it's actually a two-thirds reduction, isn't it?"

 

 

"It is," Anderson agreed with unruffled calm. "One-third of his units will be put into yard hands immediately; the next third will start Iback to Galloway's World when they're finished. They'll pass one another en route, but for some weeks Second Fleet's battle-line will, indeed, be at one-third strength."

 

 

"Still," Brandenburg mused, "we're talking about a fleet defending a starless nexus, with no need to mount a warp-point defense."

 

 

"Which doesn't mean those ships won't be needed!" Wycliffe turned to Sakanami. "Mister President, such a policy would cause great disquiet in the Assembly. Important people will ask questions."

 

 

`Let them," Anderson said coldly.

 

 

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea! Wars, Mister Anderson, are not fought only on the front lines - and military people aren't the only ones with a stake in their outcome!"

 

 

"No, just the ones who do the dying," Anderson said even more coldly, and Wycliffe jerked back as if he'd slapped her. He pressed his advantage.

 

 

`Look, Fritz has already pointed out we've got plenty of depth and no population to defend. Any counterattack will be met with a mobile defense, not a point-blank battle on top of a warp point! Admiral Antonov is confident his fighters can stop any Theban attack cold, and I concur. Fritz?"

 

 

"On the basis of the reports I've seen," Brandenburg said mildly, "I'd certainly have to agree. In a mobile defense, the sluggers would only slow him down, anyway. He'd need carriers and fighters to pound them as they try to close, and carriers need escorts who can keep up with them."

 

 

"I see." Sakanami rubbed the conference table gently, then raised his fingers, as if inspecting them for dust. "Hamid?"

 

 

"I" - O'Rourke shot Wycliffe an unhappy glance - "have to agree with Admiral Brandenburg. If we re going to stand on the defensive in QR-107, the battle-line would definitely play a secondary role."

 

 

"But that raises another point." Anderson shook his head. Whatever else she was, Irena Wycliffe wasn't a quitter. "Should we even be talking about standing on the defensive? Why isn't Second Fleet pushing forward into Parsifal right now?"

 

 

Because, Brandenburg's voice was unwontedly caustic, "a lot of people would die, Ms. Wycliffe. In a warp point assault, the enemy is right on top of you as you make transit. They'd be at their most effective range and working right through our shields from the outset; without matching weapons, we'd have to pound their shields flat before we could even get at them." He snorted. "That's why Antonov's insisting on this refit! Or would you prefer for him to wade right in and lose more ships and people than he has to?"

 

 

"Fritz is right, Mister President," Anderson said. "We could probably take Parsifal now, but the battle-line would take murderous punishment. They still will, even with the new lasers, but at least they'll be in position to reply effectively. You may face some political questions now, but what are your options? Push ahead too soon and get our people killed? Or wait till we have enough new ships for the attack - possibly as much as a year froqi now? At the moment the Thebans don't have any fighters, but give them that much time and they will. In which case" - he looked steadily at Wycliffe - ' our losses will be even higher."

 

 

"I have to agree with Mister Anderson and Admiral Brandenburg." O'Rourke took the plunge at last.

 

 

"Why?" Wycliffe's cold tone warned of more than military consequences for Hamid O'Rourke if he crossed Pericles Waldeck.

 

 

"Because they're right," O'Rourke said sharply. "And if there are questions in the Assembly, I'll say so there. It's important to launch heavy, properly prepared attacks, and this is the quickest way to accomplish that. Mister President," he turned to Sakanami, "Admiral Antonov is right."

 

 

"Very well," the president said calmly. "If that's the opinion of the Chief of Naval Operations, the Minister for War Production, and the Defense Minister, the question is closed. Now, the next item on the agenda is - "

 

 

Anderson sat back. It had been easier than he'd expected after all. He'd known Brandenburg would support mm, but he hadn't expected O'Rourke to overcome his fear of Waldeck's revenge. It seemed he owed the man an apology, and he made a mental note to deliver it in person.

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN No Sae Bad. Per a Shellhead

 

 

The vertol's cockpit was less impressive than a flag bridge, and he might become deaa very quickly if he stumbled over a guerrilla SAM team, but it was worth it to get away from HQ. Or, Admiral Lantu amended wryly as the craft turned for another sweep, it had been so far. He knew it worried Fraymak, but he refused to be a mere paper-pusher. Besides, flying an occasional mission gave him at least the illusion of commanding his own fate.

 

 

Unlike many Fleet officers, Lantu was an experienced vertol pilot, and he habitually took the copilot'sstation. Now he leaned to the side, pressing his cranial carapace against the bulged canopy to peer back along the fuselage. A pair of auto-cannon thrust from the troop doors, and there were rocket pods under the wings, out the vertol's sensor array was their real weapon. It probed the dense forest below with thermal, electronic, and magnetic detectors, its laser designators ready to paint targets for their escorting attack aircraft, not that Lantu expected to find any. The guerrillas knew what they were doing, and it was the Satan-Khan's own task to get any reading through these damnable trees, especially once they split back up into small groups. But at least his sensors forced them to break up and stay broken up. he hoped.

 

 

It was a frustrating problem. How did he know if he was winning? Body counts were one way, but the guerrillas seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of recruits, thanks to Colonel Huark and the late archbishop. The lower incidence of attacks might have been a good sign, if their larger assault parties weren't gaining in firepower what they Tost in frequency and proving a nastier handful for any reaction teams that managed to catch them.

 

 

Lantu sighed. The jihad's initial force structure had badly underestimated the need for ground troops, and replacing the Fleet's climbing losses took precedence over increases in planetary forces. And it seemed New Hebrides, for all its spiritual importance, had been demoted in priority as the general situation worsened. Replacements slightly outpaced losses - Fraymak's command Was essentially an understrength division now - but there were never enough troops, for the colonel's comments about fish in muddy water had been accurate in more than one sense.

 

 

Pattern analysis convinced Lantu the guerrillas' active cadres were small, and prisoner interrogations seemed to confirm that, but without more troops, he couldn't expand the occupation zones, and beyond the OZs they simply vanished into the sparse general population. Even within them, they were hard to spot, and Fraymak couldn't put checkpoints everywhere. Nor, despite Huark's suggestions, could he provide sufficient guards to confine all the locals in holding camps. Moreover, he had to feed these people - and his own - somehow, and the agricultural and aquacultural infrastructure was too spread out for centralized labor forces.

 

 

He knew he was hurting them, but how much? Certainly not enough to stop them; the destruction of the New Perth Warden post which had sparked this search and destroy mission proved that. But at least there'd been only two more raids on civilian housing, and that was sufficient improvement for Manak to continue his more lenient re-education policies.

 

 

Lantu sat back, eyes skimming the treetops, and chuckled mirthlessly. Here he was, hunting guerrillas int he hope of killing a few of them in order to justify ailing their fellows in the Inquisition's camps! Holy Terra - , as he was coming to doubt, there was a Holy

 

 

Angus MacRory sweated under the thermal canopy and held his field glasses on the vertol. The old-fashioned glasses had none of the electronic scan features which might have been detected, and he hoped none of his SAM teams got itchy fingers and gave their position away. Five or six men and women might not be an unreasonable trade for an aircraft loaded with sensors and heavy weapons. if you had the people to trade.

 

 

He lowered nis glasses and gnawed his bushy mustache. These new Shellhead operational patterns were enough to worry a man. He'd lost fifty-one people in the past two months - not many for a Marine division, but an agonizing total for his light irregulars. He had another twenty seriously hurt and twice that many walking wounded, but at least Doctor MacBride's deep-cave hospital camp was virtually impossible to spot.

 

 

His teams were still exfiltrating, but by now most of them could have given lessons to Marine Raiders. Unless the Shellheads got dead lucky, they wouldn't spot any of them, so he judged the raid had been a success. Yet he knew he'd picked New Perth because it could be hit, not for its importance. Clearly Admiral Lantu had other priorities than protecting Wardens too clumsy to protect themselves, which - despite the satisfaction of killing those particular vermin - was worrisome. It was only a matter of time before Lantu began using Wardens for bait. if he hadn't already. This particular response team had arrived suspiciously quickly even for him.

 

 

Angus tipped his bonnet to his opponent. Before he'd turned up, the momentum had been with the Resistance, and though Angus had never expected to win the damned war, he d thought he might keep the bloody Shellheads on the defensive until the Fleet retumea. Now he was being forced to plan operations so carefully the bastards were free to do just about as they liked within the Zones, and that wouldn't do at all, at all.

 

 

He could replace personnel losses, but newbies required training and he was short on arms. Those the New Perth Wardens no longer required would help, yet he needed to hit a real arms dump, and Lantu was oeing difficult. Still, the Shellies had just rebuilt their Maid-stone base, and the New Rye ran right down to it. If he could divert the Knightsbridge response force.

 

 

He frowned. Yes, it might be done. It wouldn't be as effective as, say, picking on Admiral Lantu, but it would help.

 

 

Lantu walked wearily into his office and hung up his body armor, smiling tiredly in answer to Hanat's greeting.

 

 

"Any luck?" she asked.

 

 

"There are times," Lantu said feelingly, "when I'm inclined to accept Father Shamar's theories of demonic intervention."

 

 

"No luck, then," she observed as she poured him a cup of hot chadan. He took it gratefully, pressing a chaste kiss to her cranial carapace, and slumped behind his desk.

 

 

"No, no luck. Whoever's running them knows what he's doing."

 

 

"Among these people" - like Fraymak, Hanat never said "infidel" anymore; then again, neither did Lantu - "it might just be a she."

 

 

"So it might. Jealous?"

 

 

"Maybe," she said, then laughed at his expression. "I'm not about to ask for a rifle, First Admiral. Their women have the size for it and ours don't. It's just that there are things I could do as well as a man."

 

 

"Yes," Lantu considered the heretical thought, "yes, I suppose so. But - "

 

 

`But Holy Terra expects Her daughters to produce children - preferably sons - for Her jihad," Hanat said in a dry, biting tone.

 

 

"Hanat," Lantu said very seriously, "you can say such things to me, here, because I have my office swept by my own people every day. Don't ever say them where Colonel Huark might hear of it."

 

 

"I won't." She bent over his desk and sorted data chips. "Here are those reports you asked for, First Admiral. And don't forget your meeting with the Fleet Chaplain at fifteen hundred."

 

 

He nodded, and she headed for the door, but his voice stopped her.

 

 

`There are things you could do as well as any man in the service, Hanat. Would you really like to do them?"

 

 

"Yes," she said, without turning. ` Yes, I wish I could." She opened the door and left, and Lantu watched it close behind her.

 

 

"Do you know," he said softly, "I wish you could, too."

 

 

". so your people will hit the Maclnnis Bay fuel depot." Caitrin MacDougall tapped the plastic laminate of a New Hebrides Fisheries map with a bayonet and met Tulloch MacAndrew's frowning eyes. "Mortar the dump and rocket the guard shacks, but the main thing is to raise enough hell to draw the Knightsbridge battalion after you. When you do, bury the tubes, hide your equipment, and move deeper into the Zone, not out. With luck, they'll sweep towards the Grampians looking for you. Got it?"

 

 

"Aye, but that's no tae sae I like it. If we're tae draw the buggers oot, let's hit `em here." Tulloch tapped a spot on the map even further from Maidstone, but Angus shook his head.

 

 

"Nay, Tulloch. If yon Shellies are willin' tae break up their `extermination squads,' I'm willin' tae stop hittin' their housing."

 

 

"Then ye'fe a fool." Tulloch was as blunt as Angus himself. `Aye, I ken they've stopped'reprisals,' but it's done nowt tae stop the killin' in the camps."

 

 

"It may not have stopped it, but the execution levels have dropped by almost seventy percent."

 

 

"An" grateful I am, Katie," Tulloch agreed, "but sae lang as they gae on killin' us, I'm game t'gae on killin' them."

 

 

"I hear ye, Tulloch," Angus said quietly. "And sae we will, but not today. I've a thought aboot that, but I need time tae work it oot."

 

 

His eyes held Tulloch's until MacAndrew nodded slowly.

 

 

Lieutenant Darhan cringed in his hole as the infidel mortars ripped off another four-shot clip. Ninety-millimeter rounds walked across the vehicle pool with metronome precision and a distinctive, easily recognized "Crack!" They were hitting him with weapons shipped here from Thebes, and doing it as well as he could nave done himself.

 

 

The infidels must have scouted the base carefully - they'd probably watched it going up, for Terra's sake! - and the first rockets had taken out both com huts and the alternate satellite link aboard the command GEV. Captain Kyhar had gone up with his vehicle - dropping command on him - and Darhan didn't know if he'd gotten off a message before he died. But he did know none of his short-range tactical corns could if Kyhar hadn't.

 

 

His perimeter was already too big for his two platoons, and rockets and mortars had chewed up his own heavy weapons with malignant precision. One machine-gun had gotten two infidel sapper teams that rushed the wire too soon, but its crew had died in a hurricane of fire when they did.

 

 

A crackling hiss lifted his head out of the hole with a curse as rockets smoked over the perimeter, towing assault charges. The flexible cables unfolded their wing-like charges over the wire, then detonated. The glare of HE not only blew the wire but cleared the mines in the gaps, and the mortars shifted back, dropping visual and thermal smoke to hide the holes.

 

 

"They're coming through the wire in Alpha Sector!" Darhan barked into his hand com. "Reserve to Alpha Two now't't"

 

 

His small reserve force scuttled through the carnage on short, strong legs, and he pounded the dirt as he urged them to greater speed. If the infidels broke through, they could swamp him by sheer weight of numbers, and -

 

 

The smoke screen lifted, and Darhan gaped at the breached wire. There wasn't an infidel in sight! But why -?

 

 

A fresh roar of assault charges shook the base, and he whirled in horror as Sergeant Targan came up on the com.

 

 

"Gamma Sector! Wire breached in Gam - "

 

 

Darhan was already running, screaming for the reserve to follow him, when the sergeant's voice cut off with sickening suddenness. He stumbled over mangled dead and wounded, eyes slitted against the smoke as dirt and flame erupted all over Gamma Sector, and a tall, long-legged shape loomed before him. His machine-pistol chattered viciously and the shape went down, but there was another behind it, and something smashed into Dar-han's body armor with terrific force. The blow slammed him onto his back, stunned and breathless, and an infidel loomed out of the smoke. She was short for a human, black hair streaming in a wild mane, and the bayonet on her Theban rifle pricked the base of his throat.

 

 

"Be still, ye miserable boggit!" she snarled, and he went limp, not knowing which hurt worse - the terrible ache in his bruised body or failure.

 

 

Colonel Fraymak tugged on his muzzle in puzzlement. Maclnnis Bay was further from the mountains than the guerrillas normally struck, and the attack pattern was. odd. Their short, vicious bombardment had scored heavily, killing or wounding a third of the guards and torching thousands of liters of Fuel, but why hadn't they exploited that success? Had somethinggone wrong from their side and forced them to break off? But Maclnnis Bay was in one of the rare timbered-off areas; his scouts should have found some sign of the raiders before they all got back under cover of the forests, for Terra's sake.

 

 

"Still nothing?"

 

 

"No, sir." Major Wantak shook his head. "I've sent in additional units from New Bern. This far into the Zone, we ought to be able to spot something before they get away."

 

 

Fraymak paused, arrested by how Wantak's comment echoed his own thoughts. Something about what his exec had said.

 

 

"Satan-Khan!" he hissed. Wantak recoiled from the venomous curse, and Fraymak shook himself. "It's a diversion! They wanted to draw our reaction!"

 

 

"But - " Wantak broke off, cranial carapace gleaming under the CP lights as he cocked his head. "It makes sense, sir, but what are they diverting us from? We haven't had any reports of other attacks.'

 

 

"No." Fraymak was bent over the map table, scrolling quickly through the projected map sheets until he had the Knightsbridge sector. "But whatever they're after, they drew Lieutenant Colonel Shemak's force first." He slapped the table, yellow eyes narrow in thought. There were over a dozen likely targets in the sector, from reeducation camps to the Maidstone depot.

 

 

"Get on the satellite net. I want a status report from every unit in the Knightsbridge sector right now!"

 

 

Lieutenant Darhan squatted in the dust on short, folded legs with the survivors of his command. Most of the infidels had already vanished into the heavily-timbered slot of the Rye River valley, leading sturdy Ter-ran mules and New Hebridan stagnorns laden witn ammunition, small arms, and rocket and grenade launchers. He'd seen Theban camouflage sheets draped over the weapon loads, and he wished to Holy Terra the quartermaster had never shipped them in. Designed to foil the thermal and magnetic detectors the infidels didn't have, they worked quite well against those the People did have.

 

 

The last raiders ringed his survivors, and he wondered why they hadn't already been shot. As far as he knew, the infidels never left anyone alive. Of course, they usually hit Wardens, not regulars, but even so.

 

 

A pair of infidels waded through the debris towards him. The man was big, brawny, and dark, and Darhan had seen enough infidels by now to know he was older than the almost equally tall woman beside him. The lieutenant noted the polished chevrons on the man's collar as they drew nearer.

 

 

"Ye're the senior officer?" the man demanded, and Darhan nodded. "Good. We're gang now, but I've sum-mat fer ye tae gi' Admiral Lantu."

 

 

Darhan blinked both sets of eyelids. Did that mean they didn't mean to kill him?

 

 

"Here." Darhan took the envelope numbly, and the man touched his tattered bonnet in a jauntily-sketched infidel-style salute. The lieutenant responded automatically, and the man grinned, then waved his Theban grenade launcher at his followers, who faded into the trees behind him.

 

 

Lieutenant Colonel Shemak's battalion came screaming in from the south forty-five minutes later.

 

 

"It might have been worse," Manak sighed. "At least they didn't massacre their prisoners."

 

 

"True, Holiness." Lantu once more debated telling his old mentor about the message the guerrillas had left with Lieutenant Darhan. Once he would already have done so, but Manak grew more brittle with every day, as if his natural aversion to following in Tanuk's footsteps was at war with an increasing desperation. His fulminating diatribes against Admiral Jahanak, for example, were most unlike him. He seemed to be retreating into a spiritual bunker and venting his fury and despair on purely military matters to avoid any hint of doctrinal weakness.

 

 

"Perhaps they truly are learning from our own restraint," the fleet chaplain mused.

 

 

"Perhaps," Lantu agreed. He folded his arms behind him and wrinkled his lips in thought. "Holiness, I would like to propose something which, I fear, Father Shamar and Colonel Huark will hate."

 

 

"I wouldn't worry about that," Manak said with a ghost of his old humor. ` They're already about as upset as they can get."

 

 

"In that case, Holiness, I'd like to put at least a temporary halt to any further executions for heresy."

 

 

"What?" Manak looked up quickly, his voice sharp. "My son, we can take no chances with the Faith!"

 

 

`I'm not proposing that we should, Holiness," Lantu said carefully. We nave a double problem here. Certainly we must win the infidels" - the word tasted strange these days - "for the Faith, but to do so, we must hold the planet without killing them all. The degree to which we've already relaxed the Inquisition's severity seems to have brought an easing in the ferocity of the guerrillas' tactics, as witnessed by the lower incidence of attacks on civilian housing and the fact that Lieutenant Darhan and his troops weren't shot. I believe the Fleet's manpower requirements will grow even greater in the immediate future, so substantial reinforcements here seem unlikely. If only as a temporary expedient to reduce the burden on our own troops, a ruling - even a conditional one - that infidels will oe executed only for specific violations of regulations might be most beneficial.

 

 

"Um." Lantu felt a chill as Manak looked down at his hands. Just months ago, the old churchman would not only have recognized his true goal but helped achieve it. Now the thought of tying the camp firing squads' hands actually upset nim, but he nodded slowly at last.

 

 

"Very well, my son, I will inform Father Shamar that - purely as a matter of military expedience - infidels are to be executed only for active infractions. But - " he looked

 

 

up sharply " - / will decide what constitutes an infraction, and if the terrorists" - the gentle stress was unmistakable - "begin attacking non-military targets once more, I will rescind my decision."

 

 

"I think that's wise, Holiness."

 

 

"That is because you have a good heart, my son," Manak said softly. "Do not permit its very goodness to seduce you from your duty."

 

 

A sharper, colder chill ran down Lantu's spine, but he bent his head in mute acquiescence and left silently.

 

 

Hanat was waiting anxiously in his office. Unlike anyone else at HQ, she'd read the guerrillas' message. Now she watched him silently, her delicate golden eyes wide.

 

 

"He's agreed to suspend executions for simple apostasy," Lantu said quietly, but she didn't relax. Instead she seemed to tighten even further.

 

 

"Are you sure this is wise, Lantu?" She seemed unaware she'd used his name with no title for the first time, and he curled one long arm about her in a little hug.