"All but Clan Kirhaar,' Kthaara said softly, "for they formed the reserve. They would be first across the river'sonly bridge, and it was they who had been charged with mining that bridge so that it might be blown up to prevent pursuit. Ana when Cranaa realized those things, he knew his khanhaku had betrayed him and all his allies. Clan Tolnatha would advance but arrive too late, and it would be destroyed in isolation. Clan Kirhaar would fall back, and his khanhaku would order the bridge destroyed'to hold the enemy,' and thus deliver his allies to their foes. And when the battle was over, there would be none alive to know how his khanhaku had betrayed them.

 

 

"But Cranaa had sworn hirikolus to his khanhaku, and to break that oath is unthinkable. He who does so is worse than chofak - he is dirguasha, outcast and outlawed, stripped of clan, cut off from his clan fathers and mothers as the prey of any who wish to slay him. There is no greater punishment for the Zheeerlikou valkhannaieee. Before we suffer it, we will die at our own hand.

 

 

"Yet if he obeyed, Cranaa's clan would die, and its allies, and the traitor would wax wealthy and powerful upon their blood. And so Cranaa did not obey. He broke his oath of hirikolus - broke it not with proof he could show another, but on the truth he knew without proof.

 

 

He refused to lead his clan into battle as he was commanded, but chose his own position and his own time to attack, and so won the battle and saved his clan.

 

 

"And in doing so, he made himself dirguasha. He could not prove his khanhaku's treachery, though few doubted it. Yet even had he been able to do so, it would not have saved him, for he had thrown away his honor. He was cast out by his own litter mates, outlawed by the allies he had saved, deprived of his very name and driven into the waste without food, or shelter, or weapons. A lesser warrior would have slain himself, but to do so would be to admit he had lied and cleanse his khanhaku's name, so Cranaa grubbed for food, and shivered in the cold, and starved, and made his very life a curse upon his khanhaku's honor. And so, when he was sick and alone, too weak to defend himself, his traitor khanhaku sent assassins, and they slew him like an animal, dragging him to death with ropes, denying him even the right to die facing them upon his feet.

 

 

"Thus Cranaa'tolnatha died, alone and despised, and his bones were gnawed and scattered by zhakleish. Yet all these centuries later, the Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee honor his courage. and not even Clan Kirhaar recalls his khanhaku's name, for they have stricken it in shame. He was a traitor, Admiral Laaantu - but our warriors pray to Hiranow'khanark that we, too, may find the courage to be such traitors if we must."

 

 

There was utter silence in the briefing room as Lantu stared deep into Kthaara'zarthan's slit-pupilled eyes, and the others almost held their breath, for something was changing in his own eyes. They narrowed, and an amber light flickered in their depths - a bright, intent light, divorced from despair.

 

 

"There might," First Admiral Lantu said softly, "be a way, after all."

 

 

It was, Ivan Antonov thought, an insane plan.

 

 

He stared out the view port of his quarters, trying to convince himself it might work, trying not to think about the cost if it failed.

 

 

He turned from the port, pacing back and forth across his cramped cabin, wrestling with his fears. It was to risk all upon a single throw of the dice, yet hadn't he done precisely that at Redwing? Hadn't he done it again on New New Hebrides?

 

 

Of course he had, but then he'd had no choice. Here he had an option, one which he knew would work without risking a single Terran life. What possible logic could justify sending three full divisions or Marines to almost certain death when that was true?

 

 

But it wasn't true. He wheeled abruptly, staring back out at the silent stars. He could save sixty thousand Terran lives. but only by taking six billion Theban ones.

 

 

He drew a deep breath and nodded once.

 

 

"This, ladies and gentlemen," Winnifred Trevayne said, "is Planetary Defense Center Saint-Just on the Island of Arawk. It is, without doubt, the most powerful single fortification on the entire planet - and your objective."

 

 

The staff of the Third Corps, TMC, looked at the holographic schematic for one Horrified moment, raised their eyes to her in total disbelief, then turned as one to stare at their commander. General Shahinian looked back silently, and more than one hard-bitten officer paled at the confirmation in his expression. Their gazes swiveled back to Commander Trevayne, and she moved in front of the holo and folded her hands behind her, masking her own dismay in crisp, decisive words.

 

 

"PDC Saint-Just is the central planetary command and control facility and the Prophet's personal HQ. The primary works are buried under two hundred meters of rock in Arawk's Turnol Mountains and protected by concentric rings of ground defenses forty Kilometers deep. We believe that at least two and possibly four strikenghter squadrons based on Saint-Just have been held back to intercept incoming assault shuttles, but Second Fleet's fighter strength should be more than sufficient to cover you against their attack. Of greater concern are the aircraft also based inside Saint-Just's perimeter. Under the circumstances, it will be impossible for us to insert our own aircraft to engage them, nor can we neutralize them with a pre-attack bombardment. Any attempt to do so would only alert the defenders, and the ancillary damage would make the actual penetration of the facility even more difficult."

 

 

"Penetration?" That was too much, and Brigadier Shimon Johnson, Third Corps' ops officer, wheeled back to his CO in pure, unadulterated horror.

 

 

"Penetration." Shahinian's confirmation sounded like broken glass, and he gestured to Trevayne, who sat in unmistakable relief. The general's shoulder-boards of stars glittered as he stood in her place.

 

 

"We're going inside." There was dead silence. "This fortress contains the only Shellheads who know their relif ion is a lie. These are the people who refuse to surren-er - the ones using our unwillingness to destroy their entire species against us. They're terrorists, holding their own race hostage while they sit under the most powerful defensive umbrella on the planet. If we can take them out, we may be able to find someone sane to negotiate a surrender with. By the same token, our ability to neutralize their most powerful defensive position should prove tremendously demoralizing to the Thebans as a whole. Finally, Arawk's island location limits the overlap in its neighboring PDCs' coverage to less than fifty percent. Destruction of Saint-Just's ground-to-space weapons will open a hole - a small one, I know, but a hole nonetheless - through which future assaults can be made without resorting to saturation bombardments."

 

 

"But, sir," Second Division's CO, Lieutenant General Sharon Manning, said quietly, "there won't be enough of us left to make any future assaults."

 

 

"I believe that may be a somewhat pessimistic estimate, General," Shahinian replied. "And, in any case, the decision has already been made."

 

 

Manning started to say something more, then cut herself off at her superior's bleak expression. Aram Shahi-nian had come up through the ranks; he knew precisely what he was sending his troops into. She closed ner own mouth and sat back, black face grim, and Shahinian gestured to Trevayne once more.

 

 

She began punching buttons to manipulate the holo image and! highlight features as she itemized Saint-Just's defensive capabilities, and the Marines went absolutely expressionless as battery after battery of weapons glowed crimson. Missile launchers, massed point defense stations that doubled as shuttle-killers, buried aircraft and strikefighter hangars, mutually supporting auto-cannon and artillery pillboxes, mortar pits, minefields, entanglements, subterranean barracks and armored vehicle parks. It wasn't a fortress; it was one enormous weapon, designed to drown any attacker in his own blood.

 

 

Trevayne displayed the last weapon system and turned to the iron-faced officers. Most of these people knew her well, some were close friends, and they stared at her with hating faces. It wasn't her fault, and they saw the anguish in her own eyes, but they couldn't help it.

 

 

"General Shahinian will brief you on his general tactical objectives," she made herself say levelly, "but we do have one priceless advantage: Admiral Lantu is intimately familiar with Saint-Just and the network of secret tunnels radiating from the PDC. These serve two purposes: to provide an access route safe from radioactive contamination following any bombardment, and to evacuate the Prophet and Synod in the event Saint-Just is seriously threatened. We intend to use one of these tunnels to insert a small, picked force under cover of the main attack."

 

 

No one spoke, but she could hear them thinking very loudly indeed. Secret passages? Only a Navy puke could come up with something that stupid!

 

 

"These routes rely primarily on concealment for their security," she went on, "with computer-commanded antipersonnel weaponry. Although they're shown in the Starwalker data base, the majority of Saint-Just's garrison knows nothing about them, and access is controlled entirely by security-locked computers. Admiral Lantu knows the access codes, and even though they were included in the data we extracted from Starwalker, there is no reason for the Synod to alter them, as there is a retinal-scan feature built into the security systems. No human eyes could activate them, but Admiral Lantu's retinal patterns are on the authorized list, and the The-bans, with no knowledge that he's come over to us, have no reason to delete them. They certainly haven't deleted them from any of the other security lists we recovered from Starwalker.

 

 

"We hope to accomplish two objectives via this penetration. Colonel Fraymak will lead one element of the assault party directly to Saint-Just's primary command center, where our Raiders will eliminate the PDC's command staff, central computers, and com net. A second element, led by Admiral Lantu, will be charged with the seizure and deactivation - " she paused and drew a deep breath " - of the two hundred-megatonne suicide charge under the base."

 

 

In the utter silence that followed, it was with some relief that Trevayne acknowledged the raised hand in the back row.

 

 

"Question, Commander," came the drawl. "What do we do after lunch?"

 

 

Ivan Antonov stood in Gosainthan's boat bay and watched First Admiral Lantu and Colonel Fraymak exchange a few final words with General Shahinian before departing for the transport Black Kettle. There was no longer any distrust in the Marine's expression as he bent slightly to listen to the two Thebans, out there was pain. and envy. Shahinian was about to commit three of his four divisions to an attack which would gut them, even if everything went perfectly, and he could not accompany them. He would remain on his command ship, Mangus Coloradas, coordinating an elaborate deception maneuver with his staff, while General Manning took his troops in on the ground.

 

 

The conversation ended, and Lantu and Fraymak crossed to Antonov. Their hands rose in Theban salute, and he returned it, feeling Kthaara's bitter disappointment at his side. The two Thebans had to accompany the assault, despite their inability to wear combat zoots; Kthaara did not, and his skill in fighter operations might be invaluable to Shahinian if, in fact, the Thebans had managed to secret more fighters than they knew.

 

 

"Good luck, Admiral, Colonel." Antonov clasped their backward, too-narrow hands firmly. The colonel looked tense, anxious, and just a bit frightened even now of the sacrilege he proposed to commit; Lantu looked completely calm, and somehow that worried Antonov more than Fraymak's tension.

 

 

"Thank you, Admiral Antonov." Lantu looked deep into the human's eyes. "And thank you for running such risks to save my people."

 

 

The burly admiral made an uncomfortable gesture, and the Theban swallowed anything else he might have been about to say. He turned towards the waiting cutter, but an arm covered in night-black fur reached out and stopped him. He twitched in surprise and looked down at the clawed hand on his forearm, then looked up at Kthaara'zarthan.

 

 

The Orion's interpreter wasn't present. Antonov or Tsuchevsky could easily have translated for him, but Kthaara said nothing. He simply reached to his harness, and steel rasped as ne drew his defargo. The bay lights gleamed on the honor dirk's razored edge as he nicked his own wrist. Crimson blood glittered amid sable fur as he gave the weapon a strange little flick, tossing it up to catch it by the guard and extend its hilt to the Theban.

 

 

Lantu stared at it for a moment, then reached out. He held it while Kthaara unhooked its scabbard one-hand-edly from his harness and extended it in turn. And then, though Antonov knew he could not possibly have been told of the significance of the act, the Theban raised his own wrist. The unbloodied edge of the blade snicked, drawing Theban blood to match that of the Zheeerlikou'-valkhannaieee already on it, and Kthaara'zarthan's eyes glowed. He drew a small square of silky fabric from a belt pouch and wiped the blade reverently, then watched as Lantu sheathed it and affixed it to his own belt.

 

 

Antonov wondered how many others present recognized the formal renunciation ofvilknarma - and why he himself felt no shock. He only watched as his vilkshatha brother extended his right arm, gripping Lantu's too-long arm in afarshatok's clasp, and then stepped back beside him.

 

 

Lantu's eyes were unnaturally bright, and his hand caressed the aefarpp at his side. Then he drew himself up, nodded once, sharply, and followed Colonel Fraymak into the cutter.

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY Vengeance Is Mine

 

 

First Marshal Sekah stood in PDC Saint-Just's central command and frowned at the holo sphere. He was a son of the Church, prepared to die for Holy Terra, but the thought of all the deaths which would accompany his sickened him. Yet better that than defilement, he told himself fiercely. Better death of the body than of the soul.

 

 

Still, the infidels' quiescence had puzzled him. They'd destroyed his orbital works over a month ago, yet made no move against the planet itself. Was it possible they simply didn'tknow what to do with it? He grinned mirthlessly, recalling the utter lack of fortification on the captured infidel worlds and the infidel tactical manuals' insistence on keeping combat out in space "where it belonged." As if Holy Terra's People should fear to live or die with their defenders! But even such as they must realize the People would never yield, so why delay? They had the range to slay Thebes from a position of safety - surely they couldn't be so foolish as to think the Prophet might change his mind and surrender to the Satan-Khan as they had!

 

 

Now he watched the shifting patterns in the sphere and shivered. It seemed whatever had caused them to delay obtained no longer. Formations of infidel starships were sweeping into position, close to the edge of the capital missile envelope yet tauntingly beyond it, and SeKah's mind heard sirens howling in every city across the planet. Not that it would do any good.

 

 

"Summon the Prophet," he said quietly to an aide.

 

 

"All units in preliminary positions, Admiral," Tsuchev-sky reported, and Antonov nodded his massive head.

 

 

"Get me Mangns Coloradas." Aram Shahinian looked out of the com screen at him, and Antonov gave him a thin, cold smile. "The Fleet is at your disposal, General," he said simply.

 

 

"Aye, aye, sir." Shahinian saluted, the screen blanked, and Antonov leaned back in his command chair and crossed his legs. He'd just become a passenger in his own fleet.

 

 

"Firing sequence locked in." TFNS Dhaulagiri's gunnery officer acknowledged the report and watched her chronometer tick steadily down. Somebody down there was about to take an awful pasting - if not quite as bad as the one he probably expected.

 

 

Lantu looked up as a towering zoot paused beside him, then smiled in faint surprise as Angus MacRory grinned.

 

 

"I hadn't realized you were coming, Colonel."

 

 

"An' where else should I be? Ye're still my prisoner, in a manner o' speakin'."

 

 

"And you're coming along to make certain I don't escape. I see."

 

 

`Actually, First Admiral," Major M'boto said from Lantu's other side, "Colonel MacRory's in command. He'll be leading the element which accompanies you."

 

 

"Indeed? And why wasn't that mentioned to me sooner?"

 

 

"We weren't certain the colonel would complete his zoot training in time." M'boto's teeth flashed in his ebon face. "That was before he shaved almost two weeks off the old record."

 

 

First Marshal Sekah folded his arms behind him as the first infidel missiles launched, then looked up as the Prophet and his entourage arrived.

 

 

"Your Holiness." He unlocked his arms and genuflected, but something about the Prophet's eyes - a bright, hard glitter too deep in their depths - bothered him. He brusned the thought aside. Even Holy Terra's Prophet might be excused a bit of tension at a moment like this.

 

 

The First Marshal returned his attention to the sphere and frowned. The infidels still appeared to be trying to limit collateral damage - -perhaps they hoped despair might yet seduce the People into apostasy and surrender? No matter. What mattered was that they were flinging their missiles at the isolated PDCs crowning the northern ice cap. Well, that suited Sekah. He was in no hurry to see the People's women and children die, and those fortresses were eminently well equipped to look after themselves.

 

 

Immensely armored PDC silo covers flicked open and then closed, and the atmosphere above Thebes' pole blazed with kilotonne-range counter-missiles. The SBMs were intercepted in scores, but statistically a few had to get through, and fireballs marched across the sullen PDCs, vaporizing rock and ice, shaking the ice-crusted continental mass with their fury.

 

 

Shock waves quivered through flesh and bone, but the grim-faced Theban defenders watched their read-outs with slowly mounting hope. They were stopping more missiles than the most optimistic had projected, and those that got through were doing less damage than they'd feared. The megatonnes of concrete, rock, and steel armoring their weapons glowed and fused, yet the infidels seemed to have no deep-earth penetrators, and surface bursts lacked the power to punch through and disembowel the forts.

 

 

The atmospheric radiation count mounted ominously, yet it, too, was lower than they'd feared. The infidels were employing only nuclear warheads, without the antimatter explosions the defenders had dreaded.

 

 

First Marshal Sekah scanned the PDCs' reports and bared his teeth. They were hurting him, and even these lower radiation levels meant terrible contamination, but no fleet could match a planet's magazine capacity. Even if Theban missiles were too short-ranged to strike back, the infidels would have to do far better than they were to breach those defenses before they exhausted their ammunition.

 

 

General Aram Shahinian watched his own read-outs, glancing occasionally at the visual display and the glaring inferno blasting ice into hellish steam, His eyes were calm, his expression set. His worst fear was that someone down there would run an analysis and realize Second Fleet was deliberately throwing lighter salvos than it might have for the express purpose of helping their point defense, but there was nothing he could do about it if they did.

 

 

He glanced at his chronometer and keyed his com button.

 

 

"Execute phase two," he said.

 

 

"They're moving, First Marshal."

 

 

Sekan grunted and rubbed his cranial carapace. The infidels' fire had slackened, suggesting exhaustion of their longer-ranged missiles, and their ships were closing to the edge of the capital missile zone to maintain the engagement. Their ECM was far better than his, and they could dodge; his PDCs couldn't, but he would take any shot he could get. His weapons might be less accurate, but he had far more launchers than they.

 

 

"Infidel fighters launching," Tracking reported, and he chuckled mirthlessly.

 

 

"First Marshal?" He looked up at the Prophet's quiet voice.

 

 

"Strikefighters don't worry me, Your Holiness," he explained. "Their missile loads are meaningless beside what the infidels are already firing, and fighters themselves are useless in atmosphere. The infidels can't be certain we're not hoarding fighters they don't know about, so they're deploying a combat patrol to cover their ships." He bared his teeth again. "It won't help against what they should be worried about."

 

 

A huge, soft hand squeezed Lantu as Black Kettle launched her assault shuttles. He sealed his helmet, then realized just how pointless that reflex was. If anything hit a vessel as small as this one, its occupants would never know a thing about it.

 

 

He smothered a half-hysterical giggle at the thought. What in the name of whatever was truly holy was he doing here? He was an admiral, not a Marine! He glanced up at the face behind Angus MacRory's command zoot'sarmored visor, and Angus's set, tense expression made him feel oddly better.

 

 

Ivan Antonov's eyes gleamed coldly as he wondered what the Thebans made of the numbers. Over twelve hundred small spacecraft were jockeying into the positions Kthaara and Shahinian's staff had worked out with agonizing precision over the past two weeks, but only three hundred were truly fighters. The other nine hundred were the slightly modified assault shuttles of three Marine Raider divisions, each fitted with a fighter's transponder. Now if the enemy would only concentrate on killing starships and ignore any little anomalies their scanners might detect.

 

 

Sekah felt an edge of surprise. That was several times the People's best estimate of their fighter strength. Why hadn't they used more in their warp point attack, if they had so many? He shrugged the thought away. It scarcely mattered now, and he had more urgent concerns. The first infidel ships entered the range of the polar PDCs, and he noddea to his exec.

 

 

Stomachs clenched aboard the capital units of Second Fleet as hundreds of capital missiles lunged at them.

 

 

XO-mounted EDMs sped out to interpose their false drive fields between the enemy and their mother ships. Point defense crews tracked incoming warheads with professional calm while heat-lightning tension crackled through their nerves. Counter missiles raced outward. Laser clusters and auto-cannon slewed rapidly, and brilliant balls of flame began to pock the vacuum, reaching across the light-seconds towards the ships of Terra.

 

 

Gosainthan lurched as the first Theban missile eluded her defenses. Another got through. And another. But it was only a handful, Antonov told himself. A tiny fraction of that incredible storm of fire. His flagship'sshields shrugged the damage aside - for now - and he tightened his snockframe.

 

 

Sekah smiled as the first infidel shields began to fail. It wasn't much - yet. But if the fools would only stay there a little longer.

 

 

"You will observe, Your Holiness," he said, "that we are spreading our fire widely at the moment. This confronts the infidels with smaller salvos and enhances the effectiveness of their point defense, but it also allows us time to further refine our tracking data while forcing them to expend their EDMs. After a few more salvos, we will have reduced their ability to deceive our missiles and greatly improved our fire control solutions." He smiled wickedly. "Which is when our PDCs will suddenly switch their firing patterns to concentrate on a handful of targets with everything they have."

 

 

The Prophet smiled in understanding, and Sekah glanced at the holo sphere once more. The infidel fighters were spreading out, clumping on the sunward side.

 

 

They were almost directly overhead, and Saint-Just's fire control officer asked for permission to engage with AFHAWKs.

 

 

"A little longer, Colonel. They're still closing; let them get all the way to the edge of atmosphere if they want to, then go to rapid fire."

 

 

Aram Shahinian checked his read-outs once more, and a drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. The Shell-heads were playing it smart, whittling away Second Fleet's EDMs. If someone down there was keeping count, they'd know the capital ships were running dangerously low. Any minute now, they were going to change their targeting, and his brain screamed to rush the attack wave so he could get the fleet the hell out of it.

 

 

He made himself wait. Every second they didn't open up with AFHAWKs let his shuttles creep a little closer and meant a fraction of a percent more were going to get through. If the Shellies ran him out of EDMs first, the fleet was just going to have to take it.

 

 

He punched another com stud. "General Manning?"

 

 

"Aye, sir." Sharon Manning's taut voice was barely a shade higher than usual. There was, Shahinian reflected, a hefty pool awaiting someone the first time Sharon's voice actually broke.

 

 

"I doubt they're going to ignore you much longer, General. You are cleared to go when the first AFHAWK launches."

 

 

"Now, Your Holiness," Sekah murmured.

 

 

TFNS Viper bucked in agony as the first massed salvo saturated her point defense. The battleship writhed as brutal explosions killed her shields, ripped at her drive field, and gouged deep into her hull. Atmosphere gushed out despite slamming blast doors, and another salvo pounded her weakening defenses. A direct hit wiped away her bridge. Another smashed main missile defense, and her point defense faltered as it dropped into local control.

 

 

Vipers exec wiped blood from his forehead and cursed as he stared at the displays in after control.

 

 

"Condition Omega!' he snapped. "Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship!"

 

 

His command crew jerked their feet in close to their chairs as escape pods slammed closed about them. Explosive charges blasted them out of their ship, but the exec clung to his console just a moment longer, repeating his bail-out command until he was certain everyone had heard.

 

 

He waited one moment too long.

 

 

Ivan Antonov's jaw tightened as Viper blew apart. It was the only change in his rock-hard expression.

 

 

Sharon Manning's dark face was expressionless, but she couldn't believe they'd gotten this close. Of course, no one had ever been insane enough to try such a maneuver before. Guile and deception were all very well, but a good, heavy bombardment beat hell out of either of them.

 

 

She checked her systems again. Dear God, they were less than two hundred klicks out of atmosphere! Didn't anybody down there have a brain? Even a Marine knew fighters avoided atmospheres like the plague!

 

 

She fought her impatience, trying to ignore the capital ships blazing behind her, and almost prayed someone would open fire on her.

 

 

"Very well, Colonel," Sekah said, smiling as Saint-Just's tactical officer almost danced with impatience. He could hardly believe the targets the infidel strikefighters were giving them, either, but it passed belief they would come still closer. "You may engage."

 

 

Another battleship exploded. The superdreadnoughts, with their greater external ordnance capacity, still had EDMs; the battlewagons did not.

 

 

"Order the battleships to open the range," Shahinian said. He hated to do it - but not as much as he hated watching them die.

 

 

"Aye, aye, sir." Janet Toomepuu passed his order, then stiffened. She started to speak, but Shahinian already saw it in his own display.

 

 

"Assault wave - go!" General Manning barked as the first AFHAWK exploded. More followed it, hundreds more, and the real fighters on the edges of her formation took the brunt. The Shellheads were firing clusters of the damned things at each target, bracketing its potential evasion maneuvers with merciless precision. A pilot might evade the first, even the second, but number three or number four was waiting for him when he did.

 

 

Yet they didn't have to take it for long. Nine hundred assault shuttles suddenly screamed forward - not away from the planet, but towards it - even as Kthaara'zar-than's fighters played his final trick. A thousand close attack missiles punched out, aimed not at the planet but at a point just beyond its atmosphere. The heavy warheads exploded as one in an intolerable flash of plasma. and an incredible pulse of radiation.

 

 

Three divisions of Terran Marine assault craft attacked out of the blinding fury of an artificial "sun."

 

 

First Marshal Sekah whipped around to the holo sphere in disbelief. What in the name of Holy Terra - PI No amount of EMP could burn out his hardened sensors, but they'd never been intended to confront that massive a dose! For one priceless moment they were blind, and in that moment nine hundred assault shuttles slammed into atmosphere at reckless speed, shrieking downward like homesick meteors to close on a single island in the sunlit Sea of Arawk.

 

 

"It worked, by God!"

 

 

Aram Shahinian actually flinched from the high-pitched soprano scream, and then, despite everything, his face creased in an enormous grin. Sharon must have forgotten her mike was open - and someone had just come into a tidy little sum, indeed.

 

 

Lantu tried to tell himself this was a foolish moment to worry about his dignity, but he felt like an utter idiot as Angus snatched him up bodily. The admiral's armored vac suit didn't have a repulsor unit, and that meant -

 

 

He gasped as the shuttle rolled and its entire side opened. A corona of superheated air ripped past, lethally beautiful on the far side of a mono-permeable field of force. He stared at it in fascination, then closed his eyes in terror as MacRory gathered him to his chest in massively armored arms and hit his jump gear. A savage foot kicked Lantu in the belly, a fierce stab of heat clawed at him through the protection of MacRory's repulsor field, and then the two of them were falling through ten thousand meters of empty air.

 

 

"Sweet Terra, it was a trick." Sekah whispered as his scanners came back up. "They're not after the polar PDCs - they're after Saint-Justl'

 

 

The Prophet eyed him blankly, clearly not understanding, and Sekah seized his arm. He almost shook him before his staggering brain realized who he'd grabbed, but he turned the Prophet towards the sphere and pointed.

 

 

"Those aren't fighters, Your Holiness! They're assault shuttles! The infidels are landing Marines right on top of Saint-Just - and they're already inside our engagement range!"

 

 

The Prophet paled in understanding, staggering back a half pace as the first marshal released him and whirled to his staff. He began barking orders, and alarms screamed throughout the vast subterranean base.

 

 

Marine Raiders plummeted like lethal, ungainly hawks, and the totally surprised defenses of PDC Saint-Just roused to meet them. Stunned crews flung themselves at their targeting scopes as close-range missile launchers and cannon muzzles slewed crazily, but there wasn't enough time. Not enough to sort out target signatures as small as single repulsor fields. Not enough to track and lock. A few defensive emplacements got lucky, and almost a thousand Marines died before tney grounded, but they came in fast and dirty. Getting down quickly was more important than a precise landing pattern, and they overrode their automatics ruthlessly, screaming down at velocities which would have seen any one of them busted back to doolie if they'd tried it in training.

 

 

Another few hundred died or broke limbs, despite their zoots, at the speed they hit, but three Raider divisions were down, and their total casualties were barely five percent of what a conventional assault into those defenses would have cost them.

 

 

Sharon Manning slammed into the ground, cursing as two bones broke in her right foot, but her zoot was in one piece and she hit her rally signal even as she reached for her own heavy flechette launcher.

 

 

This ain't no place for a general, she told herself as a totally astonished Shellhead sentry emptied his magazine at her and she blew him into bloody rags, but it beats hell out of being dead!

 

 

"Get them back - now!" Aram Shahinian snapped, and Second Fleet's capital ships hurled themselves towards the limits of capital missile range.

 

 

First Marshal Sekah cursed horribly, despite the Prophet's presence, as the infidel fleet retreated. It was all a trick - and he'd fallen for it!

 

 

More and more surface defense positions went into action, but the infidel assault shuttles had already made their drops. Heavy weapons and ammunition canisters still plummeted behind the Raiders, but the shuttles were streaking away, hugging the sea to stay below his heavy weapons, and he snarled in frustration at their speed. The cursed things were too fast for his aircraft to catch - and they were armed. One squadron of high performance jets managed to cut the angle and intercept, but it took everything they had in full afterburner, and they got one shuttle - one! - before the rest of the infidel formation blotted them from the heavens.

 

 

But those shuttles were still dead if Saint-Just held. They might run rings around atmospheric craft, but they couldn't get out of atmosphere without braving his defensive umbrella. Yet if they did manage to take Saint-Just, they'd have a gap. A narrow one, but wide enough for more assaults to break through and nibble away at his ground bases.

 

 

But why? Why run the insane risk of coming in on the ground? They could have opened the same hole from space without putting thousands of people on the planet, cut off with no retreat if their assault failed! It made no sense, unless.

 

 

The Prophet! They knew where he was, and they were after the Prophet himself!

 

 

He crossed quickly to the Prophet's side, bending close to murmur into his ear.

 

 

"Your Holiness, I believe the infidels know you're here. They hope to capture or kill you with this insane assault! I urge you to evacuate immediately. Allow us to deal with them before you return."

 

 

"Evacuate?!" The Prophet stared at him. "Don't be preposterous, First Marshal! This is the strongest fortress on Thebes. They'll never take it with a few thousand infantry!"

 

 

Sekah stared at him, longing to argue, but the Prophet had spoken - and this was, indeed, Thebes' strongest fortress. But was it strong enough? If the infidels had known exactly where to strike, might the Satan-Khan also have told them how to strike?

 

 

His spine stiffened, and he returned to his staff with a grim expression. Satan-Khan or no, the infidels would get to the Prophet only over his own dead body.

 

 

A Theban bunker vaporized as the HVM struck, and Sharon Manning popped her jump gear, hurling herself into the glowing crater. Her staff - what of it had managed to join her - tumbled into it about her, zoots ignoring the fiery heat. A heavy weapons section materialized out of the chaos, setting up to cover the hole, and Manning grunted. It wasn't much of a CP, but it didn't look like anyone could range on them - except for that damned mortar pit. She barked an order, and three Raiders swarmed out to deal with it.

 

 

They did, but only one of them came back.

 

 

Lantu grunted in anguish as they hit the ground and MacRory's unyielding armor bruised him viciously through his armored vac suit. But he was intact, more or less, and Angus set him instantly on his feet. More Raiders filtered out of the forest about them, zoots slimed with tree sap and broken greenery, but not a single weapon fired on them. They were over two hundred kilometers from the inferno raging atop Saint-Just, and Lantu swayed dizzily as he round his bearings. Major M'boto came bounding up in the effortless leaps of his jump gear, carrying Fraymak like a child.

 

 

"That way." Lantu raised an arm and pointed. "We're still about ten kilometers east of - ullpppp!"

 

 

He cut off in chagrin as Angus snatched him up again and the entire battalion went streaking off along the mountainside.

 

 

Ivan Antonov watched his display, clamping his jaw and wishing his scan sections could show him what was happening. But the range was simply too great. He could only watch the relayed data from Mangus Coloradas and pray.

 

 

He looked up as someone stopped beside his chair.

 

 

"Well, Kthaara," he said quietly, "your little trick worked."

 

 

"Indeed," the Orion replied softly, flexing his claws as he, too, stared at the display. One hand touched the empty spot where his defargo had hung, and he seemed to relax slightly.

 

 

Sekah sat before his console, taking personal command of Saint-Just's defense, and sweat rimmed his cranial carapace. Those weren't mortals - they were demons! He'd never dreamed of infantry weapons like the ones they were using against him, and that powered armor - 1 No wonder the Fleet's boarding attacks had been so persistently thwarted after the first few months!

 

 

But demons or not, his interlacing fields of fire were killing them. Not in hundreds as they should have, but still in dozens and scores.

 

 

His orders rolled out, diverting troops from unthreat-ened sectors to back up his fixed positions as the infidels blew them apart. They were coming in from the west, carving a wedge-shaped salient into Saint-Just's defenses, and they were through the outer ring and into the second in far too many places. But the deeper they came, the more they exposed their flanks.

 

 

A battalion commander led his men scuttling through the personnel tunnels and launched them into the rear of an infidel company advancing up a deep ravine.

 

 

"Your six! Watch your s - /" Major Oels' voice died suddenly, and Lieutenant Escalante spun to the rear. A screaming wave of Shellhead infantry rolled over Delta Company like a tsunami, rocket and grenade launchers flaming. A dozen Raiders went down in an instant, and then the rest of the company was on them. A tornado of flechettes and plasma bolts piled the attackers in heaps, but eight more Delta troopers went with them.

 

 

Escalante panted, turning in circles, flechette launcher ready, but there were no live Shellheads left. Then someone touched his arm, and he damned near screamed. He whirled to face Sergeant Major Abbot, and the sergeant's grim expression crushed his scathing rebuke stillborn.

 

 

"Skipper just bought it, Lieutenant," Abbot said harshly, and Escalante noticed the blood splashed all over his zoot. "Captain Sigourny, too."

 

 

Escalante stared at him in horror. Third Battalion had been spread all over the island in the drop. Murphy only knew where the other three companies were, and Delta had already lost Lieutenant Gardener and Lieutenant Matuchek. Dear God, that meant.

 

 

The big sergeant nodded grimly.

 

 

"Looks like you're it, sir."

 

 

Lantu hung onto his breakfast grimly as branches lashed at his armored body. The drunken swoops wouldn't have been so bad if he, like MacRory, had known when they were coming. The colonel's jump gear was a marvel, but it was like being trapped in a demented, sideways elevator, and just clutching his inertial guidance unit was -

 

 

"Stop!" he shouted, and five hundred Terran Marines slammed to a halt as one. He was too preoccupied to be impressed. "Put me down, Colonel!"

 

 

Angus deposited him gently on the forested mountainside, and the admiral peered about, wishing it hadn't been winter the one time he'd seen this spot with his own eyes. All these damned leaves and branches.

 

 

"There." He pointed, and the Terrans craned their necks at the creeper-grown hillock. It didn't look like a heavy weapons emplacement - until they checked their zoot scan systems.

 

 

``Twould seem yer on yer ain, Admiral," Angus said, but Lantu was already scrambling up the slope.

 

 

General Manning nodded thanks without even looking up from her portable map display as Sergeant Young slapped a fresh power cell into her zoot. This was her third CP, if such it could be called, since landing, and she was amazed they'd gotten this far. The tangled mountainsides made beacon fixes hellishly difficult, but it looked like they were into the fourth defensive ring. She grinned humorlessly. Only four more to go, and then they'd hit the hard stuff.

 

 

Amleto Escalante couldn't believe it. Here the Shell-heads went and bored these nice, big tunnels so they could shuttle infantry back and forth, and they didn'teven bother to cover them with sensors!

 

 

Not that he had any intention of complaining.

 

 

His lead squad was a hundred meters ahead of him, probing cautiously. He could have wished for more spacious quarters - in fact, his skin crawled at the thought of wallowing around in here like a bunch of troglodytes - but if there wasn't enough room to use jump gear there was still enough for them to move two abreast. He only had sixty troopers left, but he had a sneaking suspicion Delta Company was deeper into the defenses than anyone else. Now if he only knew what he was doing.

 

 

"Two branches, Lieutenant," Abbot reported. "One east, one west."

 

 

Escalante flipped a mental coin.

 

 

"We go east,' he muttered back.

 

 

Lantu's heart hammered as he approached the entrance. He carried only captured Theban equipment, and the Terrans had stopped beyond the scanner zone, but if they'd guessed wrong about his retinal prints.

 

 

He drew a deep breath as no automated weapon system tore him apart. As long as nothing fired, no alarm had been tripped - now it was up to him to keep it that way, and he removed his helmet with clumsy fingers.

 

 

A push of a button opened an armored panel, and he leaned forward, presenting his eyes and wincing as brilliant light flashed into them. He held his breath, staring into the light, then exhaled convulsively as the blinding illumination turned to muted green. He cleared his throat.

 

 

"Alpha-Zulu-Delta-Four-Niner-One," he recited carefully, and then his mouth twisted. "Great is the Prophet."

 

 

Something grated, and a vast portal yawned. He stepped through quickly, reaching for a blinking panel of lights on the tunnel wall, stabbing buttons viciously. There was a moment of hesitation, and then he grinned savagely as the entire panel went blank.

 

 

First Marshal Sekah muttered to himself as reports flooded in. The infidels were cutting still deeper, but their rate of advance was slowing. He cursed himself for not having seeded the outer rings with nuclear mines. The infidels were bunching up, and sacrificing a few thousand of his own troops would have been a paltry price for taking them out. He'd already tried air strikes, but their damned kinetic missile launchers had an impossible range. None of the nuclear strike aircraft from his other bases had lived to get close enough, and Saint-Just's own air fields were closed by heavy fire.

 

 

But even without nuclear weapons, he was grinding them down. It was only a matter of time, he thought, and tried not to think about the Satan-Khan's malign influence.

 

 

The first twenty Raiders crowded into the lead monorail car as Lantu clambered into its control chair. He'd been more than half afraid to summon the vehicles lest he trigger someone's suspicions, but they needed the speed. And the system was fully automated. With so much else to worry about, he doubted anyone had the spare attention to monitor it.

 

 

"Ready?" He looked back at MacRory, and Angus nodded sharply. The first admiral breathea a silent prayer to Whoever might really be listening, and five hundred Ter-ran Marines - and two traitorous Thebans - went streaking into the heart of PDC Saint-Just at two hundred kilometers per hour. j

 

 

"Oh, shitl"

 

 

Escalante hugged the wall in reflex action as the sudden roar of combat rolled down the tunnel. He punched an armored fist into the stone, then jerked back up and bounded forward. Sergeant Major Abbot grabbed for him, missed, and went streaking after him, cursing all wet-nosed officers who didn't have the sense Mithra gave a Rigelian.

 

 

"Sweet Terra!"

 

 

Sekah jerked as fresh alarms shrieked, and his eyes turned in horror to the illuminated schematic of Saint-Just's personnel tunnels. A crimson light glared - and it was inside the final defensive perimeter!

 

 

Escalante rounded a bend into a huge, brilliantly lit cavern just as his point finished off the last astonished Shellhead missile tech. He looked around him in disbelief, staring at the sequoia-sized trunks of capital missile launchers. Sweet Jesus - they were inside the main base!

 

 

"Sar'major Abbot!"

 

 

"Aye, sir!" Abbot appeared almost as if he'd been chasing him, and Escalante pointed across the cavern.

 

 

`Cover that tunnel! Mine it and drop it. Then I want blastpacks on that hatch over there - move it, Sar'major!"

 

 

"Aye, aye, sir!" Abbot barked. Mithra! Maybe this idiot knew what he was doing after all!

 

 

"Brigadier Ho is pinned down, sir."

 

 

Sharon Manning grimaced and tried to think. Ho's brigade was her point now, and he'd been shot to hell. She stared at her map display, scrolling through the terrain and thanking God Commander Trevayne nad managed to get them such detailed maps. Now where -?

 

 

It had to be coming from that bunker complex. And that meant.

 

 

"Hook Fourth Brigade around to the north." A burst of rifle fire battered her zoot, and she curled around, automatically protecting the display board without even looking up. The cough of a flecnette launcher from behind her silenced the fire, but she hardly noticed. "While the Fourth moves up," she went on without a break, "get Second Battalion of the Nineteenth out on their flank. Tell them to watch out for rocket fire from - "

 

 

She went on snapping orders, and tried not to think of how many of her people were already dead.

 

 

A company of Theban infantry pounded down the tunnel to Missile Bay Sixty-Four, unable to believe their orders. There was no way - no way - infidels could be inside Saint-Just! It had to be a mistake!

 

 

The captain at their head raced around a turn and sighed in relief as he saw the closed hatch. False alarm, he thought, waving for his troops to slow their headlong pace. If it weren't, that hatch -

 

 

Fifty kilos of high explosive turned the hatch into shrieking shrapnel and killed him where he stood.

 

 

Escalante started to wave his troopers forward, then stopped dead. Fuck! Maybe Sergeant Grogan had been right about what lieutenants used for brains! Here he was deep inside the enemy position, and he hadn't even bothered to tell anyone about it! But none of their corns would punch through this much rock, so.

 

 

His eye lit on Private Lutwell. Something big and nasty had wrecked the exoskeleton of her zoot's right arm, and the useless limb was clipped to her side while she managed her flechette launcher with an awkward left hand.

 

 

"Lutwell!"

 

 

"Sir?"

 

 

"Shag ass back down that tunnel. Tell `em we're inside and that I'm advancing, sealing branch corridors with demo charges to cover my flanks."

 

 

"But, sir, I - "

 

 

"Don't fucking argue!" Escalante snarled "Do it, Trooper, or I'll have your guts for breakfast!"

 

 

Lutwell popped into the tunnel like a scalded rabbit, and Escalante swung back to his front. He paused for just an instant as he saw the grin on Abbot's face, and then his people were moving forward once more.

 

 

The monorail braked in a dimly-lit tunnel, and the battalion spilled out, looming like chlorophyll-daubed trolls in the semi-dark. Lantu scuttled out behind Angus as Fraymak pelted up with M'boto.

 

 

"That shaft, Fraymak." Lantu pointed. "Remember the security point just before Tunnel Fourteen." Fraymak nodded. He could handle the standard security systems on the way, but his retinal patterns couldn't access the classified security point; he and M'boto would have to blow their way through.

 

 

"Remember," Lantu said, "give us ten minutes - at least ten minutes - before you blow it."

 

 

"Yes, sir." Fraymak saluted, then held out his hand. Lantu took it. "Good luck, sir."

 

 

"And to you." The admiral squeezed the armored gauntlet and stepped back. "This way, Colonel Mac-Rory," he said. Angus scooped him up once more, and the oattalion vanished into the darkness down two different shafts.

 

 

"Your Holiness," Sekah's face was pale, "the infidels are inside our inner ring."

 

 

The Prophet inhaled sharply and raised one hand to grip the sphere of Holy Terra hanging on his chest. Sekah swallowed and cursed himself viciously. He didn't know how they'd gotten so deep, but he should have stopped them. It was his job to stop them - and he'd failed.

 

 

"I don't know how big a force it is," he continued flatly. "It may be only a patrol - but it may be the lead elements of an entire regiment. I've diverted reinforcements, but it will take them fifteen minutes to get there." He drew a ragged breath. "Your Holiness, I implore you to evacuate. You can escape to safety in one of the nearby towns until we've dealt with the threat or. or - " He broke off, and the Prophet's eyes narrowed. But then he smoothed his expression and touched Sekah's shoulder carapace gently.

 

 

"As you say, my son. Doubtless you will fight better without us to worry over, anyway." He raised his hand and signed Holy Terra's circle. `The blessings of Holy Terra Be upon you, First Marshal. She will give you victory, and I shall return to see your triumph."

 

 

`Thank you, Your Holiness." Sekah's eyes slowed with gratitude, and the Prophet turned away. He beckoned to Archbishop Kirsal, and the prelate leaned close as they hurried from the control center.

 

 

"That fool will never hold," the Prophet murmured.

 

 

"Agreed," Kirsal returned equally quietly.

 

 

"We'll swing by my chambers. The suicide charge will cover our absence long enough to escape the island."

 

 

Private Sinead Lutwell stuck her head out of the tunnel - and jerked back as a blast of powered flechettes blew rock dust over her.

 

 

"Hold your fire, you dip-shit, motherless bastard!" she screamed, and the trooper who'd fired reared back in astonishment. She squirmed forward on her belly and glared up into the business end of a flechette launcher that was lowered with a sheepish grin.

 

 

"Delta Company's what?" This time General Manning did look up from her display, and her jaw dropped at her aide's asinine grin.

 

 

She bent back to the display unit, punching buttons madly, and an unholy smile lit her own face. Sne didn't know who the hell Lieutenant Escalante was, but he was damned well going to be Captain Escalante by sunset!

 

 

"Contact Fifth Brigade!" Fifth Brigade was Fourth Division's reserve, and this was just why The Book insisted on reserves. "I want at least a regiment - two, if they've got `em loose - up that tunnel yesterday!"

 

 

"Aye, aye, sir!'

 

 

Lantu gestured abruptly, and Angus set him down as the final security panel came into sight. The admiral scuttled over and presented his eye, then pressed a careful sequence of buttons. The panel flashed bright for an in stant until he punched two more and it went dead. A hatch slid wide.

 

 

Lantu stepped through, looked both ways down the tunnel, then waved, and two hundred and fifty Raiders filed out as quietly as their zoots would permit. He started down the passage, but an armored hand stopped him.

 

 

"Wait," Angus said quietly, and held him motionless until twenty Raiders had put their zooted bodies between him and anyone they might meet.

 

 

Escalante swore as the auto-cannon blew his point man into mangled gruel, then ducked as grenade launchers coughed. Echoing thunder rolled over him like a fist, and his dwindling force moved forward once more, slipping in bits of entrails and less mentionable things which had once been a Shellhead gun crew.

 

 

Colonel Fraymak checked his watch, then nodded to Major M'boto. Four blastpacks went off as one, blowing the armored hatch clear across Tunnel Fourteen, and four zooted troopers followed before it bounced. Two spun in each direction, hosing the passage with fire, and a dozen hapless technicians died before they realized what the concussion was.

 

 

Angus MacRory stopped, and Lantu pushed his way quickly through the Terrans. This circular chamber was the meeting point of all the escape routes, and Marines were already spreading out to cover all twelve of them. Lantu ignored them as he hurried past the elevators from above toward the coffin-shaped steel box against one wall. He stripped off his gauntlets - this one required fingerprints and retinal prints alike - and bent over it.

 

 

First Marshal Sekah whirled as a fist of thunder battered its way through the command center hatch. What -?

 

 

Major M'boto swore savagely as a flail of rocket fire smashed down the tunnel. They'd gotten in clean only to run into what sounded like a fucking regiment! What the hell were they doing running around this deep inside -?

 

 

He glanced at a mangled Theban body and froze, then grabbed the corpse, jerking it up to see better. His eyes widened as he saw the episcopal purple collar tabs and the golden sphere of Terra. God, no wonder they were taking such heavy fire! They'd just collided with the Prophet's personal guard!

 

 

More rockets streaked in, but his people were hugging the walls for cover and pouring back an inferno all their own. He eased forward behind them, keeping himself between the incoming and Colonel Fraymak.

 

 

The Prophet stepped into his personal chambers, ignoring the priceless artwork and tapestries. He crossed to a utilitarian computer station and brought the system on line with flying fingers, then frowned in concentration as he slowly and carefully keyed the complex code he needed.

 

 

Lantu threw back the cover of the bomb and steppedg uickly aside as Angus reached in past him. His armored st closed on the junction box the admiral had described in the planning stages. Exo-skeletal "muscles" jerked.

 

 

The Prophet punched the last key and stood back with a smile - a smife that turned into a frozen rictus as a scarlet light code flashed. He bent forward once more, pounding the keyboard in a frenzy.

 

 

Nothing happened.

 

 

He wheeled with a venomous curse, wondering what freak of damage had disabled the arming circuit. Well, no matter! He could set the charge by hand as they went by it.

 

 

M'boto's Raiders inched forward, driving the Prophet's Guard before them. It wasn't easy. The fanatical Thebans contested every meter, and casualties were mounting. Even zoots couldn't bull through such close quarters against people who could hardly wait to die as long as they took you with them.

 

 

Colonel Ezra Montoya led his regiment down the tunnel as quickly as they could move. To think a grass-green little first lieutenant had stumbled onto something like this and known what to do with it when he did! It only proved, the colonel told himself firmly, that there really was a God.

 

 

First Marshal Sekah coughed as smoke drifted down the tunnel. The Guard were fighting like heroes, but the bellow of combat was coming closer. He turned his back on the hatch, trying to decide from his displays where the other infidel penetration had gotten to.

 

 

He didn't know, but this one couldn't be them. could it? Yet how could two infidel forces have pierced Saint-Just's heart?

 

 

No matter. He had to deal with the one he knew about, and he snapped fresh orders. Two battalions which had been feeling their way towards the other penetration wheeled and converged upon the Guard.

 

 

M'boto crouched with Fraymak behind a shattered blast door. But for the Prophet's Guard, they'd already have been inside the command center, but the bastards had slowed them just long enough to get help, and reinforcements were springing up like ragweed.

 

 

He looked at the colonel, and Fraymak's eyes were bitter. They weren't going to break through, but if they stayed where they were, someone was going to take them in the rear, and then -

 

 

The two officers froze as a roar of weapons erupted behind them.

 

 

Sekah bared his teeth at the report. The infidels had gotten within two hundred meters of his CP, but they were done for now. He had them trapped between the surviving Guard, reinforced by a fresh battalion, and a second battalion coming in behind them. Powered armor or not, they could never survive that concentration of firepower.

 

 

Amleto Escalante had never been so tired, so scared, or so alive. They'd moved the better part of a klick in the last ten minutes without seeing a soul, and he was just as happy. His people were out of demo charges, and their flanks were hanging wide open with no way to seal the side passages, but so what? They should all be dead already, right? And the deeper they got before they had to fort up, the better.

 

 

He looked around at his remaining thirty troopers and saw the same "what the hell" grins looking back at him. He waved them forward.

 

 

Major M'boto squirmed around and headed down tunnel, then stopped as he saw his rear-guard falling back toward him. Whatever was coming must be nasty, and he reached out and grabbed the nearest demolition man.

 

 

"Charges!" he snapped. "There, there, and there. When the last of our people come by, blow the whole fucking thing in their races!"

 

 

"Aye, aye, sir!"

 

 

M ooto headed back up front. That took care of the back door. Unfortunately, it also meant the only way out was forward.

 

 

The Prophet shoved past Kirsal into the elevator and waited impatiently for the others. They crowded the large car uncomfortably, but his thoughts were on other things as he punched the "down" button.

 

 

Lantu sat on the disarmed bomb, holding his Thebanmade assault rifle across his lap. Terra, he was tired! He realized what he'd thought and grinned, but he was really too weary to think up a fresh oath. He watched Angus deploying one company to hold the tunnels while the other headed back to link up with M'boto before a pincer up the elevator shafts opened a second avenue to the control center.

 

 

He inhaled deeply and marveled at the sheer, sensual joy of doing so. He'd never expected to be alive this long - hadn't, he finally admitted, wanted to be alive - but he was. And it felt remarkably good.

 

 

He grinned again and reached for his armored gauntlets, then froze as a light blinked above the elevator doors.

 

 

Escalante's tiny force stiffened as they heard the thunder ahead of them, and the lieutenant grinned fiercely.

 

 

"Well, Sar'major, sounds like some more of our people've dropped by."

 

 

"Can't hardly be anything else, Skipper," Abbot agreed with an answering grin.

 

 

"Let's go crash the party."

 

 

Sekah cringed as a fresh explosion sent rock dust eddying into the command center. Frantic voices in his headphones told him the infidels had dropped the tunnel roof on the rear battalion's lead platoon, but his people between them and the control room were still holding. Barely.

 

 

He punched commands into his console, looking desperately for troops to divert to the fire fight. If he could just bring in a few more -

 

 

Something made him look up, and he gawked in horror at the troll which had suddenly appeared in the unguarded hatch across the control room.

 

 

He was still lunging to his feet and clawing for his machine-pistol when Lieutenant Amleto Escalante, TFMC, blew him into bloody meat.

 

 

The Prophet swore with satisfaction as the elevator came to a halt. The doors slid open, and he stepped out, already turning towards the bomb.

 

 

The last thing he ever saw was the muzzle flash of First Admiral Lantu's assault rifle.

 

 

General Manning limped slowly along the tunnel, unable even now to believe they'd done it. Casualty reports were still coming in, and they sounded bad. So far, she had at least nine thousand confirmed dead - fifteen percent of her total force - plus God only knew how many wounded, and she knew damned well they were going to find lots more of both.

 

 

But for the moment she pushed the thought aside and opened the visor of her bullet-spalled combat zoot. Even the smoke inside PDC Saint-Just smelled better than she did after nineteen hours of combat.

 

 

She was on her last set of power cells, like almost all of her people, but the destruction of the command center had been decisive. The defenders' coordination had vanished, and when Montoya brought an entire regiment right into the middle of their position, the Shellheads had nowhere to go but Hell.

 

 

Which, she thought grimly, was precisely where most of them had gone.

 

 

She stepped over a heap of Theban bodies into what had been the command center, and her eyebrows rose as she saw both of their Theban allies. Incredible. She'd never expected any of that forlorn hope to survive.

 

 

People saluted, and she returned their salutes wearily. MacRory, she saw - and what asshole ever let a sergeant with his potential slip away without re-upping? - and M'boto. And somebody else.

 

 

"General," MacRory said, "`tis a fine thing tae see ye."

 

 

"And you, Colonel." She nodded to Colonel Fraymak and Admiral Lantu, filing away the latter's strange, deeply satisfied expression for later consideration, then turned her attention to the young man sitting on the computer console between MacRory and M'boto. A big, grim-faced sergeant hovered protectively behind him, and Tie was no longer wearing his zoot - for obvious reasons, given the blood-soaked splints on his left leg and arm. There were more bandages strapped around nis torso, and his face was pasty gray. Nasty, Manning thought, but all the bits and pieces still seemed to be attached. That was all the medics really needed these days.

 

 

"And who might this be?" she asked, for the youngster had lost his shirt in the first-aid process, and she saw no rank insignia.

 

 

"Och, tis the lad who saved M'boto's arse!" MacRory grinned, and M'boto nodded firmly. "Lieutenant Esca-lante, General."

 

 

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Colonel," Manning said. The injured young officer looked up at her in more confusion than pain-killers alone could explain, and she held out her right hand. He extended his own automatically, and she clasped it firmly, ignoring the baffled expressions all around her.

 

 

"This, gentlemen," she announced, "is Captain Esca-lante, the newest recipient of the Golden Lion of Terra."

 

 

It was really too bad, she always thought later, that she hadn't had a camera with her.

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE The Terms of Terra

 

 

Ivan Antonov glowered at the recorded image on his screen and tuned out the long, impassioned diatribe. Sooner or later the Theban would run down and get to the heart of his reply. And, unless the Theban race truly was insane, Antonov knew what that reply would be. Of course, he was beginning to wonder if, with the exception of a few individuals like Lantu and Fraymak, there might not be something to the theory of racial insanity.

 

 

PDC Saint-Just had cost less than he'd feared, if far more than he would find easy to live with, and if there were any justice in the universe its loss would have finished the Church of Holy Terra. But no. The surviving Synod had gotten together, canonized its dead Prophet, anointed a new Prophet in his stead, and announced its determination to pursue the jihad even unto martyrdom.

 

 

Personally, Antonov was about ready to oblige the svolochy.

 

 

Vanya, Vanya that's the nasty side of you talking! And so it was, but if he could contrive to hang just the Synod, perhaps the rest of the population might learn from example?

 

 

Of course, the best way to encourage fanaticism was to provide it with fresh martyr-fodder, yet he couldn't quite suppress the wistful temptation. It was really too bad he couldn't even voice it aloud, but he shuddered to think how Kthaara would react after all his lectures. And it didn't help his mood to find the Synod reacting to the truth about the First Prophet exactly as Lantu had predicted. The new Prophet stubbornly insisted that if infidels could extract data from Starwalkers computers they could also insert data, and his fire-and-brimstone denunciation of monsters vile enough to defile sacred scripture had brought Antonov to the point of apoplexy. And the worst of it - the absolute worst - was that the old bastard actually believed the polneyshaya he was spouting. They'd gotten rid of a clique of self-serving, lying charlatans only to replace it with a crop of true believers!

 

 

Religious fervor! The only thing it's good for is turning brains to oatmeal! And if mere's one thing in this galaxy worse than Terran politicians, it's theocratic politicians!

 

 

The Prophet's latest fulmination reached its peroration, and Antonov's eyes sharpened as the Theban who had once been Archbishop Ganhad of the Ministry of Production glared at him.

 

 

"And so, infidel," the Prophet said bitterly, "we have no choice but to hear your words. Yet be warned! Your accursed master the Satan-Khan will not pervert our Faith as he has your own! The true People of Holy Terra will never abandon their Holy Mother, and the day shall come when you and all of your apostate race will pay the price for your sins against Her! We - "

 

 

Antonov grunted and killed the message before the old fart got himself back up to speed. That was all he really needed to know - now he could let Winnie wade through the rest of this drivel and summarize any unlikely tidbits of importance. He felt a tiny qualm of conscience at passing the task to her, but rank, after all, had its privileges. Thank God.

 

 

"Actually," Lantu said, "I must confess to a bit of hope."

 

 

The first admiral's almost whimsical smile was a far cry from the tortured expression he'd worn before his personal extermination of the Prophet and his entourage, and Antonov envied him. Kthaara'zarthan envied him even more, but he was content. His defargo had been present if he couldn't be, and he'd almost purred as he made Lantu relive every moment of the encounter. The bared-fang grin of total approval he'd bestowed on his one-time mortal enemy haa surprised even Antonov; the rest of Second Fleet's senior officers were still in shock. And when Tsuchevsky had caught the Orion initiating the Theban into the pleasures of vodka -!

 

 

"You must?" Antonov asked, suppressing yet another ignoble urge to twit his vilkshatha brother.

 

 

"Indeed. Aside from his religious fervor, Ganhad is no fool. Once you get past his ranting and raving, it looks as if he recognizes the reality of nis helplessness, and unlike his predecessor, he truly cares about the People. That should make some sort of settlement possible.'

 

 

Antonov grunted and turned his glass in his hands. Delighted as he was by Pericles Waldeck's fall from power, the chaos on Old Terra had dumped yet another pile of manure in his lap. President Sakanami's administration had been devastated by Howard's Assembly revelations. One or two LibProgs were actually muttering about impeachment in the apparent hope of saving themselves by poleaxing their own parry's president, and his cabinet was a shambles. Of all the pre-war ministers, only Hamid O'Rourke remained. Waldeck and Sakanami had gone behind his back to transmit Aurelli's pre-Lorelei orders via the minister for foreign affairs, and his work since the Peace Fleet massacre, especially as Howard's ally within the cabinet, had won widespread approval.

 

 

There was even - Antonov grinned at the thought - talk of running him for president. One thing was certain; no one would be renominating Sakanami Hideoshi!

 

 

Meanwhile, however, the confusion left the foreign affairs ministry a total, demoralized wreck, too busy defending the careers of its survivors and fending off Assembly "fact-finding" committees to worry about diplomacy. And since he'd done so well fighting the war, the politicos had decided to let Ivan Antonov end the war. After everything else they'd saddled him with in the last two and a half years, the vlasti had decided to make him a peace envoy!

 

 

`No, really." Lantu's improbably long arm stretched out to refill his own vodka glass. "You're not going to get him to accept unconditional surrender, and if you show a single sign of weakness or wavering he may be able to convince himself `Holy Terra' is intervening on his side and turn stubborn, but otherwise I think he 11 accept the terms you actually plan to offer."

 

 

"The terms you plan to offer," Antonov corrected for, in a sense, that was no more than literal truth. Lantu's personal familiarity with the Synod's members had guided the careful crafting of a package both sides might be able to live with, though the prelates' reaction, had any of them suspected who the infidels' advisor was, scarcely bore thinking on.

 

 

Lantu gave him a small, Theban smile and shrugged.

 

 

"Actually, Admiral, I believe the first admiral is correct." Winnifred Trevayne's diffidence couldn't quite hide her delight. She was in her element analyzing the Theban responses - which, Antonov reflected, probably said something unhealthy about her intellect. "The new Prophet will undoubtedly rant and rave, but he has no realistic option. He knows that. If he didn't, he wouldn't have agreed even to meet with you, and I think he's afraid you're going to demand something far worse. No doubt he's screwed himself up to accept martyrdom rather than that something worse, and when you start turning the screws, he's going to be certain that's what's coming. Which means that when you offer him the rest of the terms Admiral Lantu's suggested they'll seem so much better than his expectations he'll jump at them," She smiled slightly. "In fact, he'll probably think you're a fool for letting him off so lightly.'

 

 

"You do great things for my self-esteem, Commander," Antonov growled, but his eyes gleamed appreciatively.

 

 

"Well, sir, it's not really that different from a military operation, is it?" she replied. "We don't care what they think of us. We only have to worry about what they do.'

 

 

The Prophet of Holy Terra's nostrils flared as he entered the conference room. His stiff face was expressionless, but his eyes flitted about as if he expected the Satan-Khan himself to materialize in a puff of smoke. Antonov rose on the far side of the table, flanked by his staff and senior officers (with the conspicuous exception of his special deputy for fighter operations) as the Prophet's delegation of bishops and archbishops followed him. Their yellow eyes flared with contempt for the heretics before them, but contempt was a frail shield for the terror which lurked behind it.

 

 

Antonov waited as they took their waiting chairs stiffly, then sank into his own chair, followed a fraction of a second later by his subordinates. He faced the Prophet across the table and cleared his throat.

 

 

"This is only a preliminary meeting," he rumbled, "and there will be no discussion. You may debate among yourselves at your leisure; I do not intend to do so."

 

 

The Prophet stiffened even further, but Antonov's flinty eyes stopped him before he spoke. They held the Theban's gaze unwaveringly, and the Prophet closed his lips firmly.

 

 

"I will say only this," Antonov resumed when he was certain the other had yielded. "Were we indeed the `infidels' you term us, your planet would be dead. You have no weapon which can prevent us from destroying your species. We have not done so solely because we choose not to do so. Our continued restraint is contingent upon your ability to convince us that we can allow you to live without endangering ourselves or our allies, and the only way in which you can convince us is to accept the terms I am about to announce."

 

 

Two pairs of eyes locked anew, and Antonov felt a stir of satisfaction at the desperation in the Prophet's. Lantu and Winnie were right. The Theban was terrified of what he was about to hear, yet knew he had no choice but to hear it.

 

 

"First," he said coldly, "Thebes shall disarm, totally and completely. All planetary defense centers will be razed. All heavy planetary combat equipment will be destroyed. No armed starships will be permitted."

 

 

He watched the dismay in the Thebans' faces and continued unflinchingly.

 

 

"Second, the Terran Federation Navy shall maintain asteroidal forts and OWPs, in strength sufficient to satisfy its own security determinations, within the Thebes System. These fortifications will command a radius of ten light-minutes from the system's warp point.

 

 

"Third, the Federation government shall retain possession of the planetary defense center on the Island of Arawk and snail maintain there a garrison of up to one Terran Marine division plus support troops. A spaceport facility shall be built within the enclave so established and shall be under the exclusive control of the Terran Federation."

 

 

Dismay became horror at the thought of an infidel presence actually profaning the surface of Thebes, and he paused, letting their revulsion work upon them. As Lantu had predicted, they were clearly gathering their courage to reject the still worse demands to come, and he cleared his throat.

 

 

"Fourth," he said quietly, "there shall be no general occupation of Thebes." The Prophet's eyes widened in astonishment, but Antonov maintained his stony expression. "The Terran presence on Thebes beyond the Arawk enclave shall be limited to inspection parties whose sole purpose shall be to determine that the conditions of the peace settlement are fully observed. Said inspections shall have complete, unlimited access to any point on Thebes, but Theban inspectors shall be free to accompany our own.

 

 

"Fifth, any Theban citizen who desires to emigrate shall have the right to do so. If the Theban government chooses not to support such emigration, the Terran Federation will do so through its facilities on Arawk Island.

 

 

"Sixth, the Terran Federation shall be free to present its interpretation of the history of Terra to the Theban people via electronic media." Breath hissed across the table at the thought of such spiritual contamination, but he continued unhurriedly. "We are aware that you reject the truthfulness of your own computer files. We do not share your doubts as to their veracity, but the Terran Federation will declare that the events described in that data occurred on the planet of Thebes and, as such, constitute a portion of the history of Thebes, and not of Terra. We will, therefore, undertake to make no reference to any events which occurred within the Theban System prior to the present war."

 

 

The Prophet sank back, his eyes more astonished than ever. Surely the agents of the Satan-Khan couldn't resist the opportunity to attack the very foundations of the Faith! Antonov noted his expression, and this time he permitted himself a thin smile.

 

 

"Seventh, the government of Thebes shall have sole and unchallenged control over its own immigration policy, with the exception of movements within the Arawk enclave."

 

 

More of the Synod gawked at him. No general occupation? No use of the locked files against them? Not even an insistence on infiltrating agents of heresy in the guise of "tourists"?!

 

 

"Eighth, the Terran Federation, which honors a tradition of freedom of conscience and guarantees a legal right to freedom of religion, shall neither forcibly suppress the Faith of Holy Terra on Thebes, nor restrict the right of Theban missionaries to move freely among Federation planets and their populations."

 

 

The Thebans verged on a state of shock. Had they been even a little less experienced in the Synod's political infighting, jaws would have hung slackly.

 

 

"Ninth, although Thebes will oe permitted no armed starships, a Theban merchant marine may be established if the people of Thebes so desire, with the sole restriction that all starships departing the Thebes System shall do so subject to boarding by Federation inspectors from the fortifications to be maintained therein. Said inspections shall be limited to a determination that the inspected vessels are indeed unarmed. Theban trade shall not be restricted in any way, and Thebes shall be free to trade with the Federation should it so desire.

 

 

"Tenth, in light of the fact that Thebes will be allowed no military forces, the Terran Federation shall guarantee the security of the System of Thebes against external enemies.

 

 

"Eleventh, Thebes shall not be required to pay indemnities or reparations to any star nation. However' - Anto-nov's voice hardened - "the government of Thebes shall be required to acknowledge, formally and for the record, that the attack by its armed forces on the Tenth Destroyer Squadron, Khanate of Orion Space Navy, was made without provocation under the guise of an offer to parley. And the government of Thebes shall further acknowledge that this attack was made on the express orders of the then Prophet."

 

 

Ivan Antonov leaned forward and spoke very quietly.

 

 

"Twelfth, Theban personnel responsible for atrocities on planets of the Terran Federation shall be held personally accountable by the Federation."

 

 

He met the Prophet's eyes coldly.

 

 

"I do not care why this war was launched, Prophet, but there will be no question, now or ever, of who fired the first shot and under what circumstances, nor will we permit criminals to escape punishment. The Federation will return its Theban prisoners of war as rapidly as possible, but individuals who, while in occupation of Terran-populated worlds, committed acts which constitute criminal offenses under the laws of those worlds, will be tried and, if convicted, sentenced by Terran courts. We did not attack you. We have suffered far higher civilian casualties than you. Our legal system will deal with those who have committed atrocities against our people."

 

 

He held the Theban's gaze unwaveringly, his face carved from granite, and it was the Prophet'seyes which wavered.

 

 

"The terms I have just enunciated are those of the Terran Federation. They are not negotiable. You have one standard week to accept or reject them. If you choose not to accept them by the end of that time, my forces will move against Thebes in whatever strength I deem appropriate.'

 

 

He rose, his staff standing behind him, and his voice was frozen helium.

 

 

"This meeting is adjourned."

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Khimhok za'Fanak

 

 

This time Francis Mulrooney felt no surprise when the kholokhanzir's herald led him into the guarded apartment, yet tension more than compensated for its absence. The aged Orion on the dais seemed not even to have moved in the thirty-two standard months since their last meeting, and his bright eyes watched the Terran ambassador's approach.

 

 

Mulrooney stopped and bowed, then straightened. Li-harnow'hirtalkin's nand rose. It held the formal parchment document, signed by the Prophet of Holy Terra and sealed with the sigil of his faith.

 

 

"I have received your message and your document, Ambassador," the Khan'a'khanaaeee said. "Your Admiral Aantaahnaav is to be commended upon his understanding of the Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee and the demands of our code of honor." The Khan's ears twitched. "Perhaps he had also some small assistance from Kthaara'aantaah-naav," he added dryly, and Mulrooney felt an icicle of relief at his tone. Then Lihamow's ears straightened more seriously, and he sat fully erect.

 

 

"Neither the Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee nor the Federation read the original events in Lorelei aright, Ambassador. Had we done so, much suffering on the part of your people might have been averted. Yet even after the truth was known, the Federation honored its responsibilities. This" - he twitched the parchment - "shall be placed among the state records of my people and of my clan to serve the Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee forever as an example of a khimhok's fidelity. We have received shirnowkas-haik from the oath-breakers who slew our warriors, and in the name of the Zheeerlikou `valkhannaieee I now renounce all reparations. There has been khnarma. I am content, and I declare before Hiranow'khanark and my clan fathers that the Federation is khimhok za'fanak."

 

 

Despite decades of diplomatic experience, Mulrooney exhaled a tremendous sigh of relief and bent his head with profound gratitude.

 

 

"In the name of my people, I thank you, Hia'khan," he said softly.

 

 

"Your thanks are welcomed, but they are not necessary," the khan replied just as softly. "The Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee themselves could not have more honorably acquitted themselves. There will be no more talk of cho-faki among my fangs. You are not Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee, yet we learned to respect your warriors' courage as allies against the Rigelians; now their honor makes the differences between us seem as nothing. And that, Ambassador, is what truly matters to us all.'

 

 

Mulrooney bowed once more, touching his fist to his chest in silence, and the Khan rose with fragile, aged grace. The Terran's eyes widened as the Khan'a'kha-naaeee stepped down from his dais and performed an unthinkable act. He extended his hand and touched an alien ambassador.

 

 

"It is time to present this shirnowkashaik to my fangs," Liharnow said, leaning upon the human's arm for support, "and I would have you present when they receive it." He smiled a wry, fang-hidden smile as the Terran moved with exquisite care, supporting his weight as if it were the most important task in the Galaxy. "For today, you shall be Fraaancis'muuulroooneeee, a hirikrinzi of the Zheeerlikou'valkhannaieee, and not the Ambassador of the Terran Federation, for ambassadors are not required between warriors who have bled for one another's honor."

 

 

All the other farewells were over - but for one - and for now Antonov and Kthaara had the small lounge in Old Terra's Orbit Port Nineteen to themselves. They stood side by side, human and Orion silhouetted against the transparent bulkhead as they gazed at the breathtaking blue curve of the world they had left only hours before.

 

 

Kthaara had accompanied Antonov back to the home world that was, in part, now his. He had wanted to see it. and he had stoically endured the ceremonies in which humanity loaded him down with decorations and promoted him to captain, a rank he would now hold for life. And now he awaited the liner that would take him on the long voyage back to Valkha'zeeranda to become again a small claw of the Khan and resume the life he would never again see through quite the same eyes.

 

 

He finally broke the companionable silence. "Well," he said mischievously, "has the new Sky Marshal settled into his duties?"

 

 

Antonov snorted explosively. "They couldn't give me more rank," he rumbfed, "so they created a new rank. And they've decided they need a clearly defined military commander in chief. especially now that they won'thave Howard Anderson to tickle their tummies and wipe their butts for them! Of course," he smiled thinly, "they don't really believe they'll ever need the position - or the military - again. Every war is always the last war!" His smile grew even thinner. "Well, the politicians may think they've put me in a gilded dust bin, but until I finally take Pavel Sergeyevich's advice and retire to Novaya Ro-dina, those vlasti aren't going to forget I'm here! I'm going to use the position to make sure the Navy is ready when it's needed again - as it will be!" He sighed deeply. "There is much we can learn from the Orions, Kthaara. such as seeing the universe as it is."

 

 

"There is much the Zheeerkou'valkhannaieee can leam from your race, as well," Kthaara replied quietly. "And before you depart for Novaya Rodina - where I expect you will be terribly frustrated, since a young colony cannot afford a surplus of politicians for you to growl about! - I plan to hold you to your promise to visit Valk-ha'zeeranda and meet the other members of your clan." He grew serious. "You are right, of course. Dangers which we cannot foresee will threaten our two races in the future. But whatever happens, the Federation will always have a friendly voice in the councils of the Kha-n'a'Khanaaeee. Clan Zarthan is now linked to your people by bonds of blood, for we are vilkshatha." He gave a carnivore's smile in which Antonov could recognize sadness. "My ship departs soon, so let us say our farewells now. Vanya."

 

 

He had never heard anyone call Antonov that (in fact, the mind boggled at the thought), but he'd looked up the familiar form of Ivan and practiced until he could produce a sound very close to it. Now he waited expectantly. and saw an expression he'd never seen on his friend's muscular face. He even - incredibly - saw one droplet of that saline solution Human eyes produced for any number of oddly contradictory reasons.

 

 

"You know," Antonov said finally, "no one has called me that since Lydochka." He couldn't continue.

 

 

"You never speak of your wife. Why is that?"

 

 

Antonov tried to explain, yet could not. In the decades since Lydia Alekseyevna Antonova had died with her infant daughter in a freak, senseless traffic accident, her widower had gradually become the elemental force, without a personal life, the Navy now knew as Ivan the Terrible. but there were some pains even Ivan the Terrible could not endure explaining - even to himself.

 

 

Now he gave one of the broad grins only those who knew him well were ever allowed to see. "Never mind.

 

 

Farewell, Kthaara," he said, and took the Orion in a bear hug that would have squeezed the wind from a weaker being.

 

 

"Well, isn't this cozy!"

 

 

Howard Anderson's powered wheelchair hummed into the lounge. The right corner of his mouth drooped, and his right hand was a useless claw in his lap, but the old blue eyes were bright, and if his speech was slurred it was no less pungent than of yore.

 

 

"My ship leaves soon, and I only just gave my nursemaid the slip. And unlike some people - " he gestured at the remains of the bar " - I'm about to dry up and blow away! So for God's sake pour before the doctors catch up with me, Ivan! Two bourbons - right, Kthaara?"

 

 

"Actually, Admiral Aandersaahn, I believe I will have vodka." Anderson's eyebrows rose, but worse was yet to come. Kthaara tossed off his drink with what sounded awfully like an attempt at a Russian toast, then addressed Antonov. "Oh, yes, Ivaan Nikolaaayevicch, that reminds me. Thank you for the translations - and I hope you can manage to send more." He turned to Anderson. "Although I admit to some trouble with the names - a problem, I understand, not entirely unknown even among Humans - I find I have acquired a taste for Russian literature. Indeed," he continued with the enthusiasm of the neophyte, "I regard it as a unique ornament of your race'scultural heritage. Do you not agree, Admiral Aandersaahn?"

 

 

Anderson turned, horrified, to face Antonov's beaming countenance.

 

 

"You Red bastard!" he gasped. "You've corrupted him!"

 

 

Old Terra receded in Anderson's cabin view port, and the left side of his mouth twitched in a tiny smile as he contemplated the chaos he was leaving behind on that world. Just over a year of Sakanami Hideoshi's presidency remained, and if he was very lucky he might DC able to fix a traffic fine before leaving office; he certainly wasn't joing to achieve any more than that. Anderson was a ittle sorry for him, but only a little. The man had done a workman-like job of actually fighting the war, but if he'd done his duty properly, there never would have been a war. If he was as astute a politician as Anderson thought, he knew that only his resignation might let him end on a note of dignity.

 

 

Nothing, on the other hand, was going to save Pericles Waldeck from history - or his fellows. He was guilty of two crimes too terrible for political pardon: he'd lied to the Assembly and provoked a war. and he'd been caught at it. That was a source of unalloyed satisfaction to Howard Anderson. The LibProgs would recover - probably by denouncing Waldeck and Sakanami more vociferously than anyone else - and the Corporate Worlds' political power would continue to grow, but he'd taken them down a peg. He'd slowed them, and the planet of Christophon would require decades to regain the prestige it had lost.

 

 

Yet the fates of politicos, however satisfying, were as nothing beside his pride in the Terran Federation and its Navy. With all its warts - and God knew they were legion - -humanity had risen to its responsibilities once more. He wouldn't be here to see its next great challenge, but as long as there were Ivan Antonovs, Angus MacRorys, Caitrin MacDougalls, Andy Mallorys, Hannah Avrams, and, yes, Hamid O'Rourkes, the human race would be in good hands.

 

 

And for now, he had one last task to perform.

 

 

He looked down at the document folder in his lap, and his left hand stroked the embossed starships and planet and moon of the Terran Federation Navy on its cover. He had promised Chien-lu he would visit Hang-chow, and so he would - to deliver personally to Chien-lu's son the official verdict of the Court of Inquiry on the Battle of Lorelei.

 

 

His fingers stilled on the folder and he leaned back against his cushions to watch the stars.

 

 

Hannah Avram walked slowly out into the sunlight and brushed back her hair with her right hand. She was becoming accustomed to her robotic arm, but even under her therapists' tyranny, it would be months yet before she trusted its fingers for any delicate task. She stood leaning against the hospital balcony's rail, reveling in the sheer joy of breathing as her grafted lungs filled with New Danzig's autumn air. The ghosts of her dead had retreated, especially after the crushing defeat the New Danzig electorate had handed Josef Wyszynski and his entire Tokarov-backed slate of candidates.

 

 

The door opened behind her, and she turned as Dick Hazelwood joined her on the balcony. He, too, wore an admiral's uniform, and he squeezed her right shoulder gently, then leaned on the rail beside her, staring out over the city of Gdansk.

 

 

"It's official," he said quietly. "Admiral Timoshenko wants me for The Yard."

 

 

"Good. You deserve it."

 

 

"Maybe, but." His voice trailed off and he turned to frown at her. She met his gaze innocently, and his frown deepened. "Damn it, Hannah," he sighed finally, "I know it's a great opportunity - better than I ever thought I'd see - -but I don't want to leave New Danzig."

 

 

"Why not?"

 

 

"You know why," he said uncomfortably, looking back out over the city.

 

 

"I do?"

 

 

"Yes, you do!" He wheeled back to her with a glare. "Damn it, woman, are you going to make me say it? All right, then, I love you and I don't want to leave you behind! There! Are you satisfied now?"

 

 

She met his eyes levelly, and her lips slowly blossomed in a smile.

 

 

"Do you know, I think I am," she murmured, reaching up to touch the side of his face. "But I'm not going to be in therapy here forever, you know. In fact - " her smile turned wicked " - they're transferring me to Galloway's World to finish my convalescence before I take over Sky Watch there."

 

 

Lantu - no longer First Admiral Lantu, but simply Lantu - stood with his arm about his wife and watched Sean David Andrew Tulloch Angus MacDougall Mac-Rory scuttle across the floor towards his mother. The infant's speed astounded Lantu, for Theban children were much slower than that before they learned to walk. And, he thought with a small smile, he would have expected the sheer weight of his name to slow him down considerably!

 

 

The commander in chief of the New New Hebrides Peaceforce stood beside Caitrin, craggy face beaming as he watched his son, and he chuckledas Caitrin scooped him up.

 

 

"Ocn, Katie! `Tis a gae good thing he takes after yer side o' the family, lass!'

 

 

"Oh, I don't know." Caitrin ruffled the boy's red-gold hair, cooing to him enthusiastically, then smiled wickedly at her husband. "He's got your eyes - and I haven't heard him say a word yet, either!"

 

 

Angus grinned hugely, and Lantu laughed out loud. He and Hanat crossed to their hosts, Hanat moving a bit more slowly and carefully than was her wont. Her slender figure had altered drastically in the last two months, for Theban gestation periods were short and multiple births were the norm, but her smile was absolutely stunning.

 

 

Angus waved them into Theban-style chairs on the shady verandah, and the four of them sat, looking out through the green-gold shadow of the towering banner oaks at the sparkling ocean of New Hebrides.

 

 

"Sae, then, Lantu," Angus said, breaking the companionable silence at last. "Is it an official New Hebridan ye are the noo?"

 

 

"Yes." Lantu leaned further back, still holding Hanat's hand. "The Synod knows about Fraymak and me, and we've both been anathematized and excommunicated." He grimaced. "It hurts - not because either of us cares about their religious claptrap but because we can never go home again.

 

 

"Ah, but hame is where yer loved, lad," Angus said gently, and Caitrin nodded beside him. " `Tis no what I expected when I was scheming how t' kill ye, ye ken, but'tis true enow fer that."

 

 

"I know," Lantu looked over at his hosts and smiled with a trace of sadness, "and I imagine the Synod's been a bit surprised by how many of our people refused repatriation. I suspect they're going to be even more surprised by what happens to their religion once younger generations start comparing humanity's version of Terran history to theirs, too. Fraymak ana I may even get a decent mention in Theban history books, someday.

 

 

"Aye t' that," Angus agreed, holding his friend's eyes warmly. "Any race needs a Cranaa'tolnatha of its ain," he said softly.

 

 

The End