His own people had sedated him. There was some wisdom in their act, yet not enough thought. It had ended the episode, preventing any escalation, but it tipped their hand. They had intended to disabled him, more thoroughly than those in Med. That they could contemplate the action would have astounded him in the past. To carry it out so matter-of-factly showed their true disdain. It brought him back to his childhood. He had been treated thus as a child. Is this how they see me? A pawn at their mercy. Well, he had learned that there was no mercy in his House. They would learn also. His rocking stopped.
*
Addikae approached his commander warily. There is too much confidence here, he thought. Is it the bravura of a guilty boy who thinks he has not been caught? Or something more? Curse this breed. Their madness hides their reasoning. He was careful to let none of his thinking show on his face. ‘Another marine contingent leaves today or tomorrow for the Rim, all their command and five hundred forty men,’ he advised.
‘I assume their fate will not differ from the last contingent?’ questioned Colda.
‘That is correct,’ he answered. ‘They have failed to study the Rim. They will continue to blunder, to be stung into the reactions we plan, to be trapped and eventually destroyed. The loss of this force may be enough to break the marines, advancing our timing significantly.’
‘The plan is not to break their spirit, it is to eliminate them, the whole corps. Have you developed such a fondness for them that you would alter the plan?’
‘They are very effective fighters, a resource that could be employed at a later point in our program.’
‘I can not be sure of their loyalty,’ said Colda with emphasis on every word. ‘That is reason enough for their extermination,’ he added lightly.
Paranoia can be a powerful tool. The Houses had honed its use like a sword. A little of it slid into Addikae’s ordered mind. Is that a message for me? How much does he know or sense? I must not underestimate him.
Colda had stunned them all with his disappearance the previous night. The medication should have left him near comatose for twenty-four hours. Coupled with a guard on his door, the situation seemed well managed. Managed? How can I manage without complete data? he railed.
A routine check before the evening meal period had found the room vacant. A concealed exit was discovered. The leisurely search instituted turned to panic when the alarm of murder was raised. Only then was Addikae notified. He assembled the advisors. It was early to lose Colda. Plans would have to be modified. Coltrane was called in to prepare for this possibility, only to have the PlanCon Commander appear naked and smiling in his room hours later.
Details of Colda’s medical history and an assessment of his quarters had solved the mystery. Addikae had not been in Colda’s private rooms previously. Checking his memory, he found this had been intentional. His heightened spatial awareness would have detected the discrepancies in the rooms that provided for not only an additional exit, but a warren of narrow passageways in the walls also. Colda had kept all this hidden from him. Secret passages and immunities. These were things from romances or juvenile games. Yet they had been effective. Perhaps this successful return to his singular childhood is responsible for the restoration of vitality and confidence. If so, he will be doubly dangerous, Addikae warned himself.
The arrival of Sub-commander Visco allowed him to refocus his thoughts. The officer stopped several metres away and waited to be waved into their company by Colda. His demeanour held for a bow to the PlanCon Commander and a wait for further instruction. Well done, thought Addikae. This is how Colda would like all of us to behave.
‘Sit, and proceed with your report, Sub-commander,’ said Colda graciously.
The man launched straight in, no attempt at pleasantries. Again, he picks the mood, admired Addikae. Perhaps there is more to this one than the tired shell he projects.
‘Nata investigates the killing of the young psych. The Inner Belt Scholar assists. Quartermaine was set the task of establishing the movements of the deceased, and those I assume are suspects. He was a wise choice for no one could avoid or delay interrogation by reason of duty or rank.’ Visco stopped, his manners leaving the direction of the conversation to Colda.
‘And the suspects?’ Colda inquired casually.
If he loses control during this discussion, then a meeting with the Senior Psych will be engineered, decided Addikae.
‘Trahern of the Greys, and yourself, Sir, appear to be most favoured. A caretaker from the Box, examined that day, and the serviceman first on the scene have been included. A pair from Security are suspect, not for the crime, but for their unexplained proximity.’
Far from upset, Colda looked pleased with this news.
He and Trahern held in the same regard, considered deadly and dangerous. Is that where his satisfaction comes from? brooded Addikae. We must be careful he does not compete for the honour of the conviction.
‘Are you sure Quartermaine is not running this inquiry himself?’ asked Colda.
‘His task was set by Nata. The Commander has other problems to occupy him. The marines have suffered unprecedented casualties on the Rim. A larger force embarks tomorrow to rectify the situation. There has also been a request from the Planetary Council to check for armament violations in the Down Arm agricultural sector.’
‘And Nata?’ questioned Colda, ignoring most of what Visco had said. ‘How do you believe he will progress?’
‘Slowly, however, with the Scholar’s assistance an outcome is sure.’ The sub-commander paused. ‘Their inquiries may prove harmful to the plans in motion.’
That was very politic, thought Addikae.
Colda sat back, cupping his chin in his hand. His thoughtful stare settled on Addikae. ‘Your advice … Sub-commander Visco?’ asked Colda, swinging his head to the quiet officer with a smile.
‘The sooner this investigation is over, the better,’ answered Visco.
‘You suggest that we assist?’ cut in Addikae.
‘No, I suggest we provide a solution. Trahern is too dangerous, but the caretaker, Donen, could be delivered in such a way that judgment is final.’ On Colda’s wave of encouragement, he outlined his scheme.
Bold and opportunistic, thought Addikae. This plan has merit. Equal to any of my own. The thin blade of paranoia slid in a little deeper. Who is this quiet man? The officer had not lifted his eyes from Colda’s chin during his whole report. No knowing glances or conspiratorial smiles. Not even the lift of an eyebrow. Somehow he has remained unobtrusive throughout.
Colda was beaming, intrigued by the plan. It is bloody enough for him and the target would be his choice, concluded Addikae. The difficulty will be keeping him out of it … then again that could offer a timely opportunity to reduce the field.
CHAPTER 23: TIME FOR THE BOTTLE
The Armourer walked across his workroom to a locker next to the large tool rack. From a small shelf near the top, he took down a brown bottle, twisted the cap to break the seal then spun it with a finger. It sailed out of his hand to clatter on the floor. No matter, I won’t need that again, he thought. The closest chair was on the far side of the room and the stools alongside the workbenches nearby didn’t appeal so he just turned and slid down the wall. He was tired and not from the hours only. The marines had asked a lot from him, more than he was willing to give.
Outfitting Tommo and Macky should have been easy. A final fit on the suit combined with a last warning was all that was required. Six mag cannons mounted on a hardsuit. Incredible. Trahern’s idea, offered to Tommo in passing in the workshop, as casual as that.
The problem with mag weapons was recoil. Anything bigger than a penlight had to be fitted to a frame and damped with auxiliary fields or brute resistance. One cannon mounted on a suit, as the marines were trying when the Grey had come past, would spin the suit or rip the arm off. ‘Three on each arm, raised wrist band, no gauntlet,’ Trahern had advised. ‘With six the firing sequence can be balanced, like pulse thrusters on a sh
ip, all the force directed back. On a locked hardsuit with fixed footings or backed against something solid, it could work. Unlock to adjust aim, then lock and fire.’
The marines had jumped at it, the need for heavier firepower on the Rim overriding any concern for safety.
The prototype had been designed to fit Macky. He was the marksman of the pair. But they had tried for too much. The Armourer had fitted slides to each arm so that the suit could be used normally and the cannons added when necessary. That way there would be less chance of overuse and the tactical advantage of the unit could be preserved longer. However, when tested, despite the slides being machined to lowest tolerance, a vibration built up that threatened to disrupt the array. It had been necessary to use a larger suit and mount the cannons permanently. Welded into the material of the arms, the cannons were stable. The large suit meant that Tommo was now the operator, a result that pleased the big marine enormously.
‘You will have to keep them off him,’ directed the Armourer to the disappointed Macky. ‘This suit will attract concentrated fire. Your marksmanship will be required to eliminate as many of those targeting him as possible.’ To Tommo, he had warned, ‘Stop once the suit starts to fail. I’ve built in a warning device. It monitors the suit not the cannons. If the armour thickness drops from laser ablation or the joints are nearing stress limits from concussion, you will see a warning up on the right eye display. Stop on this or you will be ripped apart. If the suit fails catastrophically, so will you.’
The two marines had assured him they would use the suit wisely and in moderation. The choice was theirs. His conscience should be clear, but he knew these men. The temptation would be great. He could not shake the feeling that he was sending at least one of them to his death. This started the disquiet that had haunted him through the rest of the day, and which he now planned to lay to rest with the bottle.
The bottle had not caught him yet. He drank socially and lightly, by his standards. Nights like this were few. His role in the Guard was to outfit and advise to the best of his ability in matters of weapons and tactics. He made sure that the limits of both were clearly understood. How these were employed was not his responsibility. Others made the decisions that could mean life or death, not him. This was the only way he could survive, outside of the bottle, that is.
Marine Command had pressed him this day. Their whole command was going up, that’s how serious it had become. Not that it was a great number. There were only five above the rank of sergeant in the whole corps. Marines functioned best at squad level. Sergeants would lead combined squads when necessary. Larger units were rarely marshalled. But for the first time in memory, the press of battle had been so fierce that they had been forced to abandon their dead. Nothing could be more serious to the marines, and on the Rim of all places. That place had no respect for humanity, alive or dead.
The Rim was a great crescent of turbulent gas, dust and near planetary-sized masses that lay on the inner side of the Gap Quadrant - possibly the remains of a solar system crushed and stripped of its sun during a collision of galaxies eons ago. The interactions of the densely packed masses and associated electro-magnetic and gravitational fields resulted in a complex dynamic system, one with a great deal of energy to be resolved. Yet strangely, the Rim maintained its chaotic state, neither coalescing nor dispersing. Collisions between fragments, although common, were more a matter of gentle jostling than of explosive energy release. The altered physics had led to theories that strips of dead zone existed deep in the Rim, but no man or machine had ever penetrated far enough to find out.
Some of the larger bodies had atmosphere and systematic gravity, close to normal. A base could be established to support raids carried out into the Arm. The bases could only be temporary, the constant movement of the fragments eventually causing collision. But a small group could persevere by moving ahead of such events. It was risky, as the system was too complicated to be predictable, yet the rich pickings of the Arm regularly tempted raiders. The job of rooting out these dens went to the marines. It was why their numbers were so high in a Guard that primarily depended on craft to patrol and defend large passes of space.
The enemy that the marines were encountering now were more numerous and more organised than at any time since the Sybeline Campaign. The uniformity of armament and technique suggested a single force. All of the activity was occurring on the surface of one of the largest fragments, one almost as large as Base itself, that raiders had used before, with breathable atmosphere and gravity. But it got hit like all the others. He could not see what the ultimate goal of this enemy could be. This was too much effort for the establishment of a temporary raiding base. He would have to talk to Quartermaine about the possibility of House involvement and the implications that carried.
The marines were not concerned about ultimate goals. They just wanted advice on how to defeat this enemy. Someone or something up there was beating them.
‘I believe it is one enemy you face and that they are up there in force,’ he had told them. ‘Their strategy will differ from that of the raiders you are used to. This is not search and destroy. This will be a set of tactical engagements.’
‘They have to have a base somewhere, for marshalling and supply. If we find that fast enough, it won’t be too different,’ said Captain Chalkley.
‘Don’t plan on them defending unless they hold the best ground,’ advised the Armourer. ‘They will be mobile by now. They won’t stick unless they feel they have some sort of an advantage. They will be trying to trap you and you must do the same.’
‘That’s going to be hard on the Rim. It changes all the time,’ said Captain Faust.
‘You’ll need scouts and a communications net, in all areas that can be occupied or travelled through,’ said the Armourer.
‘We’ll be putting five hundred forty men on the Rim in this contingent. How many should we break out to scouts and what size should we keep the other units?’ asked Commander Williams.
The Armourer hesitated. He had already worked out the logistics he would use, but he noticed that the marines were taking his words down by rote. What had begun as advice had somehow become direction. ‘You will have to develop a feel as you go, relate the numbers to the amount of land you have to cover, try to keep units roughly equal in size or firepower to your enemy.’ Very basic advice.
Commander Williams looked him in the eye and nodded. He knew what was really being said here. The responsibility for lives is yours, not mine. Embarrassed, the Armourer had moved on to armaments. The marines had not pressed him again but they had been very thorough in their review of preparations. They finished only shortly before their load-out, but they knew down to a bullet what they had and why.
Now they were gone. No need to talk of terrain or tactics. Once in battle, there were none more adept on the ground than marines.
They will be okay. I drink to their ability. He tilted the bottle and let the liquid burn down his throat.
Tough conditions up there. The envelope of atmosphere was thin, with the dark sky, the edge of the roiling matrix shared with other fragments, close on top. It precluded the use of position reckoners, long range sensors, technology of that sort. Even line-of-sight comms could be shut down by the sky. The campaign would be very primitive.
Can’t beat marines at basics. He drank to their skill.
The enemy in great number and operating as if they do not fear the Rim dynamics. A strange confidence to exhibit.
But marines fear no enemy and none have matched their will. He toasted their fortitude.
It took the whole bottle to dampen his foreboding and wash away his sense of guilt.
CHAPTER 24: A BUMP IN TRAINING
La Mar took off down the corridor, flicking her comm up as she ran. ‘Security, La Mar of the Amazons here, corridor 3G34, western end. I’m hurrying to the training sector. I’ve had word of two of mine getting a bit too serious in hardsuits. Just thought I would let you know.’ It wasn’t Security’s busi
ness, but she knew if she didn’t explain, they would react. As tight as Quartermaine had them wound now, they would stun the whole sector if they observed a woman running and had no explanation. She didn’t have time for that. Bethane had been clear. Someone was going to get hurt unless this clash was stopped.
‘Two of mine,’ she had said. Strange how I framed that, she thought. I must have adopted Trahern the other night. Quartermaine had called the heads of services and cadre commanders in from the Security checkpoints, a few at a time, to view the murder scene. It was wise. The commanders would give details to their people. Kept the story from becoming fantastic, although it was hard to see how this one could be worse. La Mar recognised hate when she saw it, especially that directed at a woman. Whatever had caused this had to be cut out quick, burned out of the Guard the way a laser vaporises an abscess.
La Mar knew Briodi. The Amazon Commander was especially cognisant of the other females on Base. She saw them as allies, even if some of them did not. The young psych was talented. She would have detected this aberration, this sickness. But circumstances, or her lack of experience, had let it strike first.
It would have been another story if the Head Psych had encountered it. La Mar considered Celene to be tougher than Quartermaine. It was she that had triggered off La Mar’s protectiveness. Imagine that, trying to protect something as adamantine as the Grey.
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