‘Space that will at some time become occupied or defined gains existence. Regardless of how ‘thin’ in terms of matter or energy or duration. This is what you reacted to when you spread yourself. You thinned your existence in transition to something sparser. But you not only kept in touch with the universe, you extended it. Your path through the deep instigated it, brought it about. You are the reason that section of the deep exists. It was only fallow in time, not empty, not inimical to existence, to life, to your life. Your senses perceived the void, your mind shut it out. I ask you to consider what you felt then within the framework of what you know now. That is what we humans do.’
The Specialist leaned back away from Trahern, settling on her haunches. Her gaze swung to the Scholar. She knows I know who she is, thought Elsewise.
Her eyes asked nothing from him. Her words, when they came, were for Trahern. ‘You were the seed for your path through the far reaches. Perhaps a photon of light or a mote of matter preceded you. Perhaps they would come after you, or something greater still. Yet we know you were there and contributed to existence. That is fact.’
It was not fact, only a theorem, but she had presented it thus for Trahern’s benefit and it had been successful. The Grey’s eyes had become thoughtful, no sign of distress. He will cope, had been Elsewise’s thought at the time.
What armour has been added to this unique man by this rationale, was Elsewise’s concern now as he stood on the roof of Base, and for what purpose?
Faint cries and blue lights flashing from the roof on a distant curve of the wall stopped his contemplation.
CHAPTER 30: BLOOD ON THE BLACK
Visco struck within seconds of the comm from Med.
‘The Specialist is unavailable, for medical reasons. Her recovery from this afternoon’s events is not yet complete, Sub-commander.’ Aesca’s words.
He had wanted Specialist Celene to form the core of this display, as had Colda. It would have been more complete, all threats eliminated at the one time, here on the roof of Base. But fate would see to her. Perhaps something more special, thought Visco with a shiver. At night, on the plain, in our vault. With time and privacy to spare.
Donen huddled against the low parapet. His fear disgraces the black, thought Visco. It is right that he be disposed of. Two PlanCon men, handpicked by Colda, stood over the pathetic figure. Visco read similar disdain in their stance.
Snapping his comm shut, he moved forward and leant in close to the larger of the two, as if to pass on a whispered command. His arm came around the man’s shoulder companionably. Neither agent noticed the abnormally long shadow his arm cast in the grey light. The shadow shrank dramatically as he drew his blade in across the man’s throat. He fired his stunner into the back of the other PlanCon agent and stepped back carefully from his own victim. No blood on, not yet, he warned himself.
‘It’s a trap! Kill him!’ he hissed to the startled Donen. The stunned PlanCon was easy prey, even for the hesitant caretaker, his reluctance vanishing with the appearance of blood. Visco had to hold himself back. The smell of blood!
Donen’s blows were clumsy and wild. They did not cease until long after the man was dead, a red ruin. Blood glistened on the ragged black of the panting Donen and dripped from his blade to add to the pattern of dark splashes on the floor and low wall. A weak smile came to his face in response to Visco’s eager grin.
Visco shot him with the stunner then carefully walked around the blood to lift the young man onto the parapet. The smile was frozen on Donen’s face but his eyes showed his terror. A surge of passion washed through Visco as he rolled him off the wall. They serve, each in their way.
He made his way to the stairs. Sussex, the psych, would be waiting below in the PlanCon offices, readying a team to try and talk the troubled caretaker down from the edge of the roof. This party will discover the terrible happenings. I will join them then to add my dismay to their findings. To walk the wet gravel and inspect the corpses. Yes, then I can finally touch the blood.
CHAPTER 31: DIRTY HANDS
Johnson rubbed his thumb across the inside of his fingers as he trudged back toward the wall, dislodging drying bits of dark silt and clay. He had not washed his hands after he finished planting out the seedlings. He liked the feel of Dan’s rich soil.
Dan’s. Well, I guess I will always think of it as his. The crops too, he mused. The tomatoes in the bag over his shoulder were the last old Tracka-dan had put in the ground with his own hands. From now on, it would be others, like him that cared for the plants.
He marvelled again at what the old man had accomplished out here on the plain. Just to have considered it was out of the ordinary. He was not ordinary, that’s for sure. The rest of us, we are destroyers. We hide it under routine and duties, but we are here to threaten and destroy. To keep peace and order by those means, allowing construction, creation to occur elsewhere. Too far away to help our souls. Somehow Dan had got past it. He’d atoned for his wrongs and moved to the side of the builders, the fosterers of life, here in the middle of the weapon that is Base.
Johnson chuckled at the gravity of his thoughts. So much over a few tomatoes. He looked up to the wall. I better hurry or I will be late for the meeting. Yet with that thought he slowed, caught by the prospect in front of him. The early morning light glinted off the glass and polished metal studded in the wall, hundreds of windows with hundreds of lives going on behind them. His gaze ran down the long arc into the far distance where the glimmers died as the wall turned into shadow, the grey band seeming to become part of the horizon, barely separating the lighter grey of the plain from the washed out sky. He turned slowly in a full circle. It is beautiful. The splash of green that was Dan’s farm made him smile. Nowra’s trees would add to that in time, maybe darker or lighter, hopefully both.
The black of the Box took his smile away. Its sharp corners cut into the sky. There is evil there, he thought. It had overwhelmed that caretaker, to make him a rabid thing, death to those that crossed his path, first Dan and then the poor girl, even as she tried to help him. Finally those that caught him. I’m glad he died in the fall, Johnson admitted to himself. A trial and an execution would have been bitter. This way it was as if the walls of Base had decided the matter.
So much seemed to have happened. At least it had been quiet for a week or two. Now the service for the young psych was all that remained to close the savage episode. Perhaps that would be announced at the meeting. I’d better hurry, he thought again, and this time he did.
*
The timing was near perfect. Addikae was pleased. It had been their plan to force a spill for leadership when the disaster on the Rim was complete. That scheme still had an act remaining, but if he could preserve what was left of the marines, he would. They were excellent shock troops and could be put to good use against the Inner Belt at a later time. The Houses should know by now that they had no ground forces to match them. Despite all the advantages enjoyed by the House mercenaries on the Rim, they had not succeeded in defeating the marines.
Colda or Coltrane? That was the question he considered as he made his way to the meeting. The numbers were set for the PlanCon Commander’s accession. That was the plan. However, the plan required transfer of leadership to Coltrane in time to meet the Inner Belt response. Addikae could no longer guarantee that action. Colda had lately become independent. Autonomous, he would prove difficult to remove. Judging by the ruthlessness and efficiency of his latest action, it was highly unlikely that Coltrane, or any other potential threat, would survive long into his rule. And I will be included in that category, his paranoia told him.
The decision was clear. Colda was not capable of leading the Guard against the Inner Belt. The spill would be directed to Coltrane.
Addikae ran through the list of supporters in his mind. It would require finesse. Colda must be prompted to issue the call for Quartermaine to stand down. Propriety would make him wait for his nomination from one of the others. In the gap, Coltrane’s name c
ould be run and advanced to the point that Colda could not challenge. Of course, Colda would have to be eliminated as soon as possible.
Addikae changed his route to seek out the cadre and service leaders needed for this ploy. He had just enough time before the meeting.
As his long strides took him down the corridor, he lifted his comm and pushed a button that would bring his assassins to him. There were only three left. Colda had disposed of two in the caretaker’s death. Housekeeping, he had called it when challenged. Those two had been sought by Nata for their aborted attempt on the Scholar. It would not do for them to have been found. It was this ruthless efficiency which frightened Addikae, a new sensation for him, one he did not like.
*
La Mar walked down the centre of the corridor, Rhone and Bethane at her shoulders. ‘Shit, La Mar,’ mumbled the big Amazon beside her, hitching her step to try to match La Mar’s slow pace. Rhone knew her well enough not to say more. This was not a meeting La Mar would hurry to.
The approaches had come scattered through the last weeks then almost daily. Supposed casual discussions on the workings of Base had changed to outright demands as to where the Amazons stood. For better or worse, she had cast their lot with Quartermaine. ‘Shit’ is right, thought La Mar. She could not understand why Quartermaine had called this meeting. A little more time would ease the memory of the murders and maybe let them sort out the Rim. Get things running smoothly again then handle the challengers.
Maybe they were right; maybe the old man was past it.
People overtook them, wisely stepping around the three women. Commanders and supervisors, sub-commanders and aides, all hurrying to the operations hall. Only a few nodded to them, most passed with heads averted. Some smiled or smirked. Good, thought La Mar. Let me know who you are. You’ll find the Amazons aren’t easy meat.
She was proud of her people. She was the cadre commander and she would make the decisions, but she had given them an out. The Amazons would stand with Quartermaine, she had told them. It didn’t look good for the old man. The numbers would probably go to Colda. The Amazons would not fare well under his command, more so because of the stand she was taking. Anyone that wanted to could transfer out. She had talked to the other cadre leaders and they would be glad to have them.
Her people had laughed at her. On another day she would have been furious at that response, but today she loved them. ‘What crap are you talking?’ and ‘Who would want to be anything else?’ and ‘Let them try us!’ Those had been their comments. Except for Rhone, who had called for quiet to announce that she and Bethane were thinking of joining the Greys because they liked ‘banging’ around with them. Bethane had turned red and punched the big Amazon hard enough to shift her sideways. The gathering had ended in hilarity.
Well, this meeting won’t be so funny, regretted La Mar as they entered the hall. Concentric rows of seats in five levels made the room appear round, the corners left in shadow. Full and noisy today, it was like walking into a circus. They were not the last in. That honour went to Johnson of Supply, with a bag over his shoulder and sweat on his brow. The rumbling through the hall quieted as he took a seat.
Quartermaine rose. ‘We have great tasks in front of us. Here and now, actions will be decided that will determine the fate of the Guard in our time. Discussion will be free, as is our way, but be advised, you will leave this room under orders and these will be carried out. There will be no doubt or hesitation.’
Good, thought La Mar. His voice is strong. He has not lost that at least.
‘The fate of the Guard,’ repeated a clear high voice from the far side of the hall. ‘A phrase of great portent. Of course, paramount to us all. Yet the fate of the Guard is linked to the state of the Guard. And the state of the Guard is poor.’
Sussex, the psych. This is a brave move for him, thought La Mar.
Sussex waved down the grumblings his words generated. ‘This must be faced, openly acknowledged. Deaths in the very corridors of Base, sickening murders carried out almost at will by a madman. One of our own, killing our own. Ended only by the deranged act of the killer himself, not by Command’s handling of the matter. The whole episode characterised by inefficiency, indifference and neglect.’
I see. Sussex can’t lose, realised La Mar. Quartermaine accepts the charge and is tainted or tries to throw it back on psych where it lands on the Senior, Specialist Celene. No wonder Sussex agreed to be their opener. He is well on his way to the senior position in his service regardless of the outcome.
‘Five members of the Guard have died here on Base recently,’ stated Quartermaine. ‘Connected? Probably. But not a simple matter and not to be considered as such. There is much that we do not know. The investigation is in competent hands. When all details are known I will act. Loss of our people is not taken lightly.’
‘You’ve lost more on the Rim,’ and ‘Tell that to the marines,’ were heard from the back of the hall.
You left yourself open to that, winced La Mar.
‘There is danger of losing the Rim completely,’ called out Zinni of the Seventh. ‘Raiders will be able to prey on the Arm at will. We will be spread too thin to stop them.’
Now it starts, thought La Mar. A chorus of complaints, all linked to failings in command. When Colda rose to praise the marines, she could not listen, her attention settling on the ornament in Bethane’s hair instead.
Gati had given it to her but it came from Trahern’s hands. The deadly Grey had become an old granny. Too many stuns perhaps. His hands would not keep still. He wove whatever came to his fingers, string, cable, wire; his unconscious movements producing intricate works. Gati had saved this one, melting off the plastic and burnishing the copper, finally fixing it to a pin for Bethane’s hair. The main lines in the weave reminded him of her scars, he said. Strangely, Bethane wore it proudly. I want one, La Mar decided. I will ask Gati to keep an eye out for one for me. And he better pick something nice.
Quartermaine’s bass voice brought her back from these inanities. ‘We have lost three hundred and thirty two marines in this campaign on the Rim. We will lose more.’ He paused. ‘But we won’t lose the Rim.’ This set off a disorderly discussion and angry calls that Quartermaine appeared to ignore. His implacability gradually drew them back to silence.
From the corner of her eye, La Mar saw Colda start to rise again. Celene suddenly appeared on the walkway behind him. Quartermaine’s next words froze the whole gallery. ‘The Rim is not our main problem. The Ships are coming again.’
Silence followed by hubbub. Some of the cadremen looked like they wanted to run to their craft. She had to bury the urge herself.
‘We are not ready,’ Quartermaine continued. He had their attention now. ‘The Passages are our care. They must be protected.’ His voice jumped in volume and took on a hard cold edge. ‘The first order of the day is this. We will sweep the Gap Quadrant. A Battle Group of three thousand craft. All the PlanCon ships, the Blues, and both RARs. Colda of PlanCon will command, the cadre commanders to advise.’
The moment of shock was longer than before and the noise greater once the assembly found its voice. Three thousand craft! Why, even Burnett did not take out that many! La Mar was stunned. And under Colda? The loudest dissent came from a source that surprised her. Oulte of the Far Rangers took the floor and stomped up to the Command tables.
‘The Gap Quadrant covers the Outer Passages and the edge of the deep. This is where the Rangers fly. It has always been our place. How do you leave us from this Group? PlanCon have not been in the far reaches, they have not met the Ships.’ The fair-haired man lifted his arms and shrugged his shoulders. ‘The Far Rangers have flown the Gap for hundreds of years.’
Careful Oulte, you may put yourself under Colda, thought La Mar. At the same time, she understood his pride.
‘PlanCon must go for just those reasons,’ answered Quartermaine. ‘They have to learn to fly deep and to fight Ships. This sweep should detect areas of Ship activity and identify
the intended route of their incursion. When they finally come, all of our craft will be capable of meeting them.’ His eyes fixed on Oulte, Quartermaine continued. ‘Second order of the day. All marines fit for battle will embark for the Rim immediately. That’s all marines. Customs duty will be carried out by PlanCon’s auxiliaries. Supply and Service will provide units to support the marines on the Rim. All marines will be front line. The Far Rangers will accompany the marines and provide air cover.’
Well Oulte, you have a death sentence now, thought La Mar, wondering what she would have done if Quartermaine had given the Amazons that assignment.
‘Without air cover of some sort, the marines can’t win. We will not lose the Rim.’ The old man’s voice softened a degree. ‘You have to find some way to fly the Rim.’
Oulte cast about for an argument, found none and smiled. ‘Good. At least that is something worthy of the Rangers.’
Quartermaine raised his head and scanned the room, meeting the eyes of all the cadre commanders one by one. Not searching for agreement, or looking for signs of dissent, realised La Mar. Simply showing us his resolve. All the resources of the Guard to be employed. His cold eyes saying that if the marines can be sent to their deaths who are we to hesitate.
He is a hard man, bringing us back to our bare purpose, reminding us who we are. I have no argument either.
Someone else did, though. The PlanCon aide, the tall thin one reputed to be the brains behind Colda. La Mar had never heard him speak. The Amazons had not figured in PlanCon’s schemes, at least not in a way that required consultation.
‘The proposed action for the Rim is adequate but late. Earlier recognition of the realities of that conflict would have saved many lives. As for the plan to sweep a quadrant, a check of reality is also in order. There have been no reports of Ship attacks, no penetration into strategic zones. In fact, no sightings at all in the region of the Passages. Where is the basis for an action of such magnitude? Three thousand craft. Almost the whole of the fleet. To be sent to scour the empty reaches, a task that could take months.’
The Return of the Grey Page 22
