Celene felt sick. This was not what she wanted to do. Two weeks wasted, maybe three. There is so much to be done here. But there was no way out of it. Quartermaine’s logic was sound. She was the only senior not directly involved in current operations. She was capable. And she would be safer away.
She waited for him now, on a platform one level up from the floor of the main hangar. Because of their rush to get ready and her reticence to approach him, they had not had a formal briefing. I need to know what he wants said. There must be more to this than a formal request. Behind her, short dark corridors led to the smaller hangars. Quartermaine should come through one of them.
He flew almost every day now. To keep his skills up, he said. She knew differently. He had traded the time he used to spend in Med sitting beside his scout for this flying time. He had not traded his intent. He flew in the outer orbits, where there was little traffic. The controllers had come to recognise him. ‘There goes the old man.’ ‘Here he comes again.’ They were not the only ones aware of him.
‘He is most comfortable out amongst the satellites, and that is where he has focused,’ Trahern had told her. Quartermaine was communicating with his scout. Or at least staying in his scout’s perception. She appreciated his effort. The old man’s feel was true. Trahern had returned from the deep to the Guard to stay alive. The scout had come almost as far, at a time when he must have known that he was dying. To tell Quartermaine something. This is the return that we should have concentrated on. Not Trahern’s. Too late now.
Down below, her team was waiting patiently. The marines, formed up next to the ramp, looked like they could stand that way forever. They were a fearsome lot. La Mar had picked well. Intimidating companions. Capable. There was nothing that they would not attempt now that La Mar had returned their pride. Celene was not so sure of her flight crews. Five pilots from the Seventh, with their craft stowed in the belly of the modified transport. All the best were away. The Blues and RAR’s with Colda. The Rangers, Greys and Amazons dedicated to the Rim. At least none of these five had been in the Box more than once. That was one thing she had made sure of.
Celene stepped up to the railing and surveyed the distant walls. Except for Donen, all of the afflicted had been cadremen, pilots. Twice in the Box and pilots. Perhaps the trigger was here. Elsewise had warned them long ago that all the patterns might not be limited to the Box. Accident or purpose? One of the parties involved in the construction of the Box did nothing by accident. Nothing without purpose. Not another player. Don’t go there. That was advice she had given Nata. Don’t go down AI’s paths.
The Houses, the Inner Belt, AI, and relic compulsions from the Mad Command. Too much. The only commiseration was that with this many schemes and influences in operation, there was bound to be interaction and interference. In that confusion laid some hope for the Guard to persevere.
The transport seemed small in the immensity of the hangar. This is where I last saw Spence. The emptiness around her matched the painful vacuum she felt inside. Don’t go down that path either. Don’t hope or plan. You know better.
She heard movement in one of the corridors, and at the same time realised that she was silhouetted against the light of the hangar. Not such a good place to wait alone. Quartermaine greeted her before she could make him out clearly. As he emerged, Nata stepped silently from the shadows of a further opening. Perhaps he teleports, was her thought.
‘Specialist. You are ready to go?’
‘Yes, Commander. A final word, that is all. I understand the position I am to present. It is straightforward. But is there anything else you wish to achieve? And I require some direction as to the tone.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. I want to buy more time. They will be expecting me, not you. Announce the change only when you are within the system. That will give our enemies time to call off any major ‘accidents’, but hopefully not enough to plan anything new.’ He shared a glance with Nata then ran his gaze out into the depths of the hangar. ‘Remember that regardless of who sits on the committees, it is the Houses we deal with. Tell them that I am old and weary. That I am frightened with all my best commanders away. That I don’t dare leave Base until they return. That we just want our cadreman returned and after that we will not intrude on the Planets again.’
‘Our charter requires us to support, and honour, statements made to the Planetary Council,’ said Celene. If he is serious, this is total capitulation. Are we that weak?
‘I have only lied about being old and weary and frightened. The rest is true. Opinion needs no basis. Disparage me. That is the tone I want you to take. Make them sure that the weakness lies with me. That the rest of the Guard is still deadly. That should not be too difficult with those marines around you.’ He turned to her and smiled, a cold thin smile. ‘Hint that they should hurry. That things will be different when Colda returns. That they would not like to have to deal with him.’ His grin broadened and his eyes took on light. ‘Give them a hard time, Celene. Be imperious. Make them jump while they consider.’
*
Quartermaine watched from the rail as Celene swept past her escort and onto the transport. They won’t know what hit them. Unleashed, she is like a force of nature.
They will be convinced. And my reputation will be destroyed. Word will pass through the Arm. However this comes out, I will be known as a weak, old commander that put the Guard at risk. So much for ‘the Dread of the Passages’.
CHAPTER 56: ON THE RIM, AN IMPROMTU MEETING
The Armourer was pacing. A difficult thing to do in the confines of the tent. Steamsetter continued to wipe dust from the hardsuit on the stand and tried to ignore him. He knew there would be dark looks directed at his back. Waiting again, and this time with no bottle to kill the time.
Steamsetter concentrated on his cleaning. Dust was a constant on the Rim. The maps had to be cleared several times a day. The sleeping pads and clothes had to be shaken out. Only the model on the table welcomed the dust. It seemed to drink it in.
The Armourer stopped at the table. Steamsetter watched him from the corner of his eye as he lifted the rock that held the maps down and pulled the topmost across. The northwest sector, Steamsetter knew. That is where his cares are.
Any hope that the Armourer would settle back to work went with the rock, thrown into the bin by the wall. At the sound of glass breaking, his head came round.
‘If that was a full bottle, I will be very pissed,’ stated the Armourer.
‘If that was a full bottle, you would still be pissed,’ said a gruff voice from the door. Tollen stepped inside, lifting a hand to Steamsetter in greeting.
‘I hope you brought some news, otherwise you’re no more welcome a sight than my other keeper,’ said the Armourer.
‘No news, but some new faces … none prettier than mine though,’ returned the old marine. The light coming through the door flickered as Trahern and Gati entered. ‘The Greys,’ announced Tollen.
A long shadow stopped on the far wall and Steamsetter turned to study their other visitor. He found himself looking up into this man’s eyes, a rare occurrence for him. There weren’t many people in the Guard of his height. Mancine was the only other here on the Rim that he knew of. Looking up into wise old eyes reminded him of his childhood and Steamsetter could not help smiling. The Scholar smiled back.
‘I brought the Greys and the Scholar over from the supply depot. Actually, Trahern and Gati flew us over,’ said the solid marine, moving over to stand next to Steamsetter. ‘Easier on the feet. There are a few more coming over in a lander with some supplies. They should be here soon.’
‘Welcome,’ said the Armourer, swinging his arm expansively. ‘This is the command centre, Rim style. What do you think?’ The Scholar and Gati went straight to the model, but Trahern crossed to the racked suit. The tall Grey fingered the metal slides on the arms.
‘This is the prototype harness for the mag cannons, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ answered the Armourer. ‘I di
dn’t have a suit. A surprising oversight for an armourer, don’t you think? This one was handy and fits well enough.’
‘It is dangerous. You should replace it. Remember what happened to Tommo,’ said Trahern.
‘That is another reason I keep it near. Come. I’ll show you where we stand.’ He motioned to model. ‘Might as well start. We couldn’t fit many more in anyway.’
The Grey joined the others at the table. If they thought the sandbox strange they didn’t comment.
‘The topography is deceiving,’ began the Armourer.
Good, thought Steamsetter. He is starting with the basics, which means he values their opinions. The Armourer’s drinking, and his sometimes curt manner, had not won him many friends at the start of the campaign. Yet he had not lost a battle. Sure, they had run at times, though not so often now. Many marines had died but always to some effect. The people close to him had seen his care. They passed it on to those more distant and all of them developed an unshakeable faith. They would do what he asked of them, no matter how extreme, because he won. And he won because they would do whatever he asked. It was a circular bond built of trust and certainty. Steamsetter did not want to be there if it was ever broken, for it would be the ruin of them all.
‘Most of us expect the valleys to rise until they reach a saddle or some form of drainage divide,’ explained the Armourer. ‘You would be surprised how deep this is instilled in us. But here there has been no erosion by water. What little moisture there is collects on the bottom of rocks. Possibly there are pools in the lows beneath the broken stone, maybe in along fractures in the bedrock. We have seen rare evidence of seeps. And there is the wildlife.’ He shook his head as if to dismiss all this as an aside. ‘We don’t depend on it at all. All our water is made up from field compressed gases.’ The Armourer stopped to point out a small system hanging on the hut wall with cups alongside. ‘I would offer you a decent drink but we seem to have run out.’ He peered at Steamsetter through squinted eyes. ‘I was sure there was one more bottle.’
His ability to keep track of alcohol, even when consuming vast quantities of it, had always astounded Steamsetter. ‘You gave the last to the Rangers to wet Oulte’s head,’ he replied. The Armourer hadn’t actually. Passed out, the tremors from the collision weren’t enough to wake him that day. Steamsetter had sent the bottle on in his stead, an honourable way to dispose of it. Something he knew the Armourer would accept.
Mention of Oulte brought the Armourer back to the job in hand. ‘The topography is especially difficult to fly low. A wide valley can end abruptly. No warning. The closest terrain I can think of is that of pressure ridges in an ice sheet, but with force applied from several vectors so that the grain of the ridges changes dramatically between sectors. Here, the collisions flatten a central area and drive up a surround of steep parallel ridges. The sweep of the ridges depends on the angle of impact and the size and shape of the fragments, speed, consistency … so many factors that no two areas are alike. And then they are overprinted by new impacts.’ The Armourer looked up from the model to the Scholar. ‘The enemy seems to be able to work out the ground ahead of time.’
‘With sufficient data, it would become predictable. The level of accuracy you are suggesting, however, implies a significant effort over considerable time,’ said the tall man. ‘That may be important when you are considering the enemy’s overall strategy.’
‘It is the Houses we face, but that is all I know,’ confided the Armourer. ‘We have recognised three units from auxiliaries that the Houses have traditionally drawn upon, the Red Eagles of the Dawn Planets, the Setrin Blue Band, and the Briz Janissaries. They form the bulk of the enemy force. And with them, at least ten mercenary bands, which means expense hasn’t been a factor.’ He paused to swallow dryly. ‘I don’t know the overall House strategy. What has developed here has been mostly tactical manoeuvring, each of us trying to force the other into perilous ground. Areas with high sky and low ridges favour us. There, we can establish air cover and destroy them at almost no cost. Where we can’t fly and where they can attack on a broad front, they have the advantage.’ The Armourer stopped to take the cup Steamsetter offered. He frowned when he looked at it, and again after drinking, but nodded his thanks. Steamsetter saw Gati smile at that. The attention of the other two remained fixed on the model. Tollen slipped out the door with a wave.
‘I don’t underestimate the enemy command. All our effort, our successes, may mean nothing.’ The Armourer walked away from the table. ‘Their numbers and supplies do not diminish, while we bleed away. If this continues, no matter how valiant our effort, we will be defeated. I had hoped that time was on our side. They initiated this conflict. Our resistance has caused delays that should not have been anticipated.’
The Armourer stopped in front of the racked suit, his back to the others. ‘What our people have done here at times is beyond belief. No general could count on what they do for me.’
Steamsetter heard a break in the Armourer’s voice. This is hard for him but he has to explain it. They have to know how this has been achieved. And the risks we run.
‘I had hoped that there was a greater schedule,’ the Armourer continued. ‘That their hand would be forced by time. This is where my ignorance of their strategy cuts deep.’ He returned to the table, to the model. ‘My plan is to lure them in through the centre. That is why we wait. The ground there suits them. We have held them out so far with battles here,’ he indicated, ‘and here,’ again pointing with a finger, ‘where these ridges are cut. They were very near things. Now we are spread thin. I’ve divided the Group to cover the centre and both flanks. The enemy should know this. The chance to drive through and split us should be appealing. If they are under pressure of time, I would expect them to take it. Our centre would fall back, drawing them in. To the west and here behind us, the topography is low. Our craft will control those areas. You see how the grain in the centre runs northwest to southeast. Oulte tells me … told me that he could fly these valleys, tight turns at the ends but possible.’ He indicated two narrow lows in the middle portion of the model that ran in from both corners, separated by a blocky high in the very centre. ‘That leaves this block here, in the centre as the key.’
‘You mean to surround them,’ laughed Gati.
‘Yes. Once they are past this point, our flanking troops fold in and take the high. Our aircraft, with limited ground support, hold all the rest. Cut off from reinforcement and re-supply, the enemy could be eliminated.’
‘Would they see the trap?’ asked Trahern.
‘Their studies would not be accurate enough to predict the detail of the critical area. They would not know of its significance until they reached it,’ answered Elsewise. ‘Have the enemy observed your craft operating in settings similar to these valleys?’ he asked in turn.
‘Not successfully,’ said the Armourer. That gave them all pause.
‘The marines would have to take that high quickly and hold it from both sides,’ said Trahern.
‘Once our craft are in the air, the marines can come in up the valleys underneath, almost fully protected. The craft can also give them cover fire on the last slopes. It can be done,’ the Armourer concluded gravely.
He sees the battle in his mind right now, thought Steamsettter. He knows what his people will do for him … and the cost.
‘Is there time for the Greys and Amazons to get some practice flying low?’ asked Trahern.
He wants to be sure they can live up to Oulte’s promises, realised Steamsetter. Not such a bad idea.
‘Too much time, I’m afraid. The enemy should have tried us by now. We have been in this position, more or less, for ten days already. Nothing. Mancine ran west to stop a possible flanking movement four days ago. I have not heard from him since. Oulte was lost two days ago, at the time of the collision.’ The Armourer stopped to glance at their faces then returned his attention to the model, to the northwest corner. ‘The collision,’ he muttered. ‘That made new gr
ound to the west, low sky. The emphasis may be shifting in that direction. This chance,’ he opened his palms over the rest of the model, ‘may have passed already.’
There was a rap on the frame of the doorway. ‘Hey,’ called Tollen, sticking his head in. ‘The lander is coming in. You don’t want to miss this,’ he added with a grin.
*
The reason for Tollen’s mirth was slow to develop. Elsewise was not conversant with the marines’ sense of humour and hoped he was not missing something. It all seemed very formal, the troops on site drawn up in regular rows, the new arrivals being formed up in turn by a bawling Tollen. Looks of uncertainty and surprise ran across the faces of the returning marines but they soon adopted the grave demeanour of the silent ranks they approached. Elsewise moved around to the side where he could observe the meeting, his curiosity aroused.
‘Squad leader Seca and twenty two marines returning for duty,’ bellowed Tollen, signaling his party to a halt. The waiting ranks showed no reaction, all of them stared steadfastly just over the head of the female squad leader. The situation remained this way for minutes. Elsewise wished that Nata were beside him. He would know what was going on. When the tension could nearly be felt, the marines at the front suddenly called out in unison. ‘Please advise when Squad leader Seca is present. Sir!’ Both sides then dissolved into laughter, leaving the object of their attention ruefully shaking her head.
It was a joke, he realised, playing on Squad leader Seca’s reduced height eventuating from the bone loss resultant from her heroics at the second contingents’ landing. Again, Elsewise wished that his friend were with him. Nata would have enjoyed this greatly. The joke did not end there. Two of the survivors from her squad presented her with her hardsuit, bumpy circular welds running around the calves of the boots where they had cut out a centimetre or two and rejoined them. Everyone she spoke to fixed their eyes over her head, enjoying her obviously growing chagrin. Even Captain Chalkley tried it when she reported to the command group.
The Return of the Grey Page 34
