For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For More Than Glory

  An ACE Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by William C. Dietz

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 0-7865-4149-0

  AN ACE BOOK™

  ACE Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic Edition: October, 2003

  This book is for my daughters Allison and Jessica,

  both of whom know the meaning of “grit.”

  1

  * * *

  War remains an art and, like all arts whatever its variation, will have its ending principles. Many men, skilled either with sword or pen and sometimes with both, have tried to expound those principles. I heard them once from a soldier of experience for whom I had a deep and well-founded respect. Many years ago, as a cadet hoping some day to be an officer, I was poring over “The Principles of War,” listed in the old Field Services Regulations, when the Sergeant-Major came upon me. He surveyed me with kindly amusement. “Don’t bother your head about all them things, me lad,” he said. “There’s only one principle of war that’s this. Hit the other fellow as quick as you can and as hard as you can, where it hurts him most, when he ain’t looking.”

  Sir William Slim

  Defeat Into Victory

  * * *

  ABOARD SYNDICATE BASE 012, ON A MOON NICKNAMED “FLOATER,” IN ORBIT AROUND RIM WORLD CR-7893

  The soft but insistent beep of the alarm served to summon Captain Frank Moy from the deep, alcohol-induced slumber to which he had gradually become addicted. His eyes felt as if they were glued shut and a sustained effort was required to force them open. Finally, welcomed into the darkness of his cabin by the smoke alarm’s Cyclops-like red eye, the ex–naval officer ordered the beeping sound to “Stop, dammit,” and, thankfully, it did.

  Then, rolling out of the rack the same way he had for more than twenty years, Moy managed to stand. The only light came from the smoke alarm and the LEDs embedded in the console next to his bunk. Seven of them were green but one glowed red. That was bad, very bad, but so was the pressure on Moy’s bladder. He took a step toward the head and swore when pain stabbed his brain. The light over the stainless-steel sink came on as Moy lined up on the toilet and gave his body permission to let go.

  Finally, once the pressure was relieved, the ex–naval officer turned to the mirror. What he saw made Moy wince. Much of the once thick black hair had disappeared and what remained was heavily shot with gray. The blue eyes were faded now, as if the light behind them had dimmed and might soon go out. A field of black stubble covered cheeks so gaunt it appeared as if the skin rested on bone. A far cry from the bright-eyed young stud who had graduated from the academy more than two decades before.

  Moy shook his head in disgust, considered the possibility of shaving, and remembered the red LED. Something, a sizable chunk of spaceborne rock was the most likely culprit, had entered the volume of space that defined the moon’s defensive zone and triggered a number of alarms. Odds were that the clowns in the control center had dealt with the matter hours before and chosen to let him sleep. Still, once the situation was cleared, the LED should have turned green.

  Moy used half a glass of water to wash the foul taste out of his mouth and the other half to help him swallow a couple of tablets. Then, gritting his teeth against the pain, he made his way into the middle of the cabin. “Open com. Moy to control center . . . who’s the OD?”

  There was no reply. Either the com was down, something that occurred with disturbing regularity, or the C&C crew were screwing off. A punishable offense in the real navy—but a joke in the so-called Syndicate. Just one of the many problems that plagued the organization.

  Propelled more by the bone-deep sense of duty the navy had instilled in him rather than any particular loyalty to the organization he was now part of, Moy turned toward the hatch. There were no uniforms, not since the “members” had voted them out, so it didn’t matter what he wore.

  Moy entered the main corridor, turned right, and followed the B ring in toward the station’s core. Having been constructed during the early days of the rebellion, immediately after Earth Governor Patricia Pardo and Legion Colonel Leon Harco had usurped Earth’s government, the outlaw habitat was well put together. And a good thing, too, because discipline had slipped a lot since then, and maintenance was abysmal.

  All manner of graffiti covered the bulkheads to either side, trash littered the deck, and it seemed as if every third or fourth light fixture was burned out. The life-support systems continued to receive a fair amount of attention but even that was starting to slip. So much so that Moy had given serious thought to leaving. But for what? The Confederacy wanted to put him on trial for mutiny, murder, and miscellaneous “crimes against sentient beings,” life out on the Rim was hard, and nobody wants to hire an alcoholic.

  Moy palmed a lock, waited for the hatch to hiss open, and entered the station’s control room. It smelled of sweat, alcohol, and ozone. Screens flickered, air whispered through vents, and the computer nicknamed “Bitching Betty,” spoke via the overhead speakers. “Incoming targets, one, three, and four are continuing to close. Target two is stationary, repeat, stationary, but well within range. Recommend that all station personnel don space armor, report to assigned battle stations, and prepare for combat. Screens, ready. Electronic countermeasures, ready. Weapons systems, ready. Downloading firing solutions now.”

  Moy swore, stormed up onto the command platform, and looked for someone to kick. Ex–Naval Lieutenant Tosko had passed out in the command chair, the com tech was facedown on the deck, and the weapons officer sat with her forehead resting on the control panel. The injector tube, which was still clutched in her hand, told the officer everything he needed to know.

  Back during the rebellion the Syndicate had “liberated” any number of naval vessels, not the least of which were the Ibutho and the Guerrero, both of which had taken on stores and departed roughly six hours earlier. In spite of specific prohibitions against taking part in the typical bon voyage celebration, it appeared that the control room crew had ignored regulations and partied anyway. Now they were going to pay for their laxity, for his laxity, because the navy had taught him that the responsibilities of command reach everywhere even into one’s sleep.

  Tosko felt something hard connect with his leg, jerked in response, and opened his eyes. “What the hell? Who kicked me?”

  Moy looked grim. “I did . . . and I’d kick your ass if you weren’t sitting on it. Look at those screens.”

  Tosco looked, swore, and slapped the general alarm button. Klaxons sounded, weapons came on line, and groggy crew members stumbled down corridors.

  Betty, oblivious to what her owners did, continued to chant. “Targets one, three, and four are launching what
appear to be short-range in-system spacecraft having target profiles consistent with CF Dagger 180s, CF-10 assault boats, and CF electronic countermeasure (ECM) decoys. Tracking, tracking, request permission to fire.”

  Everyone in the Control Center knew that the letters “CF” stood for Confederacy Forces and what would happen if they were captured. Tosco, his eyes wide with fear, flipped a protective cover up out of the way. The button glowed green. He mashed it. The verbal command came a fraction of a second later. “Fire!”

  The station’s Class I weapons, those which were computer controlled, burped coherent light, spit missiles, and launched torpedoes. The speakers rattled with ECM-induced static as com calls began to flood in, and the station fought back.

  “Damn,” Tosco said, his eyes glued to the screens. “Where the hell did they come from?”

  “From our past,” Moy answered grimly, “from our past.”

  Legion General Bill Booly III and Navy Admiral Angie Tyspin sat in the Ninja’s Command and Control Center and listened as Big Momma, the ship’s primary C&C computer, provided her own low-key narration for the assault. “Fighters launched . . . Assault boats launched . . . Lead elements taking fire. Units F-5, F-6, and A-3 destroyed. Units F-9, A-9, and A-12 damaged. Enemy fighters launching, repeat launching, profiles are available screen right.”

  Booly glanced at the profiles, confirmed that all of the Syndicate’s fighters dated back to premutiny days, and nodded. “I don’t see anything new, that’s good.”

  Tyspin, who had known Booly for quite a while by then, and fought at his side through two major campaigns, looked into the steady gray eyes. The lines that extended away from them cut deeper now, dividing his skin into white deltas, before disappearing into what remained of his youth. Some gray had crept into his close-cropped hair. “Yes,” the naval officer agreed, “the prerebellion stuff is bad enough. Lord help us if they get their hands on any of the new fighters.”

  The possibility caused Booly to grimace. The new fighters, the 190s, were equipped with cloaking technology obtained from the Thrakies, and were very dangerous indeed. However, assuming all went well, the Syndicate would be broken long before the criminals were able to lay their hands on a 190. “Roger that. Fortunately, judging from how long it took them to respond, we caught the bastards napping.”

  “True,” Tyspin replied grimly, her eyes on the screens, “but F-5, F-6, and A-3 won’t be coming back. That’s a high price to pay for a bunch of deserters. Maybe we should nuke ’em.”

  “I’d be tempted,” Booly responded levelly, “if I knew where the Ibutho and Guerrero were. How many raids are they responsible for? Twenty-six at last count? Intelligence claims there’s some sort of harbor inside that moon . . . Maybe they’re in there, like fleas on a dog, or maybe they aren’t. We need to know.”

  Tyspin knew that the other officer was correct but hated to take the casualties. Especially from mutineers, whom she saw as the lowest form of life in the universe.

  The legionnaire saw the pain in her green eyes and nodded. “I know how you feel Angie, honest I do, and I’ll do everything I can to keep the engagement short.”

  Booly stood. He wore a full-combat rig, including body armor and a sidearm. The grin was genuine. “Keep the coffee on . . . I’ll be back shortly.”

  Like the rest of Booly’s staff, Tyspin thought it was foolish for him to participate in the assault, even if it was in wave three, and took one last shot at dissuading him. “This is a mistake, sir, and your wife will blame me.”

  Booly laughed. “If you don’t tell her, then neither will I.”

  Tyspin thought about what it would be like to notify Maylo Chien-Chu of her husband’s death, and was just about to answer, when Booly disappeared.

  The control room was fully staffed by then, as were the rest of the station’s various departments. Having claimed the command chair for himself, Moy touched a control and allowed the power-assisted seat to swing left. A large diagram filled most of the wall, and rather than the lines being green the way they should have been, one end of the habitat was red. It had taken the navy less than two hours to silence most of the habitat’s weapons systems and land the marines. All of which was little more than a diversion since Moy knew that the harbor located below his feet was the real objective. Neither the Ibutho nor the Guerrero happened to be in port, but the navy didn’t know that, and hoped to trap them.

  So, the ex–naval officer thought, what should I do? Surrender? So they can try me for mutiny and lord knows what else? Or die for the Syndicate? Neither alternative seemed especially attractive.

  Others must have been thinking similar thoughts because that’s when the weapons officer stood, removed her headset, and dropped it on the control panel. “I don’t know about you,” she said, her eyes sweeping the room, “but I’m outta here.”

  “What?” Moy asked sarcastically. “No vote of the membership? No valiant defense of the Syndicate?”

  “Screw the Syndicate,” the weapons officer replied. “There’s only one way off this turd ball and it’s through the harbor. We go now, or we don’t go at all.”

  The others agreed with her. Moy watched in silence as the rest of his staff stood in ones and twos, averted their eyes, and made their way toward the lockers that lined the room’s back wall. Once in their space armor they would drop through the tubes, seize whatever vessels they could lay their hands on, and run like hell.

  The weapons officer faced him, hands on hips. They’d been lovers once, many months ago, and she still felt something for the gaunt-looking man who sat slumped in the chair. “So,” she said, “are you coming?”

  “No,” the ex–naval officer heard himself say. “I don’t believe that I am.”

  “Then I’ll see you in hell,” the weapons officer said, “or wherever people like us go.”

  “Yes,” Moy agreed thoughtfully, “I’ll see you in hell.”

  Floater hung like a silvery ball against the backdrop provided by the planet designated as CR-7893, a brownish sphere, heavily marbled by white clouds. Now, as assault boat A-12 drew closer, Booly looked out over the pilots’ heads and to the scene beyond. The faceplate restricted his total view but not the area straight ahead of him. The Syndicate’s habitat looked like a barnacle on the surface of a rock.

  Down farther, roughly midway between the satellite’s poles, a black hole was visible. Small minnowlike spaceships, none larger than a shuttle, darted out of the tunnel and sped away. There were dozens of the small craft, which suggested that those who could were trying to escape. And that was fine with him. After all Booly reasoned, once the officers ran, the troops were likely to follow.

  Thanks to his status as CO, Booly had access to all radio traffic and listened in satisfaction as Tyspin’s fighters took off in hot pursuit. Each of the departing vessels would be intercepted and called upon to surrender. Those who complied would face trial. Those who refused would die. That part of the operation appeared to be a complete success.

  But where were the battle cruisers? Why hadn’t they emerged to give battle? Because the bastards aren’t there, Booly thought to himself, because they already left.

  The tunnel yawned in front of them. Dozens of red beacons, still blinking their endless warnings, guarded the passageway’s enormous circumference. The tunnel was huge, more than large enough to accommodate the Ibutho and the Guerrero, and a testament to the Syndicate’s initiative during earlier times.

  There was no way to know what sort of object had struck the moon’s sunward side, but whatever it was had been big, and judging from the amount of debris thrown up around the point of entry, moving at a high rate of speed.

  The rest of the work, including the last few miles of tunnel, and the facility at the moon’s rocky heart, could be credited to the Syndicate’s engineers. Men and women who had turned against the Confederacy with disastrous results. Thousands of lives had been lost, the Confederacy had been weakened and forced to fight the Thrakies. A sad affair indeed.
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  Booly’s thoughts were interrupted as something exploded, an enemy scout ship flashed by, and the assault boat veered to port. The pilot swore, brought his boxy little vessel back on course, and apologized over the intercom. “Sorry about that, folks . . . the port engine is going to need some maintenance, but the starboard unit is fine. Lieutenant Chang and I hope you enjoyed your flight—and hope you have lots of fun on Floater. Check your harness. We’re two minutes out.”

  Lights streaked past to the left and right as the pilot fired his retros, and the assault boat started to slow. Unlike the station on Floater’s surface, where argrav generators provided something like Earth-normal gravity, conditions within the harbor approached zero gee. But there was some gravity, something both pilots and computers needed to compensate for, and that meant things could go wrong. Booly saw an assault boat, its bow crushed, tumble past.

  Then, as the external blur resolved itself into a rock wall, the A-12 coasted out into an enormous cavern. In spite of the fact that the concepts of “up” and “down” didn’t mean much within the confines of the globular “harbor,” Booly found it useful to assign such values in order to orient himself.

  The legionnaire said, “Map, Floater,” and watched the HUD morph into a line diagram of what intelligence believed the layout to look like. The map shivered as real-time supplementary input was entered by pathfinders included in the first wave of troops.

  Now, as Booly awaited permission to release his harness, the HUD displayed a macro view that included the outline of the moon itself, the limpetlike habitat that clung to the service, tubes that dropped straight down into the moon’s core, and the outlines of the harbor itself.

  Then, morphing to a tighter perspective, the officer saw that the surface tubes terminated on what he thought of as the “left” side of the inverted U, while shelflike landing platforms projected out from the center wall, and three enormous berths occupied the space to the “right.” All of them were empty. Silent confirmation of what Booly already knew. The battle cruisers had escaped.