by Sharon Lee
“Jeeves, forgive me—Lord Pat Rin’s forces?”
“Yes, quite an elegant group of ships flying Tree-and-Dragon, perfect for a low key planetary embargo, insurrection control, or as siege ships. They are precisely disciplined and well-crewed.”
Ah, are they? And how came Pat Rin by such ships? Val Con moved his shoulders, putting aside such questions in favor of those more pressing.
“Planetary?” he asked Jeeves.
“Much of the planet is calm; Solcintra Portmaster has issued a flight hiatus, incidentally warning Captain Mendoza that her license is in danger. Solcintra City is not calm. There are riots in strategic locations, and we have signs of enemy action in Low Port. Higdon’s Howlers are active at your location and at the spaceport. Here, we have withstood several attempts at penetration and anticipate—pardon, working . . .”
Across the room, Sheather moved, knife flashing. There was a scream—of metal, as the blade sheared through the floor. “Brother, he has initiated a device!”
The Commander’s hand was still wrapped in his shirt; Nelirikk sprang forward and jerked the covering off, forcing the clenched hand open . . .
“Scout.” He threw the object; Val Con snatched it out of the air and stared down at it—a short and stubby wand, its surface studded with tiny buttons and switches . . .
Agent ter’Fendil shrank against the wall, staring at the Commander in horror.
“You’ve given them orders. But—”
“ . . . working!” Jeeves voice came out of the comm. “Alert! There has been a sixty thousand fold increase in neutrino emissions from Liad. Triangulation places the source at your location. Suggest immediate evacuation of all personnel.”
Nelirikk had dragged the Commander up by the back of his collar. He shook him, as a dog shakes a rat. “Inform me!”
The Commander said nothing.
“The level of neutrino flux is consistent with old-style timonium powered armored units,” Jeeves said. “Suggest immediate evacuation.”
“Brother,” Sheather said. “Something of much power is in motion. It moves strangely . . .” He turned and placed his three fingered hand flat against the wall.
“It comes . . .”
***
THERE WAS FIGHTING on the stations, there was fighting in the streets. Status reports poured in steadily, until Miri felt like she was drowning in details.
The Department’s base in the commercial district of Solcintra city had been taken by an angry mob, led, she strongly suspected, by scouts—a victory for the angels, except for the civilians dead, of course.
Closer to the port, the news wasn’t so good—the mob there had been repelled, expensively. Word was that there was a regroup in process.
Low Port was the worry—there’d been a couple unanticipated explosions. There were scouts there, too, trying to organize an evacuation.
The wall of books to her left shimmered and went foggy, for all the world like Clutch drive affect.
Miri blinked and came half out of her chair, too tired to even swear at the pain in her arm.
The books solidified and suddenly she wasn’t alone. A dark-haired woman with an old man tied across her back was swaying in front of the bookcase.
“Help,” she said.
***
THERE WAS A CRASHING sound behind the wall, and another.
“ . . . Autonomous Semi-sentient Policing Systems,” Jeeves said; “or ASPS. They were deployed a number of times on outworlds, for the most part disastrously, which resulted in public backlash against applications of such technology to civilian situations. I was once assigned as back up, and then lead control in a military operation designed to rid a world of the devices . . . approximately seventeen million dead as a result of erroneous deployment . . .”
“You must define the enemy or they will destroy everything,” Agent ter’Fendil said. He lurched to his feet, ignoring Sheather, his blade—and the Commander, who was all at once on his feet, a plain metal blade in his good hand, slashing at the unprotected back—
ter’Fendil spun, Agent-quick, slapped the knife away, closing and twisting, taking advantage of his adversary’s momentum—
The Commander’s neck broke with a snap. Agent ter’Fendil dropped the body and shrank back, staring.
“ . . . do not draw attention to yourself in any circumstances . . .” Jeeves was saying, over the clanking in the hallway.
Val Con slapped up the screen, accessed the hallway camera, and sucked in his breath.
The hall was blocked with objects—four objects, in fact. Each as large as Edger, all of deep green metal, all bearing large Terran numerals—Val Con saw numbers 1, 3, 15 . . .
“ . . . energy spike entirely consistent with an intact ASPS unit . . .” the voice continued from the comm.
“Jeeves, I confirm such a unit. Options?”
“Evacuate immediately. General use explosives slow them down; the most effective resistance, aside from vaporization, is placing obstructions in their way or dropping things on them. . . . When first mobilized they are methodical unless one triggers a self-defense program . . .”
“The control.” Agent ter’Fendil was beside him. “They will destroy the planet. Give me the control.”
Val Con looked at him, seeing honest fear in the Agent’s eyes. “Can they be turned off?”
“There is a resting state, yes.”
From the hallway outside, screams and the sounds of rending.
Val Con handed Agent ter’Fendil the control wand.
THE OLD GENT was settled in the autodoc. Miri leaned against the unit, feeling a kind of hum in her bones, which was probably the ’doc working, and which she shouldn’t have noticed at all.
An arm’s length away, Anthora yos’Galan slumped in a massively carved chair, eyes closed and voice low as she complied with Miri’s request to be brought up to speed.
She was doing a good job, hitting the high points and not wasting any words, and Miri wasn’t much liking what she heard.
“They’re surrounded,” she said, by way of a sum-up when the low, careful voice came to an end. “And trapped.” She bit her lip. “We can bust them out, but we’re gonna need coords for that room. Think you can work with Jeeves and figure it?”
Anthora shook her head. “Going in, the Tree provided the path. Ren Zel showed me the way out.”
Right. The hum from the ’doc was making her twitchy. Miri straightened out of her lean and looked down at the kid in the chair, hating what she was about to ask.
“So, you can get the Tree to provide a path back in, right? And this time, we’ll rig you up with a findme, and—”
Anthora opened her eyes. Silver-blue, like Shan’s, wide-spaced and dreamy-looking—which Shan’s weren’t. “Val Con said, if I got to safety, to stay there.”
Miri sighed. “Yeah, well. Val Con says a lot of stupid things, especially where it bears on somebody he cares about maybe getting hurt. Figures he’s tough enough to take his licks and ours, too. Also figures he’s fast enough to outrun most common trouble. Sometimes, he’s right; sometimes, he’s lucky. This time, he needs help. That’s us.”
“You don’t understand,” Anthora said. “Val Con said, if I got to safety, to stay there. I cannot return.”
Miri closed her eyes, counted to ten, and tried it again. “Val Con’s half of one good delm.” She reached inside her shirt and brought the Ring up on its cord, so the kid could see it. “I’m the other half. I’ll make it an order, if I have to.”
Anthora shook her head. “You do not understand,” she repeated. “Val Con—I am forbidden. He has this ability. I cannot return.”
“I just saw you walk through a wall,” Miri started—and blinked, as various memories from a young adulthood that was absolutely not hers unfolded, neatly, before her mind’s eye.
“You’re talking dramliza talent,” she said to Anthora’s soft silver eyes. “He can tell you no and make it stick.”
“He can do it to Priscilla, t
oo,” Anthora offered helpfully.
“Great,” Miri said, thinking that if there were one person in the universe who had to be a dramliza-brake, of course it would be—
“Miri.” Jeeves’ voice flowed out of the room speakers. “You are needed in the control room. A situation is developing.”
***
THE LAST CHARGE was laid; the last timer set.
Val Con dropped out of the repair hatch to the floor below, counting in his head.
Six minutes before the charges blew, burying the ASPS unit in rubble. Three minutes from his location to the rendezvous point. Two minutes to the surface.
Plenty of time.
***
“LORD PAT RIN, your timing is impeccable, sir,” Jeeves said—and surely, Pat Rin thought, it was an artifact of the transmission that yos’Galan’s butler sounded breathless? “We have a situation. Stand by, of your goodness, while I ascertain . . .”
There was silence, though the connect light remained steady. Pat Rin recruited himself to patience which was very shortly rewarded.
“Working,” Jeeves announced. “You will understand that control of the planetary defense net resides under the Captain’s hand during this present time of emergency.”
Pat Rin all but smiled. “Ah, does it? That will certainly expedite matters, should it become necessary to fire upon the planet. However—”
“Precisely,” the robot said, cutting him off ruthlessly. “It is exactly the subject of firing upon the planet that must now be addressed. The nature of the fleet you chose to field dictates your task. It will shortly be necessary to fire upon Solcintra City. Coordinates and ranging will be supplied.”
Necessary to fire upon Solcintra? Pat Rin closed his eyes. He had, of course, known that it might come to firing upon the homeworld—why else had he brought destroyers with him? Truth told, he had pinned his hope on the Council of Clans, that the all-too-public crying of Balance would flush the Department of the Interior onto the surface, where it might be dealt with as any other transgressor against the Code.
“Lord Pat Rin?”
“One moment,” he managed, holding up a hand that the robot could not see. “Jeeves, how is it necessary that we fire upon Solcintra, now? There has been no time for the Council to speak, nor time for the Department of the Interior to make answer . . .”
“The Department has made answer,” Jeeves said. “Certain intelligence reports, confirmed by direct observation of trusted parties, indicate that the Department of the Interior has deployed timonium powered weapons capable of overwhelming anything that Liad may bring against them on the ground. The planetary defense net is unable—by its nature—to effect an attack against a target situated upon the planet.” There was a pause, then Jeeves continued, hurriedly.
“It is my estimate that a failure to destroy these weapons in short order will lead to planetary disaster. In fact, it is necessary to fire upon the planet, bringing destruction to a portion of the city, in order to preserve the greater part. Your vessels are uniquely fitted to this task. Dutiful Passage, for instance, may only deploy a broad beam—far more destructive than those precision cutting units borne by your fleet.”
“There are people in that city!” Pat Rin snapped.
“There are. Evacuation has been sounded. I expect confirmation from teams shortly. In the meantime, steps are being taken to contain the targets.” Another pause, then, with a gentleness a robot could certainly never feel—
“It is our intention to destroy as small an area as possible. However, we dare not err by the application of too little force. People will die, despite the call for evacuation and the best efforts of the teams. But more people will die, if the enemy is not destroyed.”
Pat Rin bowed his head.
“I understand. I will require data.”
“Uploading,” Jeeves said promptly.
***
DIGLON RIFLE waited patiently for his next target. So far he had taken seven shots with this light rifle borrowed from Commander Carmody’s troop; he felt confident of five hits.
Nearby, Commander Call-Me-Liz-Lizardi was speaking quietly into a comm unit. His duty was to guard her and to watch for breakouts at the door which was, by now, well shattered, and partly filled with bodies.
Their position was excellent—they had a large stone monument for cover when they stood, and a stone wall, half buried on the other side with soil, for cover when they sniped . . .
Hazenthull Explorer had not shot as much as he, but perhaps with more accuracy. The commander had told them to conserve their ammunition, and to be prepared to act as rearguard if need be—and to be rearguard with such as she, whose exploits were writ on books and worlds forever, such was a fate a solider could embrace.
There came another one of those slight shakes of the ground, and a vibration that was longer. He was leaning against the monument, his face feeling the stone—and . . . there was a shake, a—
“Explorer!” he called. “Something happens here!”
Hazenthull gave an assent signal, indicated to the commander that she was moving his way . . . .
“Feel,” he whispered to her, pushing fingers to the stone. “Equipment!”
She looked at him in startlement, felt the stone herself, then leaned her ear against it.
Abruptly there was grinding noise close to hand and she jerked back, dragging Diglon with her.
A seam in the granite shivered, clunked, shrugged—and slid quietly into the rest of the monument, revealing a metal wall. Almost immediately that wall moved aside, and smoke billowed free, carrying the smell perhaps of burnt meat. From within the monument came the scout, Nelirikk Explorer, and another, with blood on his cheek—pushing the Honored One, guiding him into the light . . . .
The scout was cradling something precious against his chest; gun held ready in his free hand. He looked around, caught Diglon’s eye, smiled, and thrust the gray fur ball into his hands, saying in Troop, “Protect this hero from harm. Move away, move away!”
That quickly he was gone, dashing back to the monument, bending, making some unseen adjustment. There was a repeat of the clanking and grinding; the door shut, and the monument was as it had been.
“Medic! Medic!” yelled Commander Liz, and waved to him in his new troop-sign: fast march that way . . . .
They all started running then, away from the monument and the fighting in the street, and when the ground rumbled and knocked them down, the monument swayed and great gouts of smoke and flame blew out of it, into the pale green sky.
The breeze was fairly stiff, blowing away from the city center and—by extrapolation—away from Jelaza Kazone and Korval’s valley.
***
“ . . . NOT NEVER meant for atmospheric work . . . damn, but look at that!” That was Andy Mack, muttering publicly under his breath.
Everyone else—including the usually irrepressible Cheever McFarland—remained silent as rug mites, watching their separate screens and the results of their labors. There was fire—not all of Solcintra could be spared, no matter how precise the aiming Jeeves had contrived—and a black spout of soot and ash leaning away from the city. Already there was a darkening that was not mere shadow as the heaviest debris fell in a kind of non-volcanic pumice.
Pat Rin switched views quickly. Not all of the smoke above the city had its birth in their attack. Portions of Low Port and Mid Port were aflame, and elsewhere there were reports of scattered violence. The portmaster’s jury-rigged comm was demanding answers, demanding control of the planetary net, demanding that the mercenary units vacate the planet, demanding Korval’s surrender. . . .
That last had brought a burst of laughter from several of his crew members; then Jeeves had once again brought their attention to the task at hand and they fired what Pat Rin hoped was the last blast at the city he’d called home.
Jeeves supplied them with several views of the target now. The beams, meant to slice and cut, had done just that, lancing through the atmosphere of Liad in
unison from the four mining craft, each cutting its own edge of a box centered on a green park and then crisscrossing toward the center. The initial gout of reflective white smoke had given way quickly to a dense ash-filled swirl, and then when the interior of the buried domain was opened there had been explosions. . . .
The while, Jeeves had spoken in the background, calmly instructing and coaxing minute beam corrections until at last, for good or for ill, the thing was finished.
Now, from above, Pat Rin, saw the terminator on the planet clearly as his ship entered shadow. Soon, night would fall on Solcintra. He wondered if anyone there would be able to sleep.
DAY 56
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra
Liad
“MR. MCFARLAND, I thank you for your care, but I scarcely need security in the very heart of Solcintra.”
The big Terran sighed. “Boss, use your head. Ships under your command fired on the planet not all that long ago.” He held up a hand. “Yeah, we did for a good reason and likely saved a buncha folks their hides, if not exactly their homes. And we can take it as given the evacuation missed somebody—probably more than a couple somebodies. And there’s a big glassy hole in the planet where we beamed them ’bots into vapor.
“All of which says to me that there’re some who ain’t gonna be real pleased to see you.”
Pat Rin closed his eyes. True enough, he thought. Nor would it do to deprive the delm of the honor of dealing appropriately with Korval’s erring child Pat Rin by getting himself murdered beforehand.
“Besides,” Cheever said. “Natesa’d chew me out good if I let somethin’ happen to you.”
Natesa.
“Your point is taken, Mr. McFarland.”
He opened his eyes, checked the gun in its hidden pocket, pulled the jacket into seemliness—and paused, his fingers tightening on the leather. Jacket, he thought. This jacket. Before Korval.
Pat Rin yos’Phelium, you are a fool.
“Boss?”
He smoothed the sleeves, feigning a finicky lordling’s care, buying time—a few moments, only; long enough for his heart to stop pounding so, and for his face to find the proper expression of cool neutrality. What, after all, was a pilot’s jacket, when he already wore a ring?
