“You can cross-check our ID tag,” Davin said. “Normally, we come though a different gate. We’re in a bit of a hurry this time.”
“A hurry, huh?” Corella repeated, mulling over Davin’s story. “What’s the rush?”
Davin put on a diffident grin and shrugged. “Ah, you know how it is, Lieutenant. Can’t talk about it.”
“Sure,” Corella said, eyeing him incredulously. “Please hold.”
The screen went blank. Davin let out his breath and looked at Strange and Kiki with a hesitant smile.
“So far, so good, right?”
Strange chewed a fingernail and stared, wide-eyed, at the slowly growing gunship out the windshield. Its forward guns, ensconced under the bridge node, aimed directly at them. Nothing inspired existential dread like the business end of a ballistic cannon.
“My guess is, if we’re not cleared, that lieutenant’s not even gonna let us know,” Strange said. “They’ll just politely inform us by sending a missile through the window.”
“I can’t think of a worse place to die,” Kiki said absently, then glanced down at Davin and Strange. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Strange said. “Me neither.”
Davin rolled his eyes. “All this drama. You two belong in a soap opera.”
“You belong in a white jacket and a padded room,” Kiki said. “Steering us into this.”
Strange let out a surprised laugh and twisted in her seat to look up at Kiki. “That’s pretty funny. Didn’t know you had a lighter side.”
Kiki cracked a grin down at her. “I was only half-joking.”
The copilot’s screen blinked back on to reveal Lieutenant Corella wearing a smug smirk.
“Good news!” he said too cheerily. Bad sign. “Your tag checks out. You’re clear to pass. AndI have been assigned to personally escort you to your destination. We’ll follow and match your speed. In the meantime, I’m sure you won’t mind that we sent a message ahead to TransTek, just to let ‘em know we’re inbound with one of their fine supply runners.” He flashed an amused smile. “Happy flying.”
The screen blinked off again, leaving the cockpit in a thoroughly anxious silence. Davin exchanged a look with Strange. They both bore the same ominous, yet confused, expression.
Davin said what he was pretty sure was on all three of their minds: “Yeah, weare screwed.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Orion Arm, near the Sagittarian border, in Terran Confederacy space . . .
Freyz stepped across the dark, marbled floor of the observation room to join Velasco at the wide, floor-to-ceiling, ballistic glass window. The Swan Lord stood, arms crossed at his chest, gazing out at the swirling remains of the battle as delicate piano music played from the room’s audio system. It had taken over twenty-five hours to dispatch the Confed fleet. Only a handful of their small craft and SCDs had managed to escape, the rest of their fleet ripped to tatters or commandeered.
For this, Swan had paid a price in blood and ships.
The mightyCygnusplowed through the constellation of hull fragments and flash frozen bodies, its rotating crew cylinder making it all look as if caught in a slow motion tornado. Thousands and thousands of square kilometers cluttered with the wreckage of a full day’s fighting. Swan colors mixed with the bare metallic grays of the Confed. Several Confed battleships remained intact, lights still aglow from portholes, hulking giants floating amidst the jagged fragments of frigates and gunships and clippers and the confetti of destroyed drone fighters. Deep in the distance, some of the local star’s light reflected off the pockmarked carcasses of Swan’s titans, now totally spent for the cause.
Freyz felt pride at the sight—pride that they had prevailed, that his gambit had succeeded. But he sensed a different mood from Lord Velasco.
“Our fleet pushes on toward the rally point, my lord,” Freyz said. “Our allies are engaging enemy fleets at the adjacent border gates, and the Confed now has scarcely any defenses between us and Earth.”
“We’re not going to Earth,” Velasco rumbled in a low voice.
Freyz recoiled and turned to face Velasco. “What do you mean, my lord? Our entire invasion strategy is built around an attack on Earth.”
“Carinian fleets are amassing at the border,” Velasco said. “They hold a vote in eight days to decide whether to authorize war.”
“We knew that at the outset,” Freyz countered. “That’s why we set the checkpoints so far from the Sol system. For now, our strife with the Confed is a limited punishment for meddling in our affairs. Carina knows that. We’ve made it clear. We’ll make no aggressive movement toward Sol until after the vote on Baha’runa.”
“We’ll make no aggressive movement toward Sol at all,” Velasco commanded.
Freyz remained speechless. His blood began to boil at the thought of letting the Terrans live after their insolence. “What has changed, my lord?”
Velasco finally met Freyz’s eyes. His expression conveyed some newfound gravity.
“I’ve received a private message from Zantorian.”
Freyz let out his breath a little. “And?”
Velasco flicked his cuffed wrist toward the wide window, and the nano-wired plexiglass darkened to total blackness. In the void, a full-body image of the Grand Lumis, Diamond Sword at his side, faded in. Zantorian’s hands were folded behind his back, and his eyes betrayed a disdainful sobriety.
“Lord Velasco,” the Grand Lumis said. “I am impressed by your victory over the Terrans. And also by your surprising ability to whip support for your cause against them. Your leadership and decisiveness has not gone unnoticed, by the Regnum or by me.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “I suspect you and I still disagree about the proper response to Upraad. But lets put that behind us. You know as well as I that a divided Regnum is a hobbled one. Therefore, I propose we come to a compromise.”
Freyz glanced at Velasco to gauge his thoughts on Zantorian’s message but found him inscrutable.
“It’s no secret what the Carinians will do if your ships encroach on Earth,” Zantorian continued. “We don’t want war to start like that. The conflict you have with the Terrans is a skirmish compared to what will come when the Carinians unleash their fleets. We cannot be spread thin if that happens. It would break the Regnum, starting with your alliance. Swan ships would be the first consumed by the Carinian tsunami.”
“My lord, he’s only trying to—”
Lord Velasco shushed him. “Listen.”
“Remove your ships from Confed space,” Zantorian said. “You have proved your point. You’ve balanced the scales. No more is necessary. And renounce your claim on Lagoon. I need not lecture you on the difference between absolute law andde facto law. You cite the former for your case, while the rest of the Regnum abides by the latter.” The Grand Lumis waved away his own words. “Never mind that. Whether you agree with my legal calculus or not, I ask you to renounce your claim. Rejoin my ranks with full honor. In exchange, I will grant you half of Lagoon’s systems. I will grant you the right to choose the new lord regent of Lagoon, so long as I approve of your choice. And finally, I will hear your ambassador’s pleas for an ease of taxation and lower Swan’s levies by fifteen percent. Take this bargain and bring permanent benefit to the Swan people, or reject it and risk destroying us all. Your choice.”
The image of Zantorian blinked out, and the darkness in the plexiglass faded out. The vast, floating wreckage returned.
“Surely you aren’t seriously considering his offer,” Freyz said quietly so as not to alert the guards at the opposite side of the room.
“Of course I am,” Velasco snapped. “Lower levies? Half of Lagoon? Collaborate with the Grand Lumis on a new neighboring lord? I’d be a fool not to consider the offer.”
Freyz shifted on his feet, feeling heat spread under his skin. “What of the message we intended to send to those who would meddle in Sagittarian affairs? Would you forsake that mission?”
“Have we not already sent that m
essage?” Velasco gestured with an open hand at the debris out the window. “Was breaking their defenses and shattering their entire space navy not enough?”
“No, my lord, because we’ve not destroyed anything that cannot be rebuilt. We’ve only done enough to create a blood feud. We need to break their spirit, their will to fight. We need to scatter and divide them.”
Lord Velasco tightened his lips. “If the Terrans hailed from any other planet, you might be right. But it’s Earth we’re talking about.”
Freyz shut his eyes and inhaled in frustration. “At least . . . at least give me some time. Give my strategy time to work. Give Zantorian time to sweat.” He leaned closer. “We may be able to wring better terms from him.”
Lord Velasco folded his arms at his chest and twitched his lips as if ruminating. His stare was as sharp and scorching as any blazer. Finally, he gave a slight nod.
“Six more days,” Velasco said. “Then we take the best offer we can get from Zantorian.”
Freyz nodded back. “Wise decision, my lord. I’ll adjust our strategy accordingly.” He stepped away, back toward the doorway.
“Freyz,” Velasco said, stopping the lord general. “We’re walking a fine line. Don’t forget that.”
Chapter Forty
Orion Arm, on the planet Earth . . .
Under the cover of a deep darkness, Kastor led a tramping herd of scarf-masked Defenders up a winding road toward the top of a hill. Signs pointed the way, making the computer mapping system in his cuff unnecessary.
House of Baha. 2.4 kilometers. 1.8 kilometers. 1.1 kilometers. 0.4 kilometers.
They had been walking for a while now along this cobblestone street, through old neighborhoods, past a field for a sport with netted goals on both ends. This part of the city had gone quiet, but in the distance all around, angry orange fires glowed between buildings. Defenders fired guided rockets from hidden locations into the surrounded, Confed-controlled Old City, eroding them bit by bit. Rockets went outward, too, warding off potential offensives from outside the Defender-controlled ring of territory.
The Defenders’ call to arms still echoed from the PA system in commercial districts and urban centers, giving the city no rest. No room to breathe. No respite from fear. Just as Kastor wanted it. The Defenders of Glory would win more fighters to their cause and cast a longer shadow over the Terrans.
The soldiers behind him chattered excitably in their local languages as they came upon the gated surrounds of the House of Baha. That wavy lined symbol signifying the Carinian religion was perched at the building’s highest peak. Quite a beautiful structure. Composed of white limestone with broad, carved mahogany doors and three bronze domes, one for each wing of the building. A few dozen unarmed groups huddled in the trimmed foliage around the huge foundation stones.
Kastor’s earpiece made a slight pop.
“Advisor,” came the softly lisping voice of Qasim. “I’ve managed to break into the Confed’s drone tracking system. You’ve got two aerial combat drones headed toward you.”
“Which direction?”
“Uh . . . north-northwest,” Qasim said.
Kastor halted, turned, and searched the Defenders’ guns for rocket tube attachments. He pointed at two men that had them. “You two, get on a rooftop. Watch northwest for drones. Shoot them down.”
They each nodded and said, “Yes, Advisor” in their local accents. Kastor still hadn’t learned to distinguish one from another. So many accents and ethnicities in this city. Too many to remember. He preferred living in a world where a man was readily discernible as either nobleman or commoner—nothing else.
Kastor pointed at two other masked Defenders with rocket tube attachments on their rifles. “You two, go around to the west side of the hill. Stake out a spot and watch for drones. Shoot down any you see.”
“Yes, Advisor.” The voice that responded belonged to a woman. It surprised him.
The remaining Defenders gathered around the front gate. Cast iron bars rose high into the air, and a heavy chain held them together at the middle. Kastor stepped into the cleared half circle around the entrance as a bearded man in a white robe, probably in his sixties, shuffled toward them from inside. He was frantic and frightened, waving away the masked fighters.
“Not involved!” he pleaded in a different kind of accent. “Not involved! We—” He tapped his chest with his fingertips and shook his head vigorously. “Not involved. We neutral.” He gestured back at the building. “House of God. No soldier. No weapon. We . . . not Confed.”
Kastor stepped closer to look down at the scrawny, desperate man. “Gather your people and move away from the building,” he said in a low voice. “Do you understand me? Move the people out of the building. Away from it.”
The robed man shook his head. “No! No, we . . . we not inv—”
Kastor reached through the bars and grabbed the man’s robe, pulling him close. “If you want those people to live,” he commanded in a harsh whisper. “Get them away from the building. And leave.Now.” Kastor shoved the man away and watched him scurry back toward his Carinian refugees.
The whir of drones was distinguishable in the distance as Kastor turned back around to his troops, such as they were. More like militia.
“Advisor,” Qasim buzzed in Kastor’s ear. “Your tracker puts you at the House of Baha. What are you doing there? We already decided we don’t need that hill. It’s too far from the bulk of our forces.”
“We won’t be here long,” Kastor said. “Just long enough to send a message.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Qasim said. “We need the Carinians on our side.”
“I beg to differ.”
Qasim started to object, but Kastor pinched the earpiece, pulled it out of his ear, and shoved it in a vest pocket. He surveyed his gathered soldiers, each of them wearing civilian clothes but strapped from ankle to chest in the equipment of warfare. Satchels hung from their shoulders, stuffed full of explosive charges. Two days ago, they worked in shops or factories or peddled cheap goods on street corners. Now, they killed and destroyed in the name of God and freedom. He saw a fire in their eyes that he could use.
Kastor pointed over his shoulder at the House of Baha. “They . . . are the ones who seek to control your lands and holy places. They may not carry weapons of their own, but they are more dangerous than any soldier.”
Some nodded. Their collective anger rose. Behind the iron fence, Kastor could hear the frenzied rush of civilians away from the building.
“They crowd you out. They impoverish you. They drive you into slums. Worst of all . . . they finance your oppressors. The Confed would not exist if not for them. We need to send them a message.”
Kastor resisted grinning at the sight of their wrath, seething just under the surface. To hear an outsider affirm their gut-deep enmity was electrifying. The animus flowed their veins, handed down to them from their parents and grandparents. To hate the Confed outsiders came as instinctively as breathing.
“Take everything valuable,” Kastor commanded. “Then plant the charges. We detonate in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, Advisor!” came their slapdash reply. Hardly military uniformity, but Kastor didn’t need that. He didn’t need dispassionate units. He needed an angry mob just disciplined enough to control.
The lot of them rushed past him to the gate. A Defender produced a large, two-handed cutting tool and clipped the chain. The gates whined as they swung open to let in the deluge of Defenders.
One of them shouted, “All glory to God!”
Then another shouted it. And another. And another. Soon, they had all taken their turn to shout their war cry. But Kastor stayed behind, stayed silent. His part had been played for tonight. Instead, he inclined his ear to the sky, listened for the drones, and scanned the dark, blocky silhouettes of nearby houses for a place to camp out.
It was almost time for some target practice.
Chapter Forty-One
Carina Arm, on the planet
Baha’runa . . .
Seven days to the war resolution vote . . .
The Ministry of Arms’ conference room was packed to the gills with Upper House reps around the polished wood table and staffers in chairs lining the edges. Poor Aisha sat shoulder to shoulder with two assistants in bulky suits, scarcely enough room to shift in his seat. But, of course, the young lad wouldn’t complain. He never did. Quite a find, that one.
Riahn leaned back in his leather rolling chair and twirled his stylus between his fingers. Morvan stood on the far side of the conference room, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, in a spirited exchange with an undecided Reformist rep from the Carinian heartland. Every representative around the table was undecided. Riahn and Morvan had hoped to change that. He figured the news from Earth would have a stronger effect than it seemed to.
“I hate to play Devil’s Advocate here, but we don’t have all the facts on the ground. We don’t know why the Defenders of Glory would go out of their way to destroy this house of God.”
Reformists. Always the hardest to please.
But he wasn’t wrong. A screen behind Morvan played aerial footage of the incident on a loop. Lights glowed orange around a house of God, where armed figures ran among ostentatious landscaping. At the horizon, a pair of combat drones cut across the sky, sent to engage the Defenders, according to the news stations. Then, out of a few large, inky pools of darkness streaked several rockets that arced toward their targets. The drones each swerved to miss. The first rockets whizzed past and blew up above. The second snuck past their rear fins. But subsequent rockets landed, blowing holes in the unmanned fuselages and mincing their wings to smoking, skeletal shreds. The drones swirled down from the sky and crashed into nearby buildings.
The clip then skipped ahead to tiny figures sprinting out of the buildings, down the main path, and out the gate. Seconds later, all the windows blew outward, A shockwave emanated up and vibrated the airborne camera. More explosions made their way around the corners of the structure, blasting clouds of smoke and debris into the air. The building crumbled into an impenetrable mass of dust.
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 19
