by P. L. Nealen
He was also leading one of the Sector’s two cavalry Centuries. “If we are going to Valdek,” Scalas said, “I expect we will be very glad of Brother Costigan’s presence.” He glanced back at the lift. Horvaset was not on the command deck; professional courtesy only went so far. The command deck of a Brotherhood starship was a place for Caractacans only.
“If this tale is true, you mean,” Mor muttered.
“You think it isn’t?” Scalas asked.
“Where would any force in the galaxy, aside from maybe the M’tait, get the kind of manpower and ships that she described?” Mor asked. “I know, it’s a big galaxy, but there is no way any one system can afford that sort of commitment of resources to make war on another system. It makes no sense.”
Scalas only shrugged. “We shall see.”
The Dauntless touched down, and Scalas, Mor, and a guard of Century XXXII’s Brothers, still in armor and still carrying powerguns, descended with Horvaset and her First Mate, as soon as the pad was cooled enough. This time, there were combat sleds waiting; not because the Valdekans were considered a threat, but because the combat sleds were faster. Details had not been sent; that would wait for the formal presentation of Horvaset’s message. But the sense of urgency had nevertheless been communicated with the acknowledgement that the stricken Mikadik had come looking for Caractacan help.
The tight formation of Caractacans marched the Valdekan officers to the sleds and boarded. There was no formality. The sleds simply rose on their fans, spun about, and roared up the road toward the Keep.
Brother Legate Kranjick was waiting in the Great Hall, along with Centurions Soon, Costigan, and Dunstan, all in armor sans helmets. It was a standard ceremony when receiving supplicants looking for the Caractacan’s assistance in war. If battle was in the offing, a Caractacan had best be in his armor.
Scalas and Cobb flanked Horvaset and her First Mate as they crossed the hall to come before Kranjick’s imposing bulk. His armor was the same as all the rest, aside from its size; he wore the same magazine pouches, comm units, and sidearm, and his chameleonic coating was the same vague gray as the stone of the Great Hall. It was, if anything, more scarred and battered than his subordinates’. Kranjick had worn the same armor for a long time.
Century XXXII’s honor guard came to a halt a precise twenty meters from the dais, with a thunderous crash of thirty armored boots striking the pavement at once. The Caractacans were generally fairly ascetic when it came to ceremony, but when dealing with outsiders, they knew the value of display. The Caractacans were known as the most disciplined and effective of the military brotherhoods in the galaxy, and it was sometimes necessary to remind their visitors of that fact.
In this case, if only to affirm that their confidence, in asking for help, was not misplaced.
Scalas might, like many of his rank and experience, question the need for such ceremonies. Battlefield effectiveness had little to do with synchronized marching or drill and ceremonies. But to the uninitiated, such things were impressive, and so the Brotherhood would impress. Until it became time to impress in much more violent ways.
Scalas, Cobb, Horvaset, and the First Mate, whose name Scalas could not recall, continued forward to the steps. Clicking her heels together, Horvaset, who was a slender, dark-haired woman with dark, almond-shaped eyes, bowed to Kranjick. The Brother Legate solemnly returned the salute with an open palm over the heart. Strangers rarely saw the weapon salutes that were standard within the Brotherhood itself.
“On behalf of the Royal Court of the Sovereign System of Valdek,” Horvaset intoned solemnly in accented Trade Cant, “I offer greetings to the Caractacan Brotherhood, and bring this plea for aid.” She held out a small, palm-sized holo projector, and thumbed it on.
The projector lit, and a regal figure in a square-shouldered tunic appeared. “To the Caractacan Brotherhood and its leadership, greetings,” the man intoned. Scalas could see little detail, especially as the holo was facing Kranjick. “I am Bozhidar Rehenek, General-Regent of Valdek. We are an old world and a proud one, but we are now faced with a menace that is beyond our strength.
“Three weeks ago, as I record this, the Valdek system came under attack by a fleet and army of unprecedented size. The outer colonies have fallen. Valdek itself is besieged, and most of our fleet is grounded. The rest is presently floating debris in space.
“The attacking force identifies itself as the ‘Galactic Unity.’ We know little more about them, aside from their overwhelming numbers and suicidal swarming tactics. That there is no such ‘Galactic Unity’ should be of no news to the Brotherhood. I fear that we are the victims of a megalomaniac. But if so, he is a megalomaniac with resources we cannot match.
“Our people are reeling, and our defenses are being slowly battered to dust. I have sent similar messages to every friend we have within a hundred parsecs. I have attached what intelligence we have managed to gather in the chaos of battle to this message, for your perusal.
“Though it pains me, as a sovereign, to do so, I place my people at your mercy, Caractacans. If you do not aid us, we shall surely fall.” The figure bowed stiffly, and the holo winked out.
He was replaced by a montage of recorded images, none large enough for a great deal of detail. It seemed that whoever had recorded them had been far enough away to survive.
A massed cone of ships came out of deep space toward a deep space station, behind a veritable blizzard of missiles and powergun fire. There were more starships in that one field of view than the Brotherhood had in the entire Spinward Reach. The station disappeared in a glowing sphere of debris, and the recording winked out.
Dropships fell toward a dusty planetary surface, recorded from a vantage point just outside a small cluster of domed habitats. They landed hard, combat landings throwing up clouds of scorched dust, and spilled out angular armored vehicles and troops in armor. An entire regiment was landed in seconds, surrounding the tiny settlement. The recording spun, revealing that the landing pads had been subjected to either orbital bombardment or close air support; they were smoking wreckage and craters. Some of the troops apparently noticed the person recording, and closed in, weapons leveled. A rifle butt was swung savagely, and the image disappeared.
Just before the image had vanished, Scalas had noticed that the troops’ armor amounted to little more than a chestplate over a plain spacesuit.
“There is more,” Horvaset said, her chin held high. “But I expect that the full reports are not for this time or place.”
“Perhaps not,” Kranjick said. “But even so, there is little to be determined from what you have shown us. Little detail. Tell us, what do you know about this ‘Galactic Unity?’”
“I do not know where they come from,” she replied. “But they must have hundreds, if not thousands, of systems at their command, if they can field the forces they have thrown against us. I do not know how they could have built such an empire without anyone noticing, but I suppose that it is a big galaxy.”
Kranjick, his face unmoving, looked to either side of him. “Centurions?” he asked. “Opinions?”
“There has never been an interstellar empire in the entire history of the Great Diaspora that ever amounted to more than a handful of closely-spaced systems,” Centurion Soon said. He was shockingly tall, with the wiry build of a low-gravity worlder who had worked hard to build the muscle to be a Caractacan. “And those soon fell apart, collapsing due to the weight of sheer distance and complexity.”
“And yet, from those recordings, it appears that someone has at least managed to put together the resources of such an empire,” Scalas pointed out. Though he was beginning to wonder at the apparent cheapness of the infantry’s equipment. He wondered if the others had noticed. That was neither the time nor the place for such analysis, however.
“Does it matter?” Costigan asked quietly. Tall, lantern-jawed, and brown-haired, Costigan even looked like a hero, the kind that statues were made of. “Someone has demonstrated the power, abil
ity, and willingness to attack one of the most important systems on the Rimward edge of the Avar Sector. That alone should merit our attention.”
“Should it?” Dunstan asked. “If the Valdekans are as powerful as you insinuate they are, are there not other systems closer by, weaker, that would be stripped of protection against the M’tait and pirates such as the yeheri that Centurion Scalas so ably defeated a few days ago? And if this General-Regent has indeed appealed to every system within a hundred parsecs, well. That is a considerable relief force.”
Kranjick did not even bother to look at Dunstan. Horvaset looked suddenly nervous; Scalas suspected that she had not imagined her request would be met with such skepticism, much less the suggestion that it be ignored.
“You will accompany me aboard the Boanerges, Captain,” Kranjick said. The woman suddenly seemed to nearly wilt with relief. Kranjick had just answered her prayers, as well as the questions Dunstan had so tactlessly raised. “We will lift by nightfall tonight. Centurion Scalas.”
“Yes, Brother Legate,” Scalas replied.
“When we are finished here, seek out Elder Nakamura,” Kranjick told him. The tone of his voice had not changed an iota since he had first spoken; it remained a deep, dry monotone. “You have two days to select nine men from his senior novices to bring your Century back up to full strength. Once that is done and the Dauntless fully refitted, you will follow. Centurion Costigan.”
“Yes, sir,” Costigan answered.
“How long until the Challenger is ready for lift?” Kranjick asked.
“We can be ready in six hours, sir” Costigan assured him, but Kranjick shook his head ponderously.
“I know you will not be fully refit and rearmed in six hours, Centurion,” he said. “You have two days, until Centurion Scalas has selected his replacements.” He looked at Scalas. “You are in command in my absence, Centurion,” he said, “until we rendezvous in the Valdek system. Understood?”
“Yes, Brother Legate.” Scalas was momentarily proud of himself that he had not stammered. He could feel Dunstan’s eyes on him, but did not dare look at either Dunstan, or Costigan.
Kranjick straightened still further, towering over his Centurions. “We will meet in the War Room to go over the rest of Captain Horvaset’s intelligence before I leave, Centurions,” he said. “Legio!” His voice boomed out like a thunderclap. “Dismissed!”
***
The rest of the intelligence report was little more informative than Horvaset’s initial message, as extensive as it was. It had clearly been assembled in haste, little more than a jumbled collection of raw reports and imagery, both 2D and holo. There was little in the way of a coherent picture to be gained from it, aside from a very basic idea of the strength of the fleet and army that the Valdekans were facing.
It truly was unprecedented. Only the Qinglong Wars that had led to the destruction of Earth had ever involved fleets anywhere close to the numbers being suggested by the Valdekan reports, and it was widely regarded that some of the numbers used in the accounts of the Qinglong Wars had been inflated by way of legend.
What was evident was the fact that the Caractacans by themselves would not be able to relieve Valdek. But their help was needed, so it would be offered. At the very least, they could buy the Valdekans time.
It was with that conclusion that Kranjick took up his helmet and strode out of the War Room, headed for the distant pad where the blunt spearhead of the Boanerges pointed her nose at the sky. Kranjick rarely took his war gear out of the starship when at the Keep, allowing for a speedy redeployment if need be. It was a habit that Scalas had tried to emulate.
Soon and Dunstan took their leave, Dunstan stiffly refusing to look at Scalas. Horvaset looked uncertain, until Costigan quietly suggested to her that she should probably follow Brother Legate Kranjick, if she wished to board the Boanerges before she lifted. The Captain, momentarily looking as lost and flustered as a first-year novice, hurried out of the War Room.
That left Scalas and Costigan. “Congratulations, Erekan,” Costigan said after an awkward silence, during which Scalas had been studiously observing the imagery Horvaset had brought, though he hadn’t really seen it since first looking at it. “I can’t think of anyone else Kranjick could have picked among us.”
Scalas looked up at Costigan. “Really?” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Not even the Hero of Tide’s Point Station?”
Costigan snorted. “You set in for one suicidal last stand, and by some miracle survive, and all of a sudden you’re a God of War to some people.” He sobered. “I thought you knew me better than that, Erekan.”
“Well, we haven’t had much time to catch up since then, Virgil,” Scalas said, straightening from the display. “People change. Warriors grow into roles they might not have foreseen for themselves.”
But Costigan shook his head. “I’m a fighter, not a leader, Erekan,” he said. “Tide’s Point Station only happened because I figured I was already dead anyway, and may as well take as many of the M’tait with me as I could. And it really didn’t take much in the way of leadership or tactical acumen, either. It was a holding action in a confined corridor for most of it. Bad guys that way; shoot there. Besides, now I’m a cavalry Centurion. My tanks, combat sleds, and assault guns will probably have less to do in a defensive action than your infantry shooters.”
Scalas chuckled a little, some of the tension draining away. He’d known Costigan since they had both been novices, Costigan a year ahead of Scalas. But their diverging responsibilities as Centurions, coupled with Costigan’s growing legend as the Hero of Tide’s Point Station, had made him wonder if the other man had surpassed him to the extent that they could no longer truly be friends. The fact that Costigan certainly did not think so was heartening, and relieved some of the leaden weight in his chest that had been there since Kranjick had unexpectedly placed him in command of the Legio still in the Avar Sector Keep.
“Don’t tell Dunstan that,” he said. “He’s already insufferable enough as it is.” He realized that he should not speak ill of a brother Centurion, and ashamedly resolved to speak to Father Corinus.
But Costigan frowned. He had not been around Dunstan much since accepting command of Century XXXV and the Challenger along with it. “What was that all about back there? Was he honestly suggesting that the Brotherhood refuse a request for aid?”
Scalas sighed. “He has become something of a ‘pragmatist’ over the last couple of years,” he said. “I think it started back near the Brotherhood Citadel on Caerfaon. It seems that some of the younger generations of Brothers no longer consider the Code to be ‘relevant.’”
Costigan’s frown deepened. “I’d heard that such ideas were floating around, but I hadn’t expected to find them in the Avar Sector Legio,” he said.
“Brother Legate Kranjick is well aware,” Scalas assured him. “We’ve…spoken about it.”
Costigan glanced toward the door where Soon and Dunstan had disappeared. “Can we trust him?”
“Trust this,” Scalas said. “Dunstan is a competent soldier, and he is ambitious. I don’t think he would willingly endanger his position by stepping too far out of line. He pushes boundaries, he’s not willing to break them entirely.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Costigan said. “You are acting Legate, after all.” He cracked a half-grin at his old friend. “Speaking of which, any instructions before I go start getting to work on making sure the Logisticians load the right powergun charges back aboard the Challenger, Acting Legate?”
Scalas shook his head ruefully. “You know better than that. I have too much work of my own to do to play ‘acting commander’ power games. Get out of here.”
Costigan laughed and clapped Scalas on the shoulder. As ever, it was bruising, but Scalas didn’t mind, only punching his friend back. Costigan winced and rubbed the impact spot. “You’ve gotten stronger.”
“I’m a Centurion,” Scalas pointed out. “I have to be the strongest in the Ce
ntury.” He scooped up a copy of the intel report as he started out the door.
He wanted to study some of it at more length. Something was bothering him about what he’d seen. He just couldn’t say for sure what.
Maybe he’d have time to analyze the data further, in between refitting the Dauntless and Century XXXII for launch, and vetting his replacements from among Elder Nakamura’s novices. But he would not hold his breath.
Chapter 6
“Centurion, I don’t think I have ever seen so many neutrino emitters around one planet,” Mor said.
Scalas did not reply. The holo tank was swarming with tiny fireflies around Valdek, each glowing dot being the neutrino signature of a starship’s reactor. The data was old; the Dauntless, Sword of the Brotherhood, Challenger, and Vindicator were still ninety light-minutes from the planet, gathered just above the rings of the most distant gas giant. They were nearly in the system’s Oort Cloud. By the time they were detected, they would have changed orbits and vectors at least twice.
“Well, the intel was certainly dead-on,” Cobb muttered. The Century’s Squad Sergeants were currently all on the command deck, observing the holo tank. Scalas had wanted everyone to have a look at what they were facing. “I believe the term was ‘unprecedented.’”
“Are there any more around any of the outer colonies, Captain?” Scalas asked Mor.
But the starship captain shook his head grimly. “It looks like all efforts are being focused on Valdek itself,” he said. “I suspect that there isn’t anyone left alive on the outer colonies.”
“Too much trouble to secure while they still had a central axis of resistance,” Kahane speculated. “One thing is certain; whoever this ‘Galactic Unity’ is, they are not exactly honorable combatants.”
“Did anyone really expect them to be?” Volscius asked acidly. Scalas briefly reflected that Volscius would probably do better in Dunstan’s Century, but dismissed the thought. Kranjick doubtless knew about Volscius as he did about nearly everything else in the Legio, and was deliberately keeping Dunstan from grooming an entirely ‘pragmatist’ Century.
