But even as relief began to flash through Tremaine, the single Peep battlecruiser got off one last broadside . . . and a single graser struck squarely on the grav eddy Horace Harkness had spotted so long ago.
Her Majesty’s Light Attack Craft Cutthroat exploded as violently as any of her victims had, spewing herself into the void like a fleeting nova, the only casualty of the three-squadron strike on the battlecruisers.
There were no survivors.
Mission of Honor
DAVID WEBER
“This is the sixth Joseph Buckley they’ve built,” she said, “and I’ve got to wonder why even Sollies haven’t learned from that much history. It hasn’t been exactly the luckiest name in the SLN’s history.”
“Well, fair’s fair, Cindy,” Michelle pointed out. “They didn’t name any of them for the luckiest scientist in history, either.”
“Is that your understatement for the day, Ma’am?” Lecter asked, and this time Adenauer chuckled, too, as the name finally clicked for her, as well.
Dr. Joseph Buckley had been a major figure in the development of the original impeller drive on Beowulf in the thirteenth century. Unhappily, he hadn’t been one of the more fortunate figures. He’d been a critical part of the original developmental team in 1246, but he’d had a reputation among his peers even then for being as erratic as he was brilliant, and he’d been determined to prove it was accurate. Although Adrienne Warshawski was to develop the Warshawski sail only twenty-seven years later, Buckley had been too impatient to wait around. Instead, he’d insisted that with the proper adjustment, the impeller wedge itself could be safely inserted into a hyper-space gravity wave.
Although several of his contemporaries had acknowledged the theoretical brilliance of his work, none had been prepared to endorse his conclusions. Unfazed by his peers’ lack of confidence, Buckley—whose considerable store of patents had made him a wealthy man—had designed and built his own test vessel, the Dahak, named for a figure out of Babylonian mythology. With a volunteer crew embarked, he’d set out to demonstrate the validity of his work.
The attempt, while spectacular, had not been a success. In fact, the imagery which had been recorded by the Dahak’s escorts still turned up in slow motion in HD compilations of the most awe-inspiring disaster footage in galactic history.
While Buckley undeniably deserved to be commemorated alongside such other greats as Warshawski and Radhakrishnan, and despite the huge body of other work he’d left behind, it was the dramatic nature of his demise for which he was best remembered. And his various namesakes in SLN service had fared little better than he himself had. Of the current ship’s predecessors, only one had survived to be withdrawn from service and decommissioned.
“Actually, only three of them were lost on active service, Cindy,” Michelle pointed out.
“Four, if you count the battlecruiser, Ma’am,” Lecter argued respectfully.
“Well, all right. I’d forgotten about her.” Michelle shrugged. “Still, I don’t think it’s exactly fair to blame the ‘Buckley Curse’ for a ship lost ‘to causes unknown,’ though.”
“Why? Because having witnesses makes it more final? Or because faulty fusion bottles and wedge-on-wedge collisions are more spectacular?”
“They’re certainly more in keeping with the original’s final voyage,” Michelle pointed out.
“All right, I’ll grant that much,” Lecter agreed. “And, actually, I suppose losing only four of them—or three, if we go with your list—in the better part of seven hundred T-years probably isn’t really proof the Curse exists. And I’m not an especially superstitious gal myself. But having said all that, I wouldn’t care to serve aboard one of them! And especially not”—her smile disappeared and her eyes darkened—“if I was sailing into what promised to be the ugliest war my navy’d ever fought.”
“Neither would I,” Michelle acknowledged. “On the other hand, she doesn’t think that’s what she’s doing, now does she?”
* * *
SLNS Joseph Buckley lurched indescribably as the Manticoran missiles detonated and X-ray lasers ripped at her massive armor.
Thick as that armor was, it was no match for the stilettos of focused radiation punching into it like brimstone awls. It shattered under the transfer energy as the lasers ripped deeper and deeper, and the huge ship bucked in agony.
Jacomina van Heutz clung to the arms of her command chair as her shock frame hammered her. The fleeting instant in which the Manticoran missiles could bring their lasers to bear against her ship’s sidewalls as they penetrated the Solarian formation with a closing velocity which had climbed to seventy-three percent of light-speed was far too brief for any of Joseph Buckley’s damage to register on merely human senses as individual hits. It was all delivered in one stroboscopic lightning bolt of devastation, too sudden and intense for even the ship’s computers to register or sort out.
Those missile-born talons gouged and tore. Energy mounts and missile tubes, counter-missile launchers, radar arrays, point defense clusters, boat bays, gravitic sensors, impeller nodes—all of them shattered, exploding into tattered ruin in a single catastrophic moment, faster than a man could have blinked. In less time than it would have taken to cough, Sandra Crandall’s flagship was transformed into a broken wreck, a splintered hulk, coasting onward under momentum alone, with three quarters of her crew wiped out of existence.
Michael Z. Williamson:
I may actually hold the record on Buckley kills, given the body count in The Weapon and doing a demographic count of English speakers named “Joe Buckley” or variants thereof. But he wasn’t named there. I was actually late to the game, though I’d enjoyed the backstory on how the Buckley kills came about, and watching them pop up in various novels.
I did put him in several of my novels--Better to Beg Forgiveness . . . and Contact with Chaos among them. I’m sure I can get him again. And Joe is so good-natured about it, it’s hard to stop. No one can kill just once. There’s creative deaths, valiant deaths, violent deaths, and grotesque deaths. Death for everyone! As long as their name is “Joe Buckley” or variants.
I’ve also slid him into some short stories in entirely other universes. This is a trend that should continue.
Better to Beg Forgiveness . . .
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
The crowd further back from the palace lightened, and he reached a good speed. He wove a little, forcing pedestrians to dodge and swear at him. They occasionally threw a rock or shot. He ignored that. Bart had hooked his legs around the front pillar to gain a hold while he shot right. Elke shot straight ahead right past Bart’s spine, with Rahul reinforcing the middle passenger side. Aramis stood through a hole he’d hacked in the thin roof, offering support in all directions even if he was exposed. Behind him, Jason wasn’t sure what was going on. He heard a lot of shooting and brawling. An empty carbine flew out in two pieces, stripped by someone who didn’t need it anymore.
He grinned at the promotional video Corporate could make out of this by enhancing Elke’s recordings. We only sent six operators. It was only one war.
“Man down, man down!” someone shouted. He didn’t recognize the voice but it was someone in this car.
Then four people shouted, “Man down!” in confirmation.
“Orders, Alex?” he shouted back. He slowed a little but didn’t stop. Two of the NCOs were hauling a limp mess back up the rear deck.
“Sergeant Buckley is down, he’s . . . dammit, keep driving.”
Jason nailed it again. Behind him, White screamed curses and emptied her weapon. Buckley was at least her compatriot if not a friend, and he was dead.
“I want all of you skinny little cocksucking illiterati to die!” she shrieked, punctuated by bursts that sounded very controlled.
Well, that was original. He had to wonder whom she was killing, because it certainly sounded as if she knew how to handle a weapon. Her sobs were loud enough to hear over all that. She was definitely having a stress reaction to
close combat, not that he could blame her.
Jason braked, the Security Techs jumped off the roof and assisted White out the rear. One of them grabbed Buckley’s body, and he could now see the wound. It was a headshot from the side, just under his helmet lip. Ugly. The rear vehicle of the convoy slowed and prepared to board them. Once it was clear they’d be picked up, Jason nailed it again. Allies were an iffy thing around here.
Contact with Chaos
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
“Eyes, rinse,” she said at once, reached up and snatched off her goggles. Moose poured two large splashes of saline into them; she grunted and let it drain. “Now let’s move,” she said, redonning the night vision. She rose and took the lead.
“Keep shooting?” someone asked in her ears via radio.
“Yes, envelope from the south and keep moving. Try to drive them back this way.”
A sharp report slapped her, then the world exploded.
She ducked down, hugged the ground, shut her face, opened her mouth, and rode it out. Bright orange flashes came in a kaleidoscopic whirl, and a cacophonous thunder, like a fireworks finale or a time on target artillery barrage.
Only there was no artillery here.
The thunder subdued and echoed away, leaving a hiss of dust, a drumming of falling debris, animal cries of pain . . . and Moose’s voice in a pained whisper.
First, though, was security. Chelsea rose enough to get a good scan, wishing she had more than a spear to protect her. Someone had called in heavies, probably orbital.
Sandy was already on Moose, slapping drugs to her and apparently putting a tourniquet on her leg. Chelsea swore, made a visor scan, and saw two other casualties, and one missing light. Not red, missing. Buckley was . . . gone. If that was an orbital kinetic strike, even a few grams would have blown him to vapor.
Oh, shit.
A wave of adrenaline-driven rush, nausea, shock and anger washed over her. Someone had violated the rules, hell, had nuked the rules.
And she’d made a promise to Ballenger to be diplomatic.
With casualties being treated, and no action available but to wait and ensure things were under control again, she let her anger out in the only way she could think of: pounding the ground with a fist and a booted foot. She grunted in exertion, then got a lungful of the crud she was stirring up. The resultant spasm of coughing made her decide to stop.
There would be a reckoning. It might be a while, but someone was going to pay dearly for that insanity.
Rogue
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
Buckley Bank had massively overextended itself on mining speculation in Theta Persei. Meanwhile, they’d been marketing the investment for more income to roll in. A risky proposition, against the typical bank charter, and certainly unethical. There were links to hundreds of opinions on the legal ramifications, satisfaction and settlement, long-term repercussions and why their underwriter/inspector hadn’t caught this. Especially as it was a repeat of a similar event a decade before. Greedy people never learn.
That was all fascinating, but the important part for me was that the confidence drop had caused two other banks to pull credibility from their money. Then a couple more. Then an outsystem bank here, actually. Then more. Remember, our currency is a private issue by several banks in concordance. There’s no national backing. The other banks were pulling their reciprocity and leaving Buckley alone and unloved.
No one would take a penny of any currency produced by Buckley. It was being melted down for scrap value, about a quarter of its previously valued worth.
So, about a quarter of the Freehold money we had along was now worthless except as cheap bullion in coin form, totally worthless in card or paper.
And Randall’s account was an “asset with a claim.” It would be settled in a few months for cents on the cred, and paid by whoever bought out the smoking ruins of Buckley. In the meantime, he had nothing.
It was a gratuitous stroke of luck, but it was to my advantage.
Even if he had hard assets or other accounts, this had to hurt. He was earning less than our initial predictions, spending more, and had just taken a hit. If I could pile on a few more, I could finish breaking him.
Naught but Duty
from Tour of Duty
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
Before dusk, his troops were ready, aligned and poised for inspection. The ranks were dead straight, the product of proud, expert riders. He felt a ripple of excitement. His troops, those of the unassailable repute. There was Ty’kara, the Shinai’an woman, tall and quick and almost as strong as some men. Bukli, skilled at sending signals with flags, hands or fires, and almost as handy with a sword. Balyat, tall and broad and powerful as an ox, with a cool, mature head. His troops, the best one could pay for.
His troops, under pay of a cretin.
Duty.
He turned through each rank, examining each raised arm, sword or spear, to see that they fit his orders. All were clean, well cared for and ready. All his troops quivered in eagerness and a little fear. The brave could admit fear. Fear was part of being human. Only the coward and the fool denied fear.
Every soldier, every weapon, fit and ready as he had demanded. And now to follow the orders of the cretin.
He passed behind the last rank, then turned between two troops. They flinched not a bit, nor did their horses shy, as he urged his mount, Fury, to a fair gallop.
Then he was through the front rank, and behind him came the snorts of horses and the “Yaaah!” of riders. Thunder rose from the ground, thunder that he commanded, thunder that shattered armies.
Far ahead, brave and fearful peasants in sorry, untrained formation prepared to die for their homes. They trembled in fear, armed with hooks and forks and an occasional spear. A handful with bows were arrayed in rear. He respected them far more than the scum he worked for this night. But he did work for them.
Duty.
And he would see that duty done.
Perhaps five hundred yards, and the flickering lights of torches melded with a blood red sunset to set the mood for the work ahead. Manjeuk was the name of a quiet town in a forest meadow. Tonight, however, it was a dark-tinged collection of rude huts with little prettiness.
A hundred yards, and he could see faces, grubby and fearful and shifting in grimaces. That was just enough time to brace shield and lower sword . . .
He hit the defensive line and burst through the front rank. These poor peasants were no match in any fashion for professional soldiers. He chopped down and connected with a skull, feeling the crack through his arm. He let the impact swing his arm back, then brought it into a thrust that knocked another man to his feet. He brought the tip up as he swung his shield out on the other side. Two men sprawled, one of them nudged by Fury’s left forehoof.
Then he was through. That dismal line of men with inadequate stakes and pits had been the defense. They’d lasted not five seconds.
Urging Fury to a charge, he cleared the deadly, empty space ahead. Four good gallops did it, and no arrow came close. Few arrows came anywhere.
Then he was inside the town. A crone with a pitchfork thrust at him, and he dodged, slashing at her chest. She went down. Behind her was a cowering girl of perhaps twelve, who had dropped her stick and was whimpering. A slight poke was sufficient for her. A boy of fifteen or so wouldn’t succumb to a single blow, and had to be hit three times. Stupid of him not to stay down once hit, but that wasn’t Arden’s concern. He reined back, turned and galloped on.
An old man in a doorway didn’t have time to raise his ancient, rust-caked sword. Two younger men drew out a rope. Arden cursed and ducked, snatching at it and twisting. The shock pulled them to the ground. Behind him, Ty’kara whacked one, dogged over and twisted, jabbed the other and recovered.
Then they were through the town and done. Few casualties, but no loot or anything positive to show for it. He sniffed in disgust as he waved his arm for the Toughs to form up.
Duty done.
&n
bsp; Now to encamp again. They circled wide around the now flaming town. What was left was Shakis’ concern. And Arden found that most amusing.
* * *
The Tough’s camp was as it had been, patrols far out, pickets at the outskirts, the wounded and support armed and still a threat to intruders, even if not the heavy combatants the “regulars” were. Only half the Toughs were involved in any given battle. The rest, including recruits and their serjeants, supported them.
The regimental fire was huge, the heat palpable many feet away. Farther out, squadrons and smaller elements had their own blazes, then there were those for the watch. Toughs’ Camp was a ring of fire, ever brighter toward the center, where Arden sat with his troop leaders.
Arden took a healthy slug of his ale. It was a good, rich brew that quenched and refreshed him. The bread had been baked that morning, with a chewy crust and nutty flavor. The cheese was dry, crumbly and sharp. He dug in with gusto. Once Mirke had finished roasting that yearling stag, he would enjoy the flavor of it, the flavor that was already wafting through his nose and taking form.
Regardless of their orders, it had been a good night’s work, and he was proud of it. Pride and prowess in duty. It was the only really valuable thing he had. He cherished it. A faint warmth and tingle from the ale made it sweet.
Then Shakis, that damned foppish envoy arrived, his horse clattering with ridiculous flashy accoutrements. Arden wasn’t surprised, and knew exactly what his complaint was to be before the worm opened his mouth.
“High Rider Arden! Lord Miklamar is most displeased with your performance, if it can be called that, in Manjeuk!”
“We did as we were ordered,” he replied, stonefaced. “As we swore to.”
“You were ordered to put the village to the sword and spear!”
“And so we did,” he replied. He refused to get upset with the likes of this. It would not be honorable. Emotion he reserved for those worthy, who might be allied or enemy, but whom he would count as men. This was not a man.
The Many Deaths of Joe Buckley Page 9
