The men recruited into the Special Group had been selected because they possessed some of the same traits as de Tomas, and during their rigorous training program those who resisted indoctrination were eliminated. Ruthlessness was ingrained into them. By the time their indoctrination was finished, they believed completely that Dominic de Tomas was their infallible leader and that everyone who came into the clutches of the Collegium were the worst enemies of the state, people who deserved degradation and punishment.
His men were far from goons, however. De Tomas insisted they be free of bad habits, literate, educated at least through secondary school level, and have no criminal records. While horrible tortures and beatings of prisoners were routinely conducted, they were executed only on higher orders, and anyone who exceeded his authority was severely disciplined. De Tomas realized that sparing selected individuals was good propaganda—it spread fear of the Collegium in general and of the Special Group in particular. And those spared could be counted on to cooperate in any way necessary.
The members of the Special Group were highly trained, devoutly dedicated men armed with the latest weapons and technology and sworn personally to Dominic de Tomas. Their zeal and ruthlessness more than compensated for their relatively small numbers. Furthermore, de Tomas had organized a vast system of informants throughout the sects on Kingdom—people, not only former victims of the Collegium, who, for the right price, were willing to betray even members of their own families. But Dominic de Tomas’s goal had never been to enforce orthodoxy among the sects, although he wanted people to believe as much. From the beginning of his selection as dean of the Collegium, a position he had occupied for years before the Skink invasion, he had been quietly consolidating his hold.
The authority of the Collegium spread everywhere on Kingdom. The media and the schools, when not run directly by the Collegium, were heavily monitored, so that news and school curricula were subject to its direction. Thus, millions of people, regardless of their religious convictions, were convinced Dominic de Tomas was a brilliant leader who had everyone’s best interests at heart. His portrait hung in many homes and people admired him as the one man who could hold their world together. Most of the members of the Convocation of Ecumenical Leaders concurred, looking to de Tomas to keep not only their own sects in order, but the others as well. Those who did not fall for this carefully engineered propaganda—such as the neo-Puritans, the Anabaptists, and the Scientific Pantheists—were not powerful enough to oppose either the Collegium or the Convocation, and where de Tomas was not able to penetrate their congregations and eliminate their leadership, he was content to wait. He would deal with them when he had all the reins of power in his mailed fist.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
“Good afternoon, Commodore,” Brigadier Sturgeon said.
Commodore Roger Borland looked at the main hatch into the bridge of the Grandar Bay and grinned at the Marine. “Welcome aboard, Brigadier. Come on in.” He gestured toward the vacant commander’s chair, which stood next to his own.
“Thank you, sir.” Sturgeon took the three steps to the chair. He sat and looked at the display Borland had been gazing at. An arc of Kingdom filled the lower quadrant of the large screen. The terminator was visibly advancing along the planet’s surface. Above the planet, stars speckled the heavens.
“I never tire of that view,” Borland said softly. “The sight of an inhabited world from orbit, with the stars in the firmament above, stirs something positively atavistic within me.”
“It is a magnificent sight,” Sturgeon agreed.
“It is a most potent reminder of how far we have come since our ancestors first gazed upon the stars and wondered what they were,” Borland said. “And how much farther we have to go before we can visit them all.”
Sturgeon chuckled. “And after the Milky Way, other galaxies?” It wasn’t quite a question.
“I’d love to know the answer to that, but I never will.”
The two watched the screen for a few moments, the silence broken only by the bips of the instruments and the susurration of voices of the crew members who monitored them.
“But you didn’t come all the way up here to join me in stargazing,” Borland said in a firm voice. “You came because I have something less philosophical to show you.”
“That’s true, but a spell of stargazing is good for the spirit.”
“If you will come with me, Brigadier.”
“I am at your service, Commodore.”
They stood, and Borland led the way off the bridge. A bos’n’s mate third stood ready nearby with a shipboard runabout. The two boarded it and the bos’n drove away without instructions.
“I think you’re going to get quite a kick out of the briefing Engineering has prepared for you,” Borland said when they were under way.
“I expect so. Your message inviting me up was intriguing.” Sturgeon shook his head. “Unfortunately, it didn’t offer a hint as to the nature of the ‘great discovery.’ ”
“I think you’ll grasp the reason for the mystery fast enough.”
They didn’t bother with small talk for the remainder of the eight-minute ride. They dismounted and Borland led the way into the engineering wardroom.
“Attention on deck!” one of the engineers shouted when he saw the commodore.
“As you were,” Borland said to the engineers, who were scrambling to their feet.
Five officers and three chief petty officers were in the wardroom. There was also a petty officer second class, but Sturgeon didn’t recognize the rating symbol on his rank insignia. Four of the officers had been sitting in a conversation group in a corner of the room. The other officer and the chiefs stood in front of a table, while the petty officer third worked on a trid unit. They all stood easy; only the PO third returned to what he had been doing.
“Gentlemen, you probably recognize this Marine with me as Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon, commander of Marine Expeditionary Forces, Kingdom,” Borland said. “But I’ll treat the entire department to a party if he has any idea of your names, so,” he turned to Sturgeon, “I will make introductions. Commander Foderov, head of the Engineering Division.”
“Pleased to meet you, Brigadier,” Foderov said. He bowed slightly as Sturgeon shook his hand. The other engineering officers did as well. The chiefs grinned but didn’t bow—despite his rank, they recognized Sturgeon as a fellow working man.
Engineering Mate Second Class Goldman beamed when Sturgeon shook his hand. “Sir, I helped modify an armored vacuum suit for one of your Marines at Avionia,” he said proudly. The navy officers exchanged glances; they didn’t know anything about Avionia.
“So, you’re the one? I got a good report about you,” Sturgeon said, giving Goldman’s hand a squeeze.
Goldman managed not to grimace at the strength in Sturgeon’s grip. “Yessir.”
“Better be careful. Sometimes, when we Marines think a sailor is good enough, we take him from the navy.”
Goldman grinned weakly. He had no desire to go into harm’s way with the Marines. The navy was so much safer. The officers and chiefs chuckled nervously; they suspected Sturgeon was serious.
The other introductions went quickly and then Sturgeon turned to Borland. “You and your officers didn’t hear any of that business about Avionia. I’m not even cleared to know it, and it was my people.”
The commodore cleared his throat. “Well, gentlemen, we are here for a purpose,” he said, changing the subject. “Brigadier, Engineering has a program for you.”
“Sir, if you will sit here.” Foderov indicated a chair. Borland and the other officers sat in chairs to its sides. The chiefs remained in front of the table, blocking Sturgeon’s view of the object on it. Coffee and biscuits were at Sturgeon’s chair. Goldman worked controls on the trid unit, the wardroom’s lights dimmed, and a display resolved above the unit.
A planet revolved under a scattering of stars. When Sturgeon looked at the planet’s pattern of white, blue, and gr
een he recognized it as Earth. A large, tubular object moved into view, its long axes aligned with the revolving planet. With nothing to use as a measure, Sturgeon couldn’t judge its size, though he had the impression it was somewhat larger than an Essay.
“Sir,” Commander Foderov said, “half a millennium ago humanity was still restricted to one world, fragmented into a plethora of nation states, and wracked with wars. The most powerful of those nation states, the United States of America, developed a weapon of devastating power. This weapon, called a rail gun, used electromagnets to project an inert chunk of metal at ten percent of the speed of light. On impact the kinetic energy of the projectile was tremendous. Inexpensive munitions could be used to knock out armored vehicles.” The display changed to a massive, early twenty-first century armored vehicle speeding across a plain. It was struck by what appeared to be a bolt of light from above and the display momentarily whited out. When it cleared, only a crater in the ground remained. “A rail gun could destroy power plants with one shot.” The display changed again, to an industrial-looking structure that Sturgeon assumed was an early twenty-first century power plant. A flash of light speared down onto it and the display whited again. When it cleared, bits of wall were left standing around a steaming crater.
“Rail guns,” Foderov continued, “were excellent at taking out large, hardened targets.” The trid moved rapidly through a series of displays: a ship at sea lost its entire middle third and sank; an armored tunnel entrance was demolished; a mobile artillery piece vanished, leaving only a crater to mark where it had stood; the main building of an industrial complex went the way of the earlier power plant; some sort of surface-to-orbit vehicle was sundered into a ball of debris. After a few more examples, the display returned to the cylindrical object in orbit.
“But the rail gun had major problems,” Foderov said, resuming his narrative. “It required huge amounts of energy, it took so much time to reload and aim that it required up to half an hour between shots. And it was big, so big that it wasn’t readily usable on the planetary surface—it could only be used from orbit, which created additional problems. Crews had to be rotated and resupply runs made—not for energy, though, an orbital rail gun got its energy from early, primitive solar cells. The crew and supply runs could be vulnerable to interception.” The trid displayed a rising rocket disintegrating as it was struck by beams of coherent light from the planet’s surface. “As you saw in the demonstrations, the rail gun was a point weapon—it needed precise data on a target’s location. It took too long to reload and aim to be effective against an armored formation, and was even less effective against infantry. No one ever figured out how to make a small, mobile rail gun that could be reloaded and aimed rapidly. By the middle of the twenty-first century the device was abandoned. Second.” He addressed the last to Goldman, who turned the lights back on and the trid off.
“Sir,” Foderov said, “the Skinks figured it out. That is the barrel of a rapid-fire, mobile, rail gun.” He gestured, and the three chief petty officers moved from the table so Sturgeon could see the object it held, the barrel Lieutenant Eggers brought back from the Skink supply depot.
What am I supposed to do with that? Sturgeon wondered. Maybe the navy had some ideas of what he could do with the information that would save the lives of his Marines. He asked.
“It uses large amounts of energy,” Foderov said. “We’re working to determine whether it radiates an energy signature before it fires. Unfortunately,” he looked at the barrel, “we don’t have a power source for it. We know what kind of leakage and signatures the twenty-first century rail guns gave off, but we don’t know about this.”
Borland broke in. “The Surveillance Division is analyzing the records of the actions in which we suspect the rail guns were used. Once we get that data identified and isolated, the string-of-pearls can monitor for the signatures, and the Grandar Bay’s lasers will be able to knock the rail guns out before they fire.”
Sturgeon cocked an eyebrow; he doubted the navy would be able to knock out more than a fraction of the rail guns before they fired. But any help was better than none. “How long will it take to identify and isolate?”
“I put S and R on it as soon as Engineering identified the rail gun. Actually, I had expected them to have it in time for this briefing.”
“Let me know as soon as they do. We’ll coordinate a trap for a rail gun.”
“I look forward to working with you on that.”
“Now I need to return planetside. I have a war to run.”
As he strapped himself into the webbing in the Dragon that would ride an Essay back to Kingdom’s surface, Sturgeon reflected that while it was nice to know what that hellacious weapon was and that the navy was working on a way to counter it, that knowledge did nothing for him right now. He felt the trip to orbit had been a waste of time and effort; the navy could have transmitted the same information to him in a secure message less than fifteen words long.
A message, not much longer than fifteen words, arrived shortly after his Essay landed outside Interstellar City. S&R had identified and isolated what they believed was the radiation signature of a rail gun. The Grandar Bay’s Laser Gunnery Division was anxious to utilize its skills and weapons to start taking them out.
Previous operations had identified four entrances to the underground complex that were guarded by rail guns. The Marines’ Dragons had barely been used, since they had proved to be so vulnerable to the rail guns in the Swamp of Perdition. Sturgeon decided to sacrifice one to test the Grandar Bay’s Laser Gunnery Division. He assigned the job to 34th FIST and coordinated with the navy.
This is crazy, Corporal Claypoole told himself for the umpteenth time since Captain Conorado and the captain from FIST operations met with third platoon to brief them on the mission. How many divisions do the Skinks have out here, and we’re one lousy platoon?
He heard the rumble, muted by intervening trees, of Dragons about half a kilometer to the west. The Dragons Claypoole heard were empty; the crews that drove them and, if the opportunity arose, would fire their guns, were safe in bunkers in the Marine encampment outside Interstellar City. The civilian engineers in the off-worlder colony had worked round the clock for more than thirty-six hours to design, construct, and install remote piloting systems for three Dragons. They were much chagrined that Brigadier Sturgeon hadn’t allowed them time to field-test the systems—he insisted the operation be set in motion at the earliest possible moment. Maneuver for the Dragons was just a touch slower than normal, and the guns’ response time would also be a tad laggardly because the commands radioed to the Dragons were relayed by the string-of-pearls.
Corporal Claypoole toggled on the fire team circuit. “Wolfman, got anything on your mover?” In his infra he saw Lance Corporal MacIlargie wading through the marsh ten meters to his front, but he couldn’t see the motion detector attached to the front of Wolfman’s chameleons. MacIlargie moved a bit gingerly. The wound he’d received a few days earlier was still sore.
“Only us and the Dragons, Rock,” MacIlargie answered. “Not even any animals.”
“You didn’t look at it,” Claypoole complained.
“I’m listening to it.”
“Look at it. How do you know you’re hearing it right?”
MacIlargie made a noise that Claypoole translated as asshole, but he pulled the motion detector off his chest and flipped up the cover to look at the display. “It still only shows us and the Dragons,” he said.
“What scale?”
“What?”
“What scale are you looking at?” Claypoole sounded annoyed.
MacIlargie expelled a breath. “One klick.” The detector showed all movement in a one square kilometer area.
“Increase scale, show ten klicks.” Claypoole sounded nervous.
MacIlargie looked around. “Someone that far away isn’t going to run into us.”
“Check it anyway!” Claypoole ordered in a rising tone.
“All right,
all right.” MacIlargie made the adjustment. “Still only shows us and the Dragons.”
“You’re sure?”
MacIlargie stopped and turned toward his fire team leader. “You want to look at it yourself? What’s the matter, Rock? You’re acting like somebody’s grandmother.” He held the motion detector out where the display was visible to Claypoole.
“Cover that!” Claypoole snapped.
The display vanished as MacIlargie snapped the chameleoned cover shut. Muttering to himself, MacIlargie faced front and resumed his movement. He touched the controls on the motion detector and returned it to the one klick setting.
Claypoole wasn’t the only Marine in third platoon who was on edge. The last time the platoon had been there, it was one of eighteen platoons in the wetlands; this time it was the only one. And last time there wasn’t a big, inviting target nearby like the three Dragons half a klick away.
Lance Corporal Schultz, on point as always, paid a lot more attention to his right front and flank than he did his front or left. The Dragons and their noise—he knew they were there to draw the Skinks’ attention—were to his left. He knew the Skinks didn’t need to be close to hit the Dragons; they had weapons that could take them out from a distance. He was afraid that when the Skinks fired, they’d fire from the right—through him. The Skinks would use that big gun, the big brother of the buzz saws, to hit the Dragons. He’d seen what was left of a Dragon after it was hit by one of those things in the Swamp of Perdition. Something with that much striking power could atomize a man and maybe not even notice it hit something. He knew it was a line-of-sight weapon and that it had a totally flat trajectory, just like the blasters did. Whatever its range, it was more than half a klick. If it fired from the right, Schultz knew he was right in its path. So he watched to the right more than to the front or the left. If the Skink gun was in that direction, maybe he’d sense something and have time to hit the deck before he got pulverized. And maybe geese migrated north in winter.
Starfist: Kingdom's Fury Page 23
