Tactics of Duty

by William H. Keith

  The image remained there a moment, seeming to defy the directionless drift of free fall by remaining solidly anchored to the projection plate before dissolving in a burst of static.

  Pushing off from the desk, Alex floated to the door and palmed it open. "Okay, Davis. I'm done."

  McCall re-entered the cabin, followed by the four rather grumpy-looking men who were their roommates aboard the Song. "Well, lad?" He looked worried. "What's the word from home?"

  "They're both fine," Alex said, and he smiled as McCall pursed his lips and gave a soundless whistle of relief. "They were both hurt, but it doesn't sound too bad." Alex cast a glance at the other men, then looked back to McCall, lowering his voice. "Mac? They think it was The Hand, trying to stop Dad from winning that game. Does that sound right to you?"

  "Hmm. Perhaps, lad, if your maithair passed that bit a' news on, it was because she could tell you nae else over a transmission tha' could be intercepted. Do y' ken m' meaning?"

  "Yeah. I think I do."

  "Your parents are nae stupid, lad. They would nae ha' lived so long, the pair a' them, were it otherwise."

  A buzzer sounded from a bulkhead speaker, a blast repeated three times, followed by a woman's voice. "Attention, attention, all passengers and crew. The Altair will be making its jump in twenty minutes. To avoid the disorientation of jump syndrome, all passengers are directed to remain strapped in your bunks until the all-clear has sounded. All ship's personnel, please man your jump stations."

  "I know," Alex said. "I wish I could call again, though, and ask—"

  "It's too late for that noo, Alex. You and me are on our own now ... and so are they! Dinnae fash y'sel' aboot it. They'll work things out just fine!"

  Twenty minutes later, solar sail furled and stowed, the energies stored in the Altair's power cells unfolded across the reach of the ship's Kearny-Fuchida drive, crumpling the fabric of space within which she drifted. To an outside observer, the half-kilometer-long vessel would seem to shimmer, her form twisting and wavering in surreal optical distortions as the space around her warped. Abruptly, then, she vanished in a silent flare of light.

  Her translation through hyperspace to the Gladius system, nearly twenty light years away, was, for all intents and purposes, instantaneous.

  10

  HQ, Third Davion Guards

  Hesperus II, Tamarind March

  Federated Commonwealth

  2230 hours, 19 March 3057

  Marshal Felix Zellner leaned back in his finely crafted automatic chair, his polished boots propped on the corner of his expensive hardwood desk. He enjoyed the comforts of his office here on Hesperus II almost as much as he was enjoying the discomfiture of his subordinate.

  "But M-Marshal Zellner," the holographic image on the other side of the desk stammered. "This means the ruin of the Field Marshal's plan!"

  "Gently, Thurman, gently," Zellner said with an easy smile. "Nothing has been ruined. In fact, in my opinion things will be better this way in the long run."

  "And if the Gray Death's intel apparatus tracks the attempted assassination back to Field Marshal Gareth? Grayson Carlyle is popular, Marshal. Perhaps too popular, especially on Glengarry just now. That was why the assassination was ordered in the first place."

  Zellner swung his boots off the desk and sat up, giving the communications console a quick glance. "This is a secure line," he reminded his subordinate. "Even so, General, I suggest you ... be circumspect. Even internal transmissions can be tapped ... or offices."

  General Thurman Vaughn swallowed visibly, then mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Even through the holographic transmission Zellner could see the sweat gleaming on his nearly bald head. Vaughn, Zellner thought with amusement, really wasn't cut out for this sort of thing.

  But then, is any of us? For so long, military service, first under House Steiner, and for the past thirty years within the combined Federated Commonwealth, had been a predictable routine of career paths, fitness reports, and—with luck and skill—promotion, sometimes dangerous, usually boring or at least ordinary ... and rarely, if ever, colored by the melodrama of secret lives or covert operations. Once someone achieved senior rank—for Davion officers, that was generally colonel or above—promotion was always largely a matter of politics, of who you knew and what you could do for someone else's career. Zellner had certainly encountered his share of plotting along the way merely in managing his own promotions and those of certain officers in his clique, but intrigue on a scale as large as this, involving several worlds and hundreds of AFFC officers, was as new to him as it was to General Vaughn.

  Or even, presumably, to Field Marshal Gareth.

  Still, Zellner found himself reveling in the sense of power that came with knowing secrets that could destroy the careers of powerful fellow officers, or even more powerful politicians. For many years, he'd been chief aide to Marshal Caesar Steiner, a position that required complete devotion and loyalty, outwardly, at least. When he'd won his own coveted promotion from general to marshal, however, he'd found himself at last in a position to effectively use information garnered by people personally loyal to him throughout his career.

  "I feel reasonably certain of the security of my office," Zellner continued. In fact, he had his office swept by sensitive devices that could ferret out even passively activated listening devices. "However, I cannot be sure about yours."

  "I have complete confidence in my people," Vaughn said stiffly. But his eyes shifted back and forth uncertainly in his fleshy face as he spoke.

  In fact, Zellner was as sure of Vaughn and Vaughn's office as he was of his own. Vaughn had not found Zellner's planted electronic ears, but since Zellner also had taps on the Security Office and in several other key offices within the Third Guard Headquarters facility, if anyone were about to launch an investigation of either Zellner or Vaughn, Zellner would hear about it.

  "I have complete confidence in you, General," Zellner said with an easy smile. "And in your people. Please. Continue with your report."

  "There is little else to say about it, Marshal. Field Marshal Gareth's plan appears to have failed completely. The mercenary, Grayson Carlyle, is alive, and one of the assassins is dead."

  "And the other assassin?"

  "I have no information on him, sir. Initial word was that he'd been captured, but I haven't been able to confirm that."

  "If so, he doesn't know enough to harm us."

  Zellner had no intention of letting Vaughn know that Captain Dupré had returned to duty ... and with a promotion, no less. Some pieces of information, such as the fact that Zellner had been able to suborn one of Gareth's assassins, were best kept in reserve. Having an agent alive and in place within the Gray Death could be most useful to Zellner's future plans....

  Vaughn's holograph image shook its head unhappily. "Marshal ... I'm afraid I'm just not cut out for this, this covert work. I have to tell you, I'm afraid of what the Field Marshal is trying to do. It's ... it's too big. Too grand! And this attempt against Grayson Carlyle was dangerous. It could have brought us all down!"

  "In what way, Thurman?

  "Carlyle is popular. Especially on Glengarry. The people love the guy, and his troops love him even more. If the assassins had carried it off, they would never have stopped until they found out who was behind it. I'm not so sure they won't try anyway, just knowing the attempt has been made! Marshal, do you know anything at all about this Gray Death?"

  "What is there to know? They are mercenaries...."

  "Mercenaries, yes, though they've been constantly on retainer to the Commonwealth, well, since before the alliance. Thirty years, at least. They are widely admired throughout Steiner space, especially by military personnel. Heroes on some worlds, like Glengarry. Possibly on Caledonia as well, simply because those two worlds share a common ethnic heritage. The story of what the Legion did on Glengarry during the Second Skye Rebellion has already become a minor epic."

  "General, General, I fear you're blowing this out of pr
oportion."

  "Marshal, with all due respect, I don't believe I've stated it strongly enough."

  "Um. You are familiar with The Prince?"

  Vaughn looked puzzled. "Prince Victor Davion?"

  Zellner concealed a grimace. What were they teaching officers these days in staff college? "No, General. The Prince was a book written fifteen hundred years ago, by a man, a Renaissance Italian, named Niccold Machiavelli." Idly, he keyed out a command on a small reader on the desk in front of him, entered a search command, then pressed another key. The wall screen on one side of the office lit up with the magnified view of a printed page, positioned where Vaughn could read it.

  "If any one supports his state by the arms of mercenaries," the excerpt, which Zellner long ago had memorized, read, "he will never stand firm or sure, as they are disunited, ambitious, without discipline, faithless, bold amongst friends, cowardly amongst enemies, they have no fear of God, and keep no faith with men. Ruin is only deferred as long as the assault is postponed; in peace you are despoiled by them, and in war by the enemy. The cause of this is that they have no love or other motive to keep them in the field beyond a trifling wage, which is not enough to make them ready to die for you. They are quite willing to be your soldiers so long as you do not make war...."

  "That," Zellner said, snapping off the viewer, "is as true today as it was in the sixteenth century. Give me a strong, well-trained and well-disciplined regular army every time. One that owes its allegiance to me, and to the state I represent. Mercenaries owe allegiance to nothing but the almighty C-bill."

  "With respect once more, sir," Vaughn said, "that's not entirely true in the Legion's case. The rank and file are utterly devoted to Carlyle. And as for Carlyle ... he seems to be devoted to civilization."

  "What ... opera? Culture? The arts? Literature? What do you mean by 'civilization'?"

  "I mean he fears that civilization is falling apart, that continued warfare will destroy all that the human race has built.

  He's afraid that we'll lose even our ability to travel through space, that humanity will end up as bands of savages isolated on hundreds of separate planets scattered across the light years."

  "Very poetic. Also, not very likely. How did you learn all of this?"

  "I have my ... sources."

  Which means he has his own spies in Carlyle's camp, Zellner thought. I'll have to look into that.

  "Grayson Carlyle," Zellner said slowly, "is good. Very good. But he is just a mercenary. When he dies, the people will forget him. His troops will forget him."

  "But it's dangerous. I don't understand the Field Marshal's thinking here, and I'm worried about the Gray Death's intelligence wing. They're very good too!"

  Zellner wondered how much to tell Vaughn. The man was, after all, only involved in Operation Excalibur in the most minor and peripheral of ways. And now that he was showing signs of wanting out ...

  Felix Zellner owed no particular loyalty to Field Marshal Brandal Gareth. True, he owed much of his recent success to the man. But that would not keep him from doing whatever was necessary to survive—better, to prosper—in the coming crisis.

  Everybody, all of the senior officers of the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth, knew that the Davion-Steiner alliance was facing serious internal strains. They said nothing about it publicly, of course, but privately they talked among themselves of little else but the possibility of civil war. Most dreaded the prospect, whether they were pro-Steiner, pro-Davion, or straddling the fence as pro-FedComs.

  Dreaded or not, the possibility of outright civil war was all too real.

  The Federated Commonwealth was not a natural entity; the old Lyran Commonwealth under the stewardship of House Steiner had itself been a union of three states, the Tamar Pact, the Protectorate of Donegal, and the Federation of Skye, coming together under a single government in 2341. That union, at least, had the legitimacy born of over seven centuries of success in trade, in productivity, in diplomacy, and in war, but even it had felt the restless urgings toward independence within its member states more than once.

  The alliance of the Federated Suns and the Lyran Commonwealth had been far more sudden and unexpected, one sprung upon its populations virtually overnight, an alliance that had, in the course of a few short years, overturned many of the customs and accepted manners of doing things, especially within government and the military. The appointment of local planetary rulers by fiat, often as a reward for some service or outright bribe, as opposed to accepting candidates advanced by the local populations was one case in point.

  The Skye Rebellion of the previous year, most senior AFFC officers were convinced, was nothing more than prelude to something bigger and far more serious.

  A prelude, perhaps, to a civil war that would destroy the Federated Commonwealth.

  If the alliance was again torn into two states, Davion and Steiner, then every advantage that had been won in the past thirty years could be lost ... and more, since the dissolving union would spend incalculable precious resources and assets, military and civilian, fighting the war that brought it down.

  Some few officers within the AFFC were already making detailed plans against the possibility that the worst was about to happen. In Gareth's case, the plan involved carving out a small empire in the heart of the restless worlds of the Skye March. The planets scattered across that reach were rich, many almost untouched by the last few centuries of war. And then there was Hesperus II, this world where he'd arranged to have himself stationed. With its complex of BattleMech factories in the formidable Myoo Mountains, Hesperus was the most important planet in the Steiner sector. Without BattleMechs nobody could remain in power for long.

  "The Field Marshal felt that Carlyle's popularity on Glengarry and in the surrounding area could make him a rallying point for the opposition when Excalibur is launched. Getting him out of the way seemed to be the most expedient way of eliminating the Gray Death as a possible obstacle to our plans."

  "Fine. Why the woman, then?"

  "She is Carlyle's executive officer and would presumably take command if he died. The idea behind the assassination was to ensure that both were killed so that the Legion's number-three officer would take command."

  "Who is that?"

  "A Caledonian. One Major McCall."

  "I don't know him. Why do you want him in command?"

  "Tell me, General. Are you aware at all of the situation on Caledonia?"

  "It's a relatively low-resource world a few parsecs from Hesperus II. That's its only strategic importance, so far as I know,"

  "Exactly so. And its governor is Field Marshal Gareth's man. He used to be Gareth's secretary and was given the governorship of Caledonia by Prince Victor at the Field Marshal's specific request."

  "What does that have to do ... Ah! You said this McCall was a Caledonian."

  "And he is on his way back to his native world at this moment. The Field Marshal was convinced that should McCall receive command of the Gray Death, we would be in an excellent position to control him and through him the Legion."

  "But how?" Vaughn shook his head. "I still don't understand this. As I said ... I don't think I'm cut out for this sort of thing. I'm a simple man, and these rings within rings are too complex for me to be of much use to—"

  "Nonsense, General! We need you, and we have every confidence in your ability to carry off your part in Excali-bur!"

  "I appreciate that, sir. Still, what will happen now that the Field Marshal's plan has failed?"

  "Ah, but it hasn't failed. Not really. I admit that things would have been simpler had we been able to put the Carlyles out of the way. But as it is, we still have an excellent opportunity here to control the Gray Death ... or to destroy it."

  "Destroy it?"

  "Either way, General Vaughn," Zellner said with a smile, "Our needs will be served."

  11

  New Edinburgh Spaceport

  Caledonia, Skye March

  Federated Commonwealth<
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  1230 hours, 31 March 3057

  At the nadir jump point of the Gladius star system Alex and McCall had made their connection with the Neptune, an AFFC transport en route to neighboring Laiaka with space available for two hand-off passengers from the Altair. Three days later they made the jump to Laiaka, where, after several days of negotiations with the rather seedy-looking owner/ captain of the independent freighter Shoshone, they were accepted as passengers and taken aboard for the hyperspace passage to Caledon.

  The Shoshone's DropShip Tagalong took Alex and McCall on the final leg of their voyage, touching down at the New Edinburgh spaceport on a fiery shaft of white-hot plasma as she settled into the port's Number Five grounding pit. It took less than an hour for Alex and McCall to pass through the obligatory customs check, to pick up their baggage, and to make arrangements for McCall's special freight consignment to be stored in a local warehouse after being offloaded from the Tagalong's cargo hold.

  It was just past local noon when they were ready to find transport to the home of McCall's family in Dundee. Caledonia's day was similar enough to Terra's in length that it used the same twenty-four-hour clock, with an extra fifty-three minutes added after local midnight. New Edinburgh, as the planet's capital, designated the Terra Mean Time Zone, just as on Glengarry.

  The riot, they learned later, had already been going on for most of the day.

  "I'm sorry, gentlemen," the heavily armed and armored trooper told them just inside the exit from the spaceport terminal. "It's not safe to go out on the streets today. You should try getting a room at the spaceport's hotel until things quiet down."

  Alex looked back at the crowd already thronging the terminal lounge, hundreds of people occupying every available chair or bench, and many sitting in disconsolate clusters in out-of-the-way corners of the carpeted floors. It seemed unlikely that there would be hotel rooms vacant.

  Not that McCall was in any mood to be delayed.