Throne of Stars

by David Weber

Roger chuckled and shook his head as Despreaux began enumerating the team’s faults. The plan had been good, but when they’d hit the door, they’d forgotten it and fought by the seat of their pants. They had, in fact, been fighting the way they would have fought Mardukans. But the next major conflict would probably put Bravo Company—what was left of it—up against humans. True, those humans would probably be pirate scum and garrison troopers, but standard colonial defenses called for space-intercept capable plasma cannon, monomolecular “twist” wire, and bunkers with interlocking fields of fire. And then they had to capture a ship.

  It wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

  “Well,” Roger said with a sigh. “I just hope whoever the ‘good guys’ are, they’re on our side.”

  Captain Pahner looked around the cramped cabin. The one fault of Ima Hooker’s design, which no one had considered in advance, was that the schooner had never been intended as a command ship. Poertena had recognized the necessity of designing around higher deckheads to allow more head room for the towering Mardukans of her crew. There was a limit to what he could do, but the final result—however claustrophobic the natives might still find it—was that even the tallest of the humans could stand upright without worrying about hitting his head on a deck beam. But however the ship might have been stretched vertically, there was only so much that could be done horizontally in a hull of Hooker’s length and beam. Despite the fact that Pahner, or Prince Roger, rather, had a minimal “staff,” its members packed into the wardroom of the command schooner only with difficulty. Especially the Mardukans.

  And that was before adding Roger’s pet. Or his asi “bodyguard.”

  “All right,” Pahner said with a grim smile. “We need to keep this meeting short, if for no other reason than so that Rastar can unbend his neck.”

  He looked over at Rastar Komas Ta’Norton, who stood hunched forward with his horns banging on the ceiling. The former prince of the Northern League wasn’t large for a Mardukan, but he still towered over the humans.

  “How’re the civan doing?” the captain continued.

  “As well as could be expected,” the Northerner said with a shrug. The ostrichlike, omnivorous cavalry mounts were actually related to the vastly larger packbeasts, so they had leathery skin and were more capable of handling desiccation than the slime coated, amphibian-derived Mardukans. But they still weren’t well-suited to a lengthy sea voyage. “They fit into these toys as well as we do, and they never had to deal with the pitching and rocking before. At least they have more head room aboard Snarleyow than we do here, and that outsized coll fish has stretched their feed supply nicely, but they aren’t happy. We haven’t lost any, yet, but we need to get to land soon.”

  “According to our map, we should,” Julian commented. He tapped his pad, and an image of the large island or small continent they were approaching floated into view. “This is as detailed a zoom as I can get from the world map we had. It appears there’s only one main river, and that it travels in a sort of semicircle through a good part of the continent. There should be a city on or near its mouth, and that should be less than three more days sailing from where we are right now—assuming this line of islands extends from the eastern chain.”

  “The spaceport is on the central plateau,” O’Casey added, “and the continent is . . . extensively mountainous. In fact, it makes Nepal look flat—the province or the planet. Travel to the spaceport may take some time, and it could be arduous.”

  “Oh, no!” Roger chuckled. “Not an arduous march!”

  Pahner grinned momentarily, but then shook his head.

  “It’s an important point, Your Highness. Coll oil or no, we’re short on dietary supplements, and there won’t be any more coll fish to get oil from once we head inland. That means we’re short on time, too, so traveling through that region had better be fast.”

  “We have the additional problem of overhead coverage, Captain,” Kosutic pointed out. “From here on out, we need to consider our emissions. If we’re able to hear them, and we have been, then they can hear us, if they’re listening. And they can also detect our heavy weapons. Plasma cannons especially.”

  “Also, Sir,” Julian said diffidently, “it’s likely that the people from the ships visit more than just the starport. There are always tourists, even on planets where the local critters can’t wait to eat them. We need to keep that in mind.”

  “Noted and agree.” Pahner nodded. “Anything else?”

  “The Diasprans,” Despreaux commented. “They’re . . . not happy.”

  Pahner turned to Fain. The infantry captain was still settling in to command Yair’s old company (and the transferred survivors of his own, original command), but he was continuing to demonstrate an impressive capacity for assuming additional responsibilities. He was also working out well as Roger’s aide-de-camp, and he’d ended up being the regular liaison to the human command conferences, despite being junior to the other two Diaspran commanders.

  “Comments, Captain?” Pahner invited, and Fain rubbed a horn gently.

  “It’s the water. And . . . the space, I suppose.”

  “It’s the lack of a chaplain,” Kosutic snorted.

  “Perhaps.” Fain shrugged. “We probably should have brought a priest. But they didn’t like the God in such abundance. It was troubling for them. And now, it’s becoming troubling to the men, as well.”

  “The Diasprans are having a spiritual crisis, Captain,” Kosutic explained.

  “Not all that surprisingly,” O’Casey snorted. The prince’s chief of staff was a historian’s historian, with a specialization in anthropology (human and nonhuman) and political history and theory. Those interest areas had made her an ideal choice as a tutor for a member of the Imperial Family, the position from which she had segued into the then-unenviable assignment as Prince Roger the Fop’s chief of staff. They’d also made her absolutely invaluable in the trek across Marduk.

  For all that, though, she’d been frustrated on more than one occasion by the tyrannical time pressure which had prevented her from spending long enough with any one of the cultures they’d encountered to feel that she’d truly had time to study it on its own terms. Too much of the expertise and analyses she’d been called upon to deliver had been based on little more than hurried, off-the-cuff analogies. That was the way she saw it, at least, although every Bronze Barbarian—and Roger—recognized the fact that her “off-the-cuff analogies” had done at least as much as the plasma cannons to get them this far alive.

  This voyage, however, had finally offered her an opportunity to sit down and do some of the detailed study she loved so dearly, and Roger knew that one of the primary sources she’d spent hours with was The Book of the Water, the oldest and most sacred of the Diasprans’ religious texts.

  “It’s not at all surprising that the Diaspran religion worked out the way it did,” she said now. It was apparent to Roger that she was choosing her words and tone carefully, no doubt out of consideration for Krindi Fain’s beliefs. “After all, they have historical—and accurate—proof that the God of Water is the only reason Diaspra exists.”

  “It is?” Despreaux asked.

  “Yes,” O’Casey confirmed, and nodded at Dobrescu. “Despite the inadequacies of our database on Marduk, Mr. Dobrescu and I have managed to confirm Roger’s original observation on the day we first met Cord. It may seem ridiculous, given the climate we’ve encountered here, but this planet actually experienced a fairly recent period of glaciation. It produced the rock formations Roger observed then . . . and must also have killed off a substantial proportion of the planet’s total population.”

  “Hell, yes!” Roger snorted, remembering how dreadfully vulnerable Cord and his nephews had been to the mountainous climate they had encountered crossing from Marshad to the Valley of Ran Tai. What humans regarded as little more than a pleasantly cool morning had been well-nigh fatal to the cold-blooded Mardukans.

  “As you know,” O’Casey continued, “this pl
anet has only a very slight axial tilt, which gives it a relatively narrow equatorial belt. As nearly as Chief Dobrescu and I have been able to figure out, just about everyone outside that narrow zone must have been killed by the climatic changes involved when the glaciation set in. Geologically speaking, it was extremely recent, as well, which probably explains why the planetary population is so low, despite a climate—now—which permits several crops a year.

  “There were, however, some isolated enclaves of Mardukans who survived outside the equatorial zone. The only one of those on which we have any specific documentation, so far, was Diaspra.”

  “The lake!” Roger said, snapping his fingers suddenly, and O’Casey nodded.

  “Exactly. Remember how incredibly ancient the buildings around those volcanic springs looked?” She shrugged. “That’s because the Diaspran priesthood is entirely correct about how old their city really is. There’s been a city on that site since before the glaciers; it was the heat output of the volcanic springs that made it possible for that city’s population to survive. No wonder they look upon water as the preserving miracle of all life!”

  “That explains a lot,” Kosutic said, tipping thoughtfully back in her chair. “Have you loaded The Book of the Water into your toot, Eleanora?” The chief of staff nodded. “Then can I get you to download a translation of it to mine after supper?”

  “Of course,” O’Casey agreed.

  “Good! I’ll be looking forward to reading it, because I’m pretty sure it will flesh out what I’ve already picked up from talking to people like Krindi here.” She pointed at Fain with her chin. “In the meantime, though, I think I’ve already got enough of the handle on their theology to see where our current problem lies.”

  She turned her attention back to Roger and Pahner.

  “Essentially, their cosmology calls for a piece of land floating in an eternal, endless body of water,” she said. “It also calls for all water that hasn’t been specifically contaminated to be ‘good,’ which means potable. So here we are, way out of sight of land, sailing over an apparently eternal body of . . . bad water.”

  “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” Pahner said with a slight grin, then looked serious again. “I can see where that would be a problem, Captain Fain. Do you have a suggestion for solving it?”

  “As Sergeant Major Kosutic has just suggested, I’ve been discussing the problem with her, Sir,” the Mardukan said diffidently. “I believe it would be useful for her to deal directly with the troops as a replacement for our usual priests. And, if possible, when the ships go back to K’Vaern’s Cove, it would also be useful if, upon return, they brought a priest over with them.”

  Pahner gazed at him for a second, then shook his head in resignation.

  “By the time they could get back here from K’Vaern’s Cove, hopefully, we’ll be well on our way to the port. If we’re not, we might as well not have made the trip.” The Marine tapped his fingers together while he thought, then gave Kosutic another slight grin. “Okay, High Priestess, you’re on. Just no converting.”

  “No sweat,” the sergeant major said. “I’ll just point out to them that there’s no problem, within their cosmology, with there being more than one ‘world.’ We’re traveling across what is, technically, infinite water—a sphere is infinite, looked at in a certain way. For that matter, their definition practically cries out for multiple worlds, or, in fact, continents. And from what I’ve gleaned, there’s nothing saying that all water is potable. In fact, they deal with certain types of nonpotable waters all the time. Waters that have been soiled by wastes, for example. And the God of Waters loves them just as much as he loves potable waters, and rejoices whenever they are restored to potability. Gets us into the concept of sin and redemption.”

  “The Prophet Kosutic,” Roger said with a chuckle, and the sergeant major smiled at him.

  “I’d invite you to a service, but I don’t think the Empire is ready for that just yet.”

  “Now that we hopefully have that crisis dealt with,” Pahner said, “there’s another one to consider. Taking the port isn’t going to be a picnic, and I’ve been watching the squad close-tactics training. It’s not going well. Comments?”

  “Train, train, train,” Julian said. “We’re barely scratching the surface yet, Sir. The teams are improving. Just not very rapidly.”

  “Sergeant Major?”

  “Well . . .” Kosutic frowned. “I gotta say I don’t feel like they’re there, Julian. They’re not concentrating. They’re just going through the motions. We need to put some steel in their asses.”

  “With all due respect, Sergeant Major,” Despreaux interjected, “I don’t think you can say any of us are lacking in ‘steel.’ I think our credentials on that are fairly clear.”

  “Maybe,” Kosutic returned. “And maybe not. One thing about being in battle as long and as often as we have is that for just about everybody, after a while, the edge goes away. You can’t be on Condition Red forever, and we’ve been on it for a helluva lot longer than is recommended. So I think that that steel, Sergeant, is starting to melt. And it couldn’t come at a worse time. You do realize that after we take the port, we’re going to have to take a ship, right?”

  “Yes.” Despreaux nodded, her eyes dark. “I do realize that.”

  “Obviously, we’re not going to hit the port when we know there’s a ship in orbit to watch us do it,” Kosutic said. “But that means that whenever a ship does turn up, we’re going to have to grab any shuttles it sends down the instant they hit dirt.” She leaned forward and stabbed a rock-hard finger into the wooden table. “And prevent communication between them and their ship when we do it. Then, we’ll have to send our own shuttles up, blow the hatches, and do a forced boarding. We’ll have to blast our way through the whole ship without smashing anything that can’t be fixed. And it’s probably going to be a ship used to bad ports—to the idea of pirates trying to grab it. So its crew won’t be sitting there with their guard down. Now how easy do you think that’s going to be?”

  “Sergeant Major,” Roger said in mild reproof. “We’re all aware that it’s not going to be a walk in the park. But we’ll get it done.”

  “Will we?” Kosutic asked. “It won’t be Voitan or Sindi, Your Highness. We won’t be in a fixed position waiting for the scummies to throw themselves onto our swords. It won’t even be just a smash and grab, like Q’Nkok and Marshad. We’ll have to move like lightning, in the boarding and taking the port. And we’ll have to be precise, as well. And we’re not moving like that right now.”

  “Can you take this ship without our help?” Rastar asked suddenly. “Isn’t this what you brought us for? To fight by your side, your foes as ours?”

  All the human heads in the cabin swiveled like turrets as their owners turned to look at him. Roger’s mouth flapped for a moment before he could spit out a sentence. Then—

  “It’s . . . not that easy.”

  “This environment isn’t one you want to fight in, Rastar,” Eleanora said quietly. “You’ll undoubtedly be involved in the taking of the port. But the ship will be another issue.”

  Roger nodded then leaned forward in the lamplight and placed his hand atop the Mardukan’s.

  “Rastar, there are very few people I would rather have by my side in a firefight. But you don’t want to fight on shipboard. Onboard, if you press the wrong button, you can find yourself without any air to breathe, your breath stolen and your skin freezing until you die, quickly.”

  “There are . . . hazards, Rastar,” Pahner agreed. “Hazards we would prefer not to subject your forces to. They aren’t trained for that sort of environment. And despite the difficulty, a short platoon of Marines will be able to take most freighters. For that matter, since there will probably be functional armor at the spaceport, we can probably take a pirate down, as well. If, as the sergeant major has noted, we’re trained to a fine edge.”

  He rubbed his cheek for a moment in thought.

&n
bsp; “Who are the best at this sort of thing?” Roger asked. “I mean, of the troops we have.”

  “Probably myself and Despreaux, Your Highness,” Julian answered.

  “Don’t count me out, boy,” Kosutic said with a wink. “I was door-kicking when you were in swaddling clothes.”

  “Why don’t we have a demonstration?” Roger asked, ignoring the byplay. “Set up a visible ‘shoot-house’ on the deck, made out of—I dunno, sails and stuff—and let the teams watch Despreaux and Julian do their thing. And the sergeant major, of course, if she’s not too old and decrepit. Show them how it’s done.”

  “Decrepit, huh?” The senior NCO snorted. “I’ll show you decrepit, sonny!”

  “That’s ‘Your Highness Sonny,’” Roger retorted with his nose in the air.

  The comment elicited a general chuckle. Even Pahner smiled. Then he nodded more seriously.

  “Good call, Roger. It will also give our allies a look at what we’re doing. Since we’re not going to be using live rounds, we can give them detectors and let them be the opposition. Let them see if they can stop the sergeant major’s team.”

  “Surprise is the essence of an assault,” Despreaux said quietly. “If they watch us prepare, they’re not going to be too surprised.”

  “We’ll train in the hold,” Kosutic said, tugging at the skull earring dangling from her right ear. “Then duplicate the conditions on deck.”

  “That sounds good,” Julian said, but his tone was a bit dubious. She cocked her head at him, and he shrugged. “You know how much of this is about muscle memory,” he said. “Even with the helmet VR and our toots, we’re still going to need at least some room to move in, if we’re going to do it right. And, frankly, I don’t think there’s enough room in Hooker’s hold.”

  “He’s got a point, Smaj,” Roger said. The prince frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “On the other hand, there’s a lot more room below decks on Snarleyow. I bet the civan have eaten enough of the forage to give us a lot more room in Snarleyow’s forward hold than we could find in any of the other ships.”