House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy)

by Wren, M. K.

A tow cable sprang to singing tautness directly behind him, a towcar swished past, people were running through the treacherous skim of water, shouting back and forth. The ’car driver leaned toward him.

  “We’ve got to move her out of the way, sir. More ships coming in!”

  Ussher stumbled, dodging men and machines until he was finally clear of the Hopewell. One of her steering vanes sliced within centimeters of his head. He retreated toward the corridor entrance as a rush of air and a resounding clank marked the opening of the lock. He looked back. Two Falcons. One was towing the other.

  Near the corridor doors, medtechs were lifting stretchers onto the specially designed racks on the loaders. Each machine could carry six wounded, but only one was present, and four men lay on stretchers on the floor propped on makeshift supports to keep them out of the water.

  “Dr. Kaosu, where are the rest of the loaders?”

  A harried woman was bending over one of the stretcher-borne wounded, ripping open the front of his uniform. She glanced up at Ussher, but only briefly.

  “Jerris, a coag injection. Hurry. Where’s that antisep sheet? And, Del, you’d better give him some pentaphine.” She rose as two medtechs knelt by the stretcher to carry out her orders. A warning beeper announced the arrival of an empty loader.

  “Oh, thank the God.” She snapped off her reddened plaskin gloves, took another pair from her pocket, tore off the protective envelope, and pulled the gloves on as she went to the next stretcher. “I ’commed John M’Kim, Fer Ussher. He’s sending more loaders. Oh, damn—the tourniquet slipped.”

  The man she was leaning over was already covered from the chest down with an antisep sheet. One sleeve had been cut away, his forearm loosely bandaged. She tightened the strap and turnbuckle above his elbow, and his head rolled toward her, mouth taking the shape of a smile, eyes glazed with pain and terror. The tourniquet slipped loose again.

  “Damn thing won’t hold. Fer Ussher, hold this tight until I get another one.”

  Her tone broached no argument, and before he realized it, he was kneeling beside the man, holding the strap tight, and Dr. Kaosu had vanished.

  Names—why couldn’t he remember names today?

  “Fer Us-ussher? ’S ’at really . . . you?”

  “Yes, Sargent. You just relax now. You’ve done your part, and I want you to know . . .” He swallowed hard, looking down at his boots. The water around them was red. “You—you’ll be all right. This arm doesn’t look too bad. They’ll have you up and . . . and . . .”

  The man was coughing. Horrible, retching sounds. Blood sprayed from his mouth, his free hand was locked on Ussher’s arm.

  “Help m-me . . . help . . . me . . .”

  Ussher felt droplets on his face and hands, burning like acid. He tried to pull away, but the man’s grip seemed unbreakable; his body heaved and shuddered.

  “Doctor!” Ussher shouted in a frenzy of desperation. “Doctor—help! Help me!”

  “Let him go, Fer Ussher. Let him go. There’s nothing more you can do for him.”

  She was kneeling on the other side of the stretcher, fingers pressed to the man’s throat. He was still now.

  Ussher drew back. His uniform. Blood. It was spattered with blood.

  “Is he . . . ?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

  “But he—he can’t be. That arm . . .”

  “It wasn’t just the arm.” Before she pulled the sheet up over the man’s head, she turned it back so Ussher could see the chest and abdomen.

  “Oh, Holy God . . .”

  He staggered to his feet, doubled over with cramping nausea. There was no place in this pounding cacophony to be sick, but he couldn’t hold it down.

  The countdown clock read zero +05:00: 15:00 TST.

  A new report was materializing on the progress screen.

  Conflt Bss—ss dam/des/fac dem ests:

  Pol Telhamid F 42 C 10 TCC 1 fac dam est 80%

  Pol Lamont F 110 C 18 TCC 2 fac dam est 75%

  Cas Tremper F 52 C 15 TCC 2 fac dam est 70%

  Cas Santalena F 18 C 3 TCC 1 fac dam est 50%

  InP Titania F 12 C 2 fac dam est 30%

  ss dam/des total +05:01:

  F 662 C 127 TCC 19

  Ussher devoured the figures. Against those losses of facilities and ships, the Phoenix had gotten off easily, and the statistics from the Confleet bases didn’t include the ships lost in combat off-planet. He smiled grimly. The latest figures on that came next.

  Conflt ss dam/des in combt: F 18 C 3 TCC 2

  Total +05:22: F 287 C 55 TCC 9

  Let the Lords think on that. Over 1,200 ships damaged and destroyed. So Phoenix casualties were running higher than he expected. What were those losses laid against the Concord’s? Victory has its price. He looked down at the PubliCom screen, one side of his mouth twitching again into a smile.

  The frantic ’casters babbled reports of new disasters every minute, of rampant confusion and panic, of cities paralyzed, while Concord officialdom flailed about helplessly, feeding the ’casters the only salve it could think of.

  Confleet was sending a thousand-ship wing from the Solar System. Over and over, the ’casters spewed forth that pap. It would be here soon; within the hour.

  Ussher laughed. Where did they think Confleet would find a full wing? In the ruins of Mars? And did they think that creaking dinosaur could organize a thousand ships and the twelve thousand men to staff them in so short a time? It would take days, even weeks.

  “Sir, there’s a call . . . sir?”

  He frowned irritably. How did Isaks expect him to hear anything in this hubbub of voices, gabbling out of the screens, buzzing in his ears. And why in the God’s name wouldn’t they keep the comcenter door closed?

  “What is it, Alan?”

  “Dr. Cabot in the infirmary. For you, sir.”

  Ussher nodded, then Cabot’s face appeared on a screen. At first, he didn’t recognize him. The man looked like a specter.

  “Yes, Dr. Cabot?”

  “Sir, we’ve run out of room in the infirmary, so we’re setting up an auxiliary station in the SMR level dining hall.”

  “You’ve run out . . . oh, well, that seems a . . . a very sensible decision, Doctor.”

  Cabot frowned, as if he weren’t sure he’d understood him correctly.

  “The problem is, the med staff and aid-trained volunteers are up to their necks here. I need more volunteers to help set up in the dining hall. We’ve got wounded on the floors; we can’t even get to the critical cases without stumbling over—”

  “All right, Doctor.” Ussher was looking down at the cuffs of his uniform. Couldn’t get the stains out. “ ’Com John M’Kim. Yes, he’s the one you should’ve called.”

  “But, sir, I thought you—”

  “M’Kim! ’Com M’Kim. Doctor, I have my hands full here. Surely you realize that.”

  Cabot didn’t respond, but something in his cold look set Ussher’s pulse pounding. He signaled to Isaks, and his breath came out in a sigh when the screen went dark. What did Cabot expect? That was M’Kim’s department, wasn’t it?

  The PubliCom ’caster was babbling about the coming arrival of the Confleet wing again. Might as well look for the second coming of the Mezion.

  He should have ordered SI to try again on the PubliCom Systems operation. He stared at the haggard face of the ’caster, and a dread convict
ion overwhelmed him. That was an irremediable loss, not getting his appeal on the vidicom screens. Later, after the offensive, wouldn’t be soon enough. It was too late now.

  And those damned Bonds, What had happened? No use talking to Hendrick again. Ussher had ’commed him four times and listened to him hem and haw, and the substance of it was that there had been minor uprisings in four Hamid and three Drakonis compounds. Minor uprisings, the worst of which had lasted half an hour.

  And the ROM, which might have taken this opportunity to lead the Fesh students at the Leda and Helen Universities into open revolt against the Concord masters they professed to despise—the leaders of the ROM weren’t leading anyone anywhere.

  Pampered young hypocrites. Spoiled whelps of the Fesh rich. Couldn’t trust their sort to come through when—

  “What did you say, sir?” Isaks leaning toward him, frowning questioningly.

  “I didn’t say anything. Damn it, why don’t they keep that door closed?”

  He didn’t look behind him at the door. A new report was posted on the progress screen.

  PNX ss dam/des/cap/unactd:

  ss dam ss des ss cap ss unactd

  F 26 C 13 F 22 C 14 F 9 C 4 F 6 C 4

  Total +05:10:

  F 60 C 24 F 53 C 24 F 15 C 6 F 16 C 11

  He stared at the figures, and he didn’t want to add them, but the total materialized, unbidden, in his mind.

  209.

  That was almost half the Phoenix fleet, damaged, destroyed, captured, unaccounted for.

  The countdown clock read zero +05:30: 15:30 TST.

  Ussher paced the comcenter floor. There were thirty-five ships in the main hangar now. He glanced that way only briefly.

  Then he stopped his pacing, distracted by Calvet Lanc’s voice from his post near the GroundComm console.

  “. . . FS Demond. For Leftant Condo, Navcomp.”

  Demond. That was the flagship. Jan’s ship. Ussher looked for Garris, finding him near Lanc at a printout transceiver. Garris was speaking into his headset mike; a radio ’com apparently. Ussher approached, listening intently.

  “. . . coming through clear as glass, Met. Damn, you should get a medal for this.” A pause and a short laugh, then, “Well, we’ll stamp out a few for SI. All right, is that the lot? I’ve got it all taped; we’ll send it straight to Jan. Take care of yourself.” He turned his mike control ring. “Line clear, Ben. Thanks. Cal?”

  Captain Lanc turned. “Demond navcomp is on receive.”

  Garris took a printout spool from the console and tossed it to him. “Roll it out, Cal. Roll it out.”

  Ussher asked sharply, “Roll what out, Commander?”

  Garris looked around at him, his smile turning cool. “SI came through with flags flying. One of their agents just handed us the SynchShift emergence coordinates for that whole damned Confleet wing.”

  Ussher’s throat seemed to close, stopping his breath. “What . . . wing?”

  “I thought you were at least keeping up with the newscasts, Predis. The thousand-ship wing Confleet’s sending from the Solar System to relieve Centauri. They’ll be emerging—” He checked his watch. “—in forty-seven minutes.”

  “That’s impossible. They can’t send that many ships.”

  Garris said to Lanc, “When you’re through, I want to run that tape through a comp analysis. Predis, what do you mean? How many ships did you ask for?”

  At that, Ussher felt the heat rushing to his face. “Commander, this is not a laughing matter.”

  “Who’s laughing?” He studied Ussher a moment, frowning. “You mean, you didn’t . . . you didn’t realize—”

  “I certainly didn’t believe that pap the PubliCom System is putting out. A thousand-ship wing, indeed! The Concord couldn’t get that many ships and men together in a week, much less a few hours!”

  Garris only stared at him, mouth sagging, and Ussher became aware of a silence around him, of other gaping stares. But what had he done? What was his error this time?

  He blurted, “The Concord is a creaking, senile dinosaur! It can’t even keep order in the Solar System. How can it possibly put together a full wing in this short a time?”

  Garris shook his head, his tone flat and curt. “Well, Predis, there’s life in the old fossil yet. The mobilization order went out from FleetComm HQ at 10:30 TST. Oh—thanks, Cal.” This as Lanc returned the tape spool.

  Garris in turn gave the spool to the officer on the navcomp console, who inserted it into a slot and began playing the keyboard as deftly as if it were a muscial instrument. Ussher stared over his head as numbers and abstract figures drawn in light began to dance across the three screens. He couldn’t have guessed how long he stood watching, incapable of even the smallest motion, but when at length the silent concert ended, he recognized the impossible as a reality.

  But why hadn’t Jan told him? Between his TacComm staff and SI, he must have had some idea of the size of the retaliatory force Confleet could send and how soon. Of course, Jan had given him those sheafs of comp read-outs, as if he expected him to be a comptech and make sense of that mishmash of numbers. But Jan should have told him. Or it should have come from SI. Venturi had held out on him from the beginning.

  “. . . on line for you, sir. Commander Barret.”

  Ussher roused himself, but Lanc was talking to Garris, who was already on his way to the GroundComm console, where Barret’s face looked out from one of the screens.

  Ussher said to Lanc, “Put me on line, Captain.”

  “Uh . . . I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders.”

  “I don’t give a damn . . .” No time to argue with Lanc. He’d settle that later.

  “Yes, Jan, we’ve run a fast analysis,” Garris was saying. “What do you think?”

  Ussher glared at the screen, watching the reply he couldn’t hear, seeing Garris nod agreement.

  “There’s been too much steel dropping into the water in this general area as it is. Somebody up there’s going to notice. You’ve knocked out the Obsats, but these coordinates spell a heavy concentration of ships around Pollux.”

  Ussher took another step closer, straining at Barret’s silenced response.

  Somebody up there’s going to notice.

  That meant notice Fina.

  Garris was mumbling into his mike. “. . . get as many ships into the hangars as possible, but we’ve only got forty minutes.”

  Ussher tried to control his voice, but it came out as a shout.

  “You can’t let those ships come here! They’ll pinpoint Fina for Confleet!”

  Garris turned, glaring angrily at him. “Predis, by the God—either shut up or get out of here!”

  “But he’s going to betray Fina! Jan! You can’t do that! Damn it, I want on line. Rhea—send them to Rhea! Anywhere! Just don’t let—”

  “Predis, be quiet! Janson—and you, Corbet.”

  Two FO officers appeared at his elbows, and Ussher realized they were prepared to take him away forcibly. The chairman of the Council. The first born of—

  Ussher drew himself up, not so much as glancing at the two men, saying with cool precision, “That won’t be necessary.”

  Neither they nor Garris commented, the latter turning away to resume his conversation with Barret, while Ussher stood rigid, pulse pounding, hearing Garris’s words, but incapable of assimilating their meaning.

  Finally, Garris ended with an odd, tight break in his voice, “Jan . . . well, there’s nothing else to do. But be careful. We’ll be . . . waiting for you.”

  The screen went blank, and Garris turned away from it, looking every day of his seventy years.

  Ussher said curtly,
“Commander, I demand an explanation!”

  Garris stared at him, his scarred face suddenly white.

  “An explanation! For what? Holy God, you don’t understand anything, do you? You’ve been living in your little dream world so long, you don’t know what’s—’’

  “Garris, damn you!” One of Radek’s puppets, her trained lackeys! But that Garris would dare, at this time, in front of the members, to insinuate that— “Let me go!”

  The two officers were gripping his arms. It was intolerable. Inconceivable. Garris’s face was only centimeters from his, and his eyes burned with naked contempt, his voice rasped, constrained to a guttural whisper.

  “You want an explanation, Predis? Then listen! Jan Barret carried out a six-hour programmed offensive with ninety percent success. Your offensive, Predis! He did it for you, and did a hell of a good job of it. Now Confleet’s sending reinforcements, and that was programmed, too. What wasn’t programmed was the concentration of ships around Pollux. They’ll cut off the rest of the fleet’s retreat to Fina if—”

  “But they can’t retreat to Fina! What about—”

  “The Rhea base? Damn it, if you had the vaguest idea what’s going on here, you’d know that every ship capable of SS acceleration is going to Rhea. But that still leaves more than sixty damaged ships that can’t make it into SS. What are they supposed to do, Predis?”

  There was a buzzing whine in his ears. He couldn’t find its source. Garris bored on, and Ussher felt the words pounding in his head.

  “I’ll explain what Jan’s going to do, Predis. Four hundred Confleet ships are homing in on the Pollux sector. He’s going to take twenty Falcons and ten Corvets and set up an SS emergence ambush. He’s going to buy some time. Time for the damaged ships to make it back to Fina before Confleet can get close enough to see where they’re headed. He’s going to buy that time with . . .” A silence trailed out with those words, then he turned abruptly.

  “Predis, get away from me.”

  It was spoken in a curiously mild tone, and Ussher realized he was free of restraint now. He stood a moment, but no words would take shape against that strange, sourceless whining. He made his way back to his chair.