“I understand,” he said, and saw something very like surprise join all the other emotions in Haerther’s eyes when he chose not to press matters. “Inform him, when he is available, that I think it is urgent he and I speak.”
“Of course, Heir of Caesar. May I tell him what it is you wish to speak of?”
“Many things,” Publius said. “None of them so vital that I need disturb his rest when he has borne so much for all of us.”
Haerther’s eyes flared wide at that, and then he bowed deeply.
“I will tell him your very words, Heir of Caesar,” he promised.
Publius nodded in reply, then turned and left the palace the Doge had assigned to Rick with Caius Julius at his side. As they stepped into the courtyard, Publius glanced casually about. No one was in close proximity.
“I think it is time I spoke with Major Baker once more,” he said softly. “Discreetly, of course, Tribune.”
“Of course, Heir of Caesar,” Caius Julius murmured.
* * *
Wind howled over a rain-lashed sea where mountainous waves pounded a disintegrating raft of galleys. He stood on one of those galleys, flayed by the wind, battered and soaked by the rain, and all about him men fought and cursed, bled and died. And killed.
Blood was everywhere, hot and steaming in the rain. Men screamed, writhing in agony, begging for their mothers—for anyone—to stop the pain. Crossbow bolts, javelins, swords and axes sheared and bit in brutal butchery, but no weapon came near him. No, he was inviolate. He walked through that horrific maelstrom untouched and untouchable. It was only other men who bled and died. Who lay on those blood-soaked, rain-lashed decks, trying to hold intestines inside opened bellies. Who raised frail, pitiful hands against the deathblow before it ended their lives.
But if he could not be touched, he could hear. He could hear the screams, the wet sounds of edged steel in human flesh. He could hear the wind howl, the waves crash, the clash of weapons, the crackle of rifle and pistol fire. He could hear the sudden explosions of mortar rounds, coming silently out of the night to detonate like hell’s own hatred while men blew apart in bloody ruin or plunged shrieking into the angry sea as white phosphorus consumed them.
And he could hear the voices screaming his name. He could—
He jerked awake and his own strangled cry of horror echoed in his ears.
He sat up slowly in the comfortable bed and looked around the airy, sun-shot bedchamber. Elegant furniture and beautiful mosaics surrounded him. The open window’s curtains flapped gently on the breeze, and he heard the peaceful coo of pigeons and the distant cries of gulls and other seabirds through it.
And none of it could drown those other sounds, because those sounds came from deep inside him and the knowledge of what he had done.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked at the bottle of McCleve’s best on the bedside table. His stomach heaved. There’d been three of those bottles, once. He’d emptied one of them before he finally passed out. He thought he remembered dropping another, as well. Remembered the half-full bottle shattering on the stone floor. There was no sign of either of them. Haerther, no doubt. Or Mason. Probably both, since they’d managed to get him into bed, too.
Still covering for me, he thought, bending over, burying his face in his hands. God help me, even after this, they’re still covering for me.
He drew a deep breath and forced himself to stand. His head pounded, and something had crawled into his mouth and died there, but he made himself walk across to the window. Light-sensitive eyes squinted as he pulled back the curtain, looked out over the inner lagoon.
His belly twisted with threatened nausea as he saw the fresh proof of his handiwork. Dozens of boats moved across the laughing blue water, crews with bandannas tied over their mouths and noses heaving bodies out of its embrace. And those gulls whose cries had wakened him wheeled in circles above them . . . or landed on the drifting corpses to peck and tear at dead men’s flesh.
He dropped the curtain and wheeled away from the window, eyes shut once more. Tylara. He needed Tylara. He needed—
I need to go home, he told himself flatly. I need to admit—finally—how fucking far out of my depth I am. This isn’t me. It’s not who I am. Not who I can be anymore. His eyes burned. They can’t put this on me anymore. I can’t put it on myself. Because I’ll screw it up. An entire goddammed planet! And . . . I’ll . . . screw . . . it . . . up.
Just as he’d screwed up here.
We should have just emptied the damned containers and left. The Nikeisians could have told the Fivers and the Riccigionans we were gone—could have let them look for themselves! But, no, we had to—I had to—stand and fight, didn’t I? And I underestimated the numbers, and I underestimated the goddamn weather, and I overestimated how frigging brilliant “Captain General Rick” is, and I got—God, how many?—people killed.
Including my friend.
He bent his head again, and this time the tears came as he remembered Richard Martins, standing in front of him, left arm in a bloody sling with a hand he might never use again. There’d been tears in Martins’ eyes, too, as he stood in the torchlit darkness with the fading storm still raging behind him.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” the young man had said, his public school reserve nowhere to be seen. “God, I’m so sorry. None of us would have made it without him. We tried—we tried. But—”
His voice had broken, and Rick had shaken his head.
“Not your fault,” he’d heard himself say. “It happens. And it was my call. My fault.”
“Colonel, you couldn’t have known!” Martins had protested. “There was no way we could have told you. And if you hadn’t—”
“I can tell myself that just as well as you can, Lieutenant.” His voice had been harsher. “It may even be true. But I still killed him; you didn’t.”
Martins had started to say something more, then closed his mouth at an almost imperceptible headshake from Clyde Baker. Rick had pretended he hadn’t seen it.
“Colonel,” Baker had said, “you’ve been on your feet for close to twenty-four hours. Get some rest.”
“A hell of a lot of other people have been on their feet even longer!” Rick had snapped, glaring at the Brit.
“Indeed.” Baker had looked back levelly. “But rather fewer of them will need to make the decisions you will. Leave this bit to us.”
And so you came up here and you got so drunk you don’t even remember them putting you to bed, he thought scathingly. You got drunk because of how desperately you didn’t want to think of Larry out there on those goddammed galleys when you ordered Walbrook to open fire.
He made himself straighten, look around for clothes, ignore the siren song of the bottle. There were no closets, neither his armor nor his rifle were anywhere in evidence, but his holstered .45 lay beside the bottle on the bedside table. For one long, terrible instant, his fingers longed to curl around the grip, but he made himself turn away from that, too. He couldn’t do it to Tylara or the kids.
He finally admitted he had no option and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened.
“Yes, My Lord?” Haerther said, no sign of contempt in his clear eyes.
“I need to dress,” Rick said. “And then I suppose I need something to eat.”
* * *
“Forgive me, Lord Rick, but the Heir of Caesar is here.”
“I see.” Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. Haerther had told him about Publius’ earlier visit, even told him what Publius had said, but he’d shoved that thought down. Not until after he’d eaten, he’d told himself. It could wait until then. Of course, he’d only picked at his breakfast, but he actually felt a bit better, physically, at least. Until he thought about facing Publius, anyway.
Can’t put it off forever, he thought. Besides, you might as well tell him and get it over with.
“Ask him to join me,” he said, waving at the dining chamber.
“He is not alone,
My Lord,” Haerther said. “Lord Bart and Major Baker are with him.”
Rick’s eyebrows rose as he felt an actual stir of curiosity. He stepped on it firmly. It wasn’t his job anymore.
“Very well. In that case, ask all of them to join me.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
The door opened again, moments later, and Publius, Baker, and Saxon came through it.
“Hail, Heir of Caesar,” Rick said, standing to greet them.
“Hail . . . friend,” Publius replied. Rick’s eyes narrowed at the unusual familiarity, but he let it pass as he turned to the other two.
“Major. Mr. Saxon,” he said.
“Colonel,” Baker responded for both of them.
“Sit,” Rick invited, waving at the chairs Haerther had found, and sat back down himself as they settled. “I’m glad you came this morning,” he lied. “There are things I need to say to you. To all of you.”
“I thought there might be,” Publius said. “But first, I believe Lord Bart has something to say to you.”
“Oh?” Rick looked at Saxon.
“Yes, Colonel.” There was something different about Saxon, Rick realized. He seemed . . . almost buoyant, despite all the death and destruction about them. For a moment, at least; then his expression sobered and he leaned forward slightly. “You asked me why I’m really here,” he said. “It’s time I told you.”
“Mr. Saxon—”
“No, Colonel.” Saxon cut him off. “This is important. You need to hear it. And I might as well admit that Publius already got some of it out of me.”
Rick looked quickly at the Roman, but Publius only gazed back with a bland expression. Somehow, Rick found it easy to believe the Heir of Caesar had gotten Saxon to talk. But Rick didn’t want to hear it. He was so tired of secrets, and secret missions that other people thought up and left him to carry out, however many people he had to kill along the way. And yet . . .
“All right, Mr. Saxon,” he sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Saxon said. “We are here to assist you in crop production for the Shalnuksis. That’s true. But you were right to be suspicious, because it’s also a cover story. I was told that if the real mission was revealed to the wrong people, I and a whole lot of people would be killed and the planet might be bombed back into the Stone Age. Or worse. But the truth is, my assignment’s a contradiction. I’m supposed to educate the local population, but to hide it from the Galactics. Agzaral will do what he can to prevent the bombardment, but he couldn’t promise anything. He did tell me the Shalnuksis can be bribed and they’d rather not sterilize the planet because of the costs involved—and because they’d lose the madweed, of course. But I was also told I was an insurance policy in case you failed, particularly because Agzaral thought you weren’t doing very well when he sent us out.”
“Okay, that’s your assignment.” Rick leaned forward, his interest sharpening almost despite himself. “But I still don’t understand why Agzaral went to all this effort to send you here. From my perspective, he took an incredible risk to send you, the others, and the containers. Every single thing Les ever said to Gwen and me was about how important it was that we hide any tech advances here on Tran. That he and Agzaral and their friends saw us as a backstop for Earth but that anything we did had to be done by stealth. Had to be hidden, at least until the Shalnuksis leave. And now he sends you here with three frigging container loads of high tech? What you brought may—hell, probably will—launch the Thirty Years War, the French Revolution, and both world wars all at the same time! And if we don’t kill each other off, the Shalnuksis will sure as hell do it for us if they figure out what you’ve got out there! Why the hell should he decide to take that chance?”
“Colonel, I wasn’t there when they sent you out. I don’t doubt hiding was the plan then. But that was fourteen years ago, and Agzaral’s thinking seems to have changed in the meantime.”
“Why?” Rick asked bluntly.
“Because all of humanity is at risk now,” Saxon replied equally bluntly, and Rick shoved back in his chair in shock.
“You mean here and on Earth.”
“No, Sir. I mean everywhere.”
Rick darted a quick look at Publius, but the Roman appeared extraordinarily calm, and Rick looked back at Saxon.
“Explain that.”
“Agzaral didn’t have time to tell me everything,” Saxon said, and Rick snorted harshly as he remembered his own conversations with the inspector. “But he did tell me there’s some sort of quiet rebellion among the humans in the Galactic Confederation. Earth’s technology advances are worrying the High Commission even more, and a lot of the humans serving the Confederation—Agzaral called them ‘Janissaries’—think the Commission is hardening on bombing Earth back into the Stone Age . . . at least. Apparently, the faction on the Commission that wants to solve the ‘wild human problem’ once and for all is gaining momentum, and that means the Janissaries who don’t want that to happen are making plans to try to stop it by force, if they have to.”
“Jesus.” Rick looked back and forth between Publius and Baker, then back at Saxon. “You’re talking some kind of rebellion?”
“I don’t know,” Saxon admitted. “I just know Agzaral seemed both excited and scared by the possibilities. But I don’t think he has a choice anymore. He says there’s a section in the Confederation, one that’s gaining strength, that thinks all humans are too dangerous, too disturbing to their status quo, to keep around. That the High Council may just decide to exterminate all of us to put an end to all the arguing. But that’s his worst-case scenario, and he’s the kind who plays the game on a lot of levels. In his worst-case scenario, we—us, here on Tran—are his last ditch effort to keep the species alive if it does turn into a rebellion and the Confederation decides to wipe out all of ‘its’ humans at the same time it blasts Earth. But in his best-case scenario, we’re the trump card that changes humans from slaves to voting members of the Confederation.”
“By acquiring interstellar flight on our own,” Rick said, and Saxon looked a bit surprised. But he also nodded.
“Yes, Sir.”
“That much we already knew, courtesy of Les.” Rick shrugged. “I don’t know how likely it is, but Gwen and Tylara and I have been playing for that from the beginning, and with six hundred years between Shalnuksi visits—”
“I think Inspector Agzaral is afraid we may not have six hundred years,” Saxon interrupted. Rick looked at him, and it was Saxon’s turn to shrug. “Nobody outside the High Commission knows what the timetable for any decision about Earth really is, but Agzaral says there are indications that the timing is closing in. We might be talking about decades, or a few centuries—I get the impression the Confederation isn’t exactly what you might call flexible—but it’s also possible it could happen tomorrow. He wants us ready to claim membership in the Confederation as soon as possible, but that’s not the same thing as wanting us to actually assert that claim.”
Damn all twisty-minded interstellar Machiavellians to hell, Rick thought, rubbing one eyebrow.
“He wants us—what? Lurking in the wings? An ace up his sleeve that he can play if things go south with the High Commission or this human rebellion you’re talking about heats up?”
“Something like that. He says there are more humans than any other single species out there, because we do so many jobs for the Galactics. I think he wants those humans—all humans—to eventually be free and equals in the Confederation.”
“Which means developing interstellar flight here on Tran.” Rick shook his head in disbelief. “In time to do any good on this accelerating timetable of his?” He laughed incredulously. “What makes him think we can do that? Hell, I’ve barely kept our heads above water for the last fourteen years!”
“He says he and his . . . accomplices have placed references in the library of scientific material we brought from Earth to be a breadcrumb trail that will eventually enable us to build starships of our own. A lot
sooner than we could do it on our own.” He shrugged. “That’s one of the things I’m supposed to be kicking off, God help me.”
“Who else knows about that?”
“Out there?” Saxon waved at the ceiling and the stars beyond it. “I don’t have any idea. Here on Tran? Cal and Spirit may suspect, but Agzaral and Lee told them only the cover story.”
“Then I suppose you’ve just become the most important man on the planet. Maybe in the whole damned universe.”
“No, Sir. I haven’t.” Saxon looked at him levelly. “You have.”
“No,” Rick said flatly.
“Colonel, listen to me.” Saxon leaned towards him. “It’s not just spaceflight. Agzaral says the only chance for a successful entry into the Confederation is if the planet is united.”
“United. Politically united?” Rick barked a hard, bitter caw of a laugh. “Jesus, now he wants to turn us into Mamelukes!”
“Mamelukes?” Publius repeated the strange word carefully, and Rick jerked an angry, exhausted nod.
“Mamelukes,” he said, recalling a conversation—at least a century ago—in Taranto with Major Baker. “You heard the word Agzaral used—Janissaries?” he asked, and Publius nodded. “Well, Janissaries were slave soldiers back on Earth. They were more than just soldiers, eventually—bureaucrats and ministers of the emperor they served—but they were still slaves.
“Only then there were the Mamelukes. They were slaves, too, but they evolved into a powerful military caste, and eventually, they wound up ruling vast empires of their own. They were still technically slaves, but they were also noblemen and even emperors in their own right, and the system they created lasted for over a thousand years. That’s what Agzaral has in mind. And he needs us to unify Tran politically to pull it off.”
Rick shook his head, thinking about all the warring rival factions. It had taken everything he had, and cost more than he could stand, just to survive. And now Agzaral wanted him to unify the frigging planet?
“I’m afraid so,” Saxon said. “They won’t even consider membership for a planet—for a star system—that doesn’t have a unified, single government that can speak for it. And that the Confederation can lay down terms for membership to.”
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