by Rick Partlow
And he did. His hair had gone grey in great streaks down the side, leaving salt-and-pepper at the top, and deep grooves had worked their way into his long, horsey face, drawing his mouth downward despite his perpetual smile.
“Ah, I see you with my heart, then,” Wesley said, waving it off. “Come on inside.”
Constantine motioned to his pilot to get her attention.
“I may be a while, Lieutenant,” he told her. “Feel free to get out and stretch your legs.”
“Aye, sir,” she acknowledged, pulling off her flight helmet to reveal jet-black hair bobbed short.
She might have seemed attractive to him once, though now all he saw was her skill at her job. He shrugged it off, just another melancholy musing of an old man, and followed his old friend into the house.
The interior of the place was unassuming, built for comfort rather than ostentatiousness, with couches sunken into niches in the marble floor, arrayed around a firepit burning warm on this chilly spring day. There was a bottle of wine and glasses ready, laid out on a low table beside the seats and Constantine accepted the drink gratefully, settling into the plush cushions before taking a long sip. The tinted, one-way windows stretching across the rear of the house painted an idyllic landscape of the meadows behind and the mountains beyond and he wondered why the man didn’t spend all of his time here.
“I assume there’ll be lunch,” Constantine said, eyeing Wesley balefully over the rim of his glass. “You pulled me away from the best a military crew ready for an inspection could provide.”
“Of course,” Wesley assured him, falling into his own seat with the grace of a side of beef falling off a carcass. He poured himself a glass of wine and raised a glass in toast. “Steaks are being prepared by the finest automated chef programs Spartan technology has to offer. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
“I know you love your toys,” Constantine said, shaking his head, “but I prefer the human touch. The difference of a few seconds, a fraction of a dash of seasoning, it makes a meal unique.” He speared the man with a glare, changing subjects abruptly in a tactic he’d learned from an old, experienced colonel many years ago. “What was so important for you to call me here at such short notice?”
“You are one of my oldest friends, Nicolai.” He wasn’t sure if the statement was supposed to answer his question or not, but he let Wesley continue through a pause to take another drink. “When you were new at school, your parents just emigrated from Mbeki, without a single soul to call your friend, with the older boys taunting you for your accent, I stood up for you. And when some of my acquaintances and extended family were so unwise as to back Duncan Lambert in his attempted coup, when others would have thrown me and my wife in prison merely for knowing the wrong people, you returned the favor and stood up for me.”
“The point, Wesley,” he urged, cocking his head to the side. He blinked his eyes. It was too comfortable in here and the warmth of the fire and the wine was reminding him how little sleep he’d managed the night before. Going to nod off on this damned couch, stretched out like this.
“The point is, I feel I owe you a debt, Nicolai.” He sniffed the wine in his glass, eyes closing in appreciation of the bouquet. “I just wish there was some way I could have prevented all this.”
Constantine blinked again, shaking his head. His head was fuzzy, much fuzzier than one glass of wine could…
The wine.
“Wesley, you fucking bastard.” He’d meant the words to come out in a growl, but they were a whisper. He clawed for the handgun holstered beneath his jacket, but his fingers were numb, his arms strengthless.
Wesley Martens had stood up, though Constantine hadn’t noticed it because the world was spinning around him now. The big bear of a man leaned over him, pulling aside his jacket and yanking the gun from beneath it. There were booted footfalls echoing around him, dark-armored figures swarming, rifles in their hands.
“Why?” he asked, barely able to get the words past his lips. Darkness was swimming around him, a predator impatient to swallow him up.
“Because sometimes,” Wesley told him, a hint of sadness in those hound-dog eyes, “people are just what they seem to be, and all those relatives of mine who were so quick to deny my involvement in the conspiracy were keeping me in play for another day. But I have tried to do the best I can for you, Nicolai,” he insisted, crouching down beside Constantine, peering into his fading eyes. “I have tried to make sure you will not be killed in the evil days which are coming.” He shook his head. “Though I doubt you will see this as a favor.”
The words slipped away from Constantine’s grasp and the darkness finally claimed him.
3
Jaimie Brannigan leaned his elbows on the solid, polished oak of his grandfather’s desk and stared at the troop disposition map as if he could make it go away.
“What the hell is Starkad doing, Donnel?” he asked the tall, imposing officer pacing on the other side of the holographic projection. “They have every single warship in their fleet sitting at their largest jump-point hubs. They’re either worried about an invasion or they’re getting ready to invade. Do we have any idea which?”
“I talked to General Constantine about it a couple days ago,” Donnel Anders said, shaking his head. “He’s heard chatter about the orders going out, but it’s all rumors in the lower ranks, no solid intelligence.”
Jaimie chuckled softly.
“You’re a general too now, Donnel. You can call him Nicolai if you like, he won’t mind.”
Anders seemed mildly scandalized by the thought.
“I am too newly minted a General to be calling General Constantine anything but ‘sir,’ my lord,” he protested. He shook the idea off with a visible shudder. “As for the Supremacy, if I was forced to guess, I’d say they could be finally making the big move we’ve all been expecting against Clan Modi to seize the Disputed Territories once and for all. But it could just as easily be a move to test our defenses and our response.”
“So, how are we responding?” Jaimie asked him. “You’re my Chief of Staff now that General Vardalos has retired. Earn your money, Donnel.”
He was joking but he wondered for a moment if Anders understood. The man was new to the rank and the job and, while he more than deserved it, he still seemed a bit cowed by the altitude up here in the Palace.
“I’ve deployed Third and Fifth Fleet,” Anders told him, adjusting the image in the very expensive and ostentatious holographic projector’s tank until it showed the Spartan systems.
Like the desk and most of the décor in the Guardian’s private office, the projector had been one of the eccentricities of Jaimie’s grandfather, the last Guardian, who had been given to much more outlandish displays of wealth. For his part, Jaimie was a soldier, used to simple frugality, and the conspicuous consumption bothered him still.
Anders’ forefinger traced a line through the floating image, showing the small groups of ships moving from one jump-point to another.
“They’re heading to the jump-points where the Starkad flotilla would have to emerge if they came after our border systems. I’ve sent Second and Fourth to reinforce the defenses along our border with Clan Modi just in case it is a bid for the Disputed Systems. Don’t want the fighting to spill over into our territory.” He eyed Jaimie sidelong. “That’s assuming we would stay out of the fight in the event of a Starkad incursion into Modi.”
Jaimie sat back in his chair and whistled softly.
“Well, now, that would be a bold gamble, wouldn’t it?” he mused. “We don’t have the forces to take on Starkad alone, but if Modi threw everything into a defense of the Disputed Systems…”
“It’s a big ‘if,’ sir,” Anders admitted. “I wonder if your son’s pet project might bring us some intelligence about the mood in Clan Modi?”
“Don’t let him hear you call it that,” Jaimie warned the man. “He’s as fond of the Wholesale Slaughter initiative as if he’d personally squatted down and
gave birth to it.” He smiled, pride filling his chest with a welcome warmth. “I have to say, I’m as proud as hell of him for it. He took a huge risk, both him and Terrin, but they not only brought back invaluable technological data, he also came up with a way to take care of the bandit problem without tying up our military forces.” He ran a hand over his cheeks. He needed a shave, unless he wanted to go ahead and grow that beard again. “I think he’s proven he’s more than capable of taking over this job when I decide it’s time to step down.”
“It’s been quite a while since Sparta has had a Guardian step down voluntarily,” Anders mused, hands clasped behind him. “The ones who haven’t died in combat have usually served until they dropped over from age or disease.”
“Not me,” Jamie insisted. “I will be quite happy to hand all this over to Logan and enjoy my retirement.” He shrugged. “Not anytime soon, of course. Maybe just in time to spoil my grandchildren. Logan will talk Katy into getting married sometime before too long, even stubborn as she is. And even Terrin seems to have found himself a girlfriend, for which I offer many thanks to Lord Mithra.” He hissed a relieved sigh. “Spenta Mainyu witness, I thought the boy had forgotten about women entirely, as obsessed with his work as he is.”
“Hmmph,” Anders grunted, smiling. “I wonder where he ever got that from, sir.”
Jaimie scowled, though he couldn’t put any true anger into it. “You’re all cowering at the thought of taking Nicolai Constantine’s name in vain, but you think nothing of giving a ration of shit to the Guardian. A lesser man might feel insulted.”
“I’m not worried, my lord,” Anders insisted, “because you could never be considered a lesser man.”
“Nice save. At any rate, getting back to the point, the Shakak should be arriving in orbit within the hour, so you can ask him yourself.”
The ‘link on Anders’ belt beeped for attention and the general glanced down in obvious consternation.
“I told them not to bother me during the damned meeting,” he murmured, pulling the device up to check the message. His face paled and Jaimie came halfway to his feet at the shocked expression.
“What is it?” he asked, his first thought that there might be bad news about Logan, his second going to the Starkad fleet.
Anders didn’t answer, just hit a control on Jaimie’s desk and the holographic display changed from a star map to an image of the broad, multi-lane road between Argos and the military base at Laconia, just twenty-five kilometers away across the plains. A line of mecha marched down the middle of the road, one arrowhead formation after another, a hundred meters between platoons. They stretched for kilometers, as far back as the view of the road camera could reach. Above them, assault shuttles roared only two or three hundred meters up, screaming toward the city from the Navy base.
“What the hell is that?” Jaimie demanded, springing from his seat. “Are those from the Guardian’s Own?” He knew the answer before he finished asking the question; his personal guard didn’t have that many mecha.
“No,” Anders said, sharp eyes zeroing in on the image. “Those are the Home Guard.”
“Is there some exercise going on that General Delacorte didn’t bother to tell me about?” Jaimie asked, anger beginning to crowd out the uncanny prickling down the back of his neck. His first thought had been an invasion, as impossible as it would have been for enemy troops to land without them knowing far in advance.
“If there is, he didn’t tell me, either,” Anders said. He didn’t seem angry, just worried. He hit a control on his ‘link and a flashing notification in the corner of the hologram showed he was syncing the device with the room’s communications system.
He scrolled through his contacts and hit Georges Delacorte’s name, touching the red toggle beside the call button to put it through over any other call the man was getting with Anders’ priority override. A tilting hourglass flashed on the screen as the call was sent…and then nothing.
“Delacorte isn’t answering,” he said tightly.
“Try Nicolai.” The words were steady, matter-of-fact, but Jaimie’s stomach roiled with worry he hoped might be premature.
Anders sent the call to the Intelligence Chief, but the result was the same.
“Can’t get through to him, sir.”
Jaimie Brannigan sucked in a breath, trying to wrap his mind around what that could mean. At first and last, he was a soldier, so he didn’t allow himself the luxury of emotional shock. Instead, he leaned over his desk and reached through the holographic projection above it to hit an emergency sequence on the physical keyboard there, one he’d never used except in drills. The one his grandfather hadn’t had the time to use.
“Karras here,” a woman’s voice responded, as sharp and unyielding as the point of a sword.
“Colonel Karras.” Jaimie Brannigan kept his tone calm and commanding. There was no use panicking at this point; and even if there was, he’d be damned if he was the first one to do it. “It seems like the whole contingent of Home Guard mobile armor is on the march from Laconia and General Delacorte doesn’t seem to be answering his phone. I think it’s probably time to take some precautions. Contact orbital defense and put them on notice. I want some assault shuttles on Combat Air Patrol for the palace.”
“Roger that, sir,” she said, as businesslike and professional as if he’d asked her to schedule an inspection of her troops. “Wait one.”
“Wait one,” he repeated, rolling his eyes at Anders. “Sure, no problem. Do me a favor, Donnel, go to the wall safe over behind the portrait of my wife…” He nodded toward the opposite wall of the office where a painting of Maggie from the year they were married hung as the centerpiece of a cluster of family portraits. “…and grab my sidearm and one for yourself, just in case.”
Anders looked a bit lost but did as he was told, carefully tilting the painting aside and finding the silvery metal safe inset in the wall behind it, a half a meter on each side, with a blank ID panel at its center. He motioned toward it, shaking his head.
“Is there a code?” he asked.
“Just use your palmprint Donnell. I had it coded in when you took the position.”
“Lord Guardian,” Glory Karras came back on the line, and he thought he detected a hint of strain in her stoic façade. “I am unable to contact the orbital defenses. My technicians tell me there’s extensive EM jamming across the whole city, but I had him try using laser line-of-sight with a relay satellite and there’s still been no reply. I have taken the liberty of recalling all pilots and I will be putting the Guardian’s Own into defensive positions around the palace.” She paused. He could see her face in his imagination, sturdy and matronly like one of his tutors as a child. “You should evacuate immediately. We’ll buy you what time we can.”
And there it was. The vocalization of the thought he’d kept trying to deny, the realization of a nightmare from twenty years ago.
“Here.” Anders pressed the cool metal and warm polymer of a gun into his hand, as if forcing him to confront the situation.
Jaimie didn’t have to look at it. He’d practiced so often with the weapon it might as well have been an extension of his arm.
“It’s a coup, Donnell,” he said, watching the approaching mecha in the display. They seemed so real, so solid he could reach out and touch them marching across his desk, tip them over with a finger. “By God, it’s a coup.”
“It’s more than that, sir,” Anders told him, slapping a control he did know about, one Jaimie had shown him personally the first day he’d taken the job. An alarm began to sound and a heavy, BiPhase Carbide shield as thick as the hull of a starship slid into place across the front of the office. He turned back to Jaimie, features firmed up with resolve despite the nightmare sheen of unreality that had fallen over them. “The Starkad maneuvers were designed to draw our ships away…and they must have known the officers we trusted the most would be on the fleets we sent out to guard against invasion.”
“This has been planned
for months,” Jaimie said, nodding with the realization. And with unwilling admiration. It wasn’t like Aaron Starkad to be so forethoughtful.
Anders pulled a plush throw rug away from the floor just in front of the desk and yanked upward on a fold-out ring set in the heart of pine. A trapdoor rose, revealing a ladder heading into darkness.
“We have to reach your shuttle, sir,” Anders told him, motioning for Jaimie to precede him down into the escape tunnel. “We can regroup off-planet, bring the fleets back with us.”
“The hell with my shuttle, Donnell,” Jaimie shot back. “Logan is walking right into this, and I can’t think that’s a coincidence. And Terrin is out at the research lab in the Bloodmarks.”
“General Constantine was scheduled to visit him today,” Anders said.
Jaimie began climbing down the ladder one-handed, his right filled with the welcome mass of the pistol.
“The hell with escaping,” he told Anders. “We’re going to save my sons.”
“Damn it!” Lt. Lambeti snapped over the headphones of Logan Conner’s helmet. “Hang on back there!”
The pilot’s warning came a fraction of a second before the blast. The explosion rocked the drop-ship and Logan clenched his teeth, fingers going white on the control yokes of his Sentinel, wracked by a feeling of utter futility. A nightmare unfolded before his eyes, played out on the display screens of his mech’s threat display, tied into the external cameras and sensors of the drop-ship.
Assault shuttles and dual-environment fighters swarmed through the afternoon sky like clouds of mosquitoes coming across the lake by their farmhouse in the summer, so many of them he thought he could have walked down from orbit on their backs. And yet fewer every second. Missile warheads filled the space between the aircraft with fiery globes of destruction and, where they struck home, debris rained down toward the surface of Sparta, only two kilometers below. Tracer rounds from shuttle-mounted Vulcans cross-hatched with the plasma flash of laser pulses and coil gun rounds ionizing the air in their wake, creating a pattern of light and death that it seemed nothing could penetrate.
