by David Weber
"The time is coming, brothers and sisters," he told them. "The time of fire, when the Lord shall call us to smite the ungodly in His name, and we must be strong to do His will. For the Armageddon is truly upon us, and we—" his eyes swept around the circle, glittering with an inner flame "—are the true Sword of God!"
Chapter Seven
The planet Marha, seventeen light-minutes from Bia and smaller than Mars, had never been much of a planet, and it had become less of one when the Fourth Imperium made it a weapons testing site. For two thousand years, until antimatter and gravitonic warheads made planetary tests superfluous, fission, fusion, and kinetic weapons had gouged and ripped its near-airless surface into a tortured waste whose features defied all logical prediction.
Which was precisely why the Imperial Marines loved Marha. It was a wonderful place to teach infantry the finer points of killing other people, and Generals Tsien and MacMahan were delighted to share it with Admiral Robbins' midshipmen. Naval officers might not face infantry combat often, but they couldn't always avoid it, either, and not knowing what they were doing was a good way to get people (especially their Marine-type people) killed.
At the moment, Admiral Robbins rode the command deck of the transport Tanngjost, sipping coffee, and her brown eyes gleamed as her scanners watched her third-year class deploy against the graduating class. That Sean was a sneaky devil, she thought proudly. He'd made an absolute ass of himself at his first parade, but he'd survived it, and he stood first in the Tactics curriculum by a clear five points. He was a bit audacious for her taste, but that wasn't too surprising, and his parents would have just loved this one.
Mid/3 MacIntyre hand-signaled a stop, and his company of raiders slumped in the knife-sharp shadow of the tortured ring wall. He slumped with them, panting hard, and tried to remember he was being brilliant. If he managed to pull this off, he might even find two or three people to agree with him; if he screwed up, everybody would be waiting to tell him what a jackass he'd been.
He glanced at Sandy, more worried than he cared to admit as he noted how wearily she sat. This was her company, and she'd loved the idea when he sketched it out, but her small size was working against her.
An enhanced person could move in powered-down combat armor, if its servos were unlocked. It wasn't easy (especially for someone Sandy's size), but the sheer grunt work could be worth it under the right circumstances. Unpowered armor had no energy signature, and it even hid any emissions from its wearer's implants, which meant his raiders were virtually invisible.
The only real threat was optical detection, and he'd noticed that while his peers gave lip service to the importance of optical systems, they relied on more sophisticated sensors. He'd started to mention that during the critique of the last field exercise, but then he'd remembered he would be leading this one . . . and that the Academy didn't give out prizes for losing.
He slithered up the ring wall, unhooked the passive scanner from his harness, poked it over the crest, and grinned at its display. Onishi and his staff were exactly where The Book said they ought to be, safely tucked away at the heart of the sensor net guarding their HQ site. But The Book hadn't envisioned having a company of raiders barely half a klick away, well inside the sensor perimeter which should have protected Onishi's tactical HQ and ready to decapitate his entire command structure before Tamman (who'd always wanted to be a Marine anyway, for some strange reason) led in the main force.
He slid back down beside Sandy and pressed his helmet to hers. The face behind her visor was sweat-streaked and weary, but her brown eyes were bright, and he grinned and slapped her armored shoulder.
"We got 'em, Sandy!" Their helmets conducted his voice to her without the betraying pulse of a fold-space com. "Get the troops saddled up."
She nodded and began waving hand signals, and her support squad set up with gratifying speed, even without their armor's "muscles." He left them to it and reclimbed the slope to double-check the target coordinates. A standard saturation pattern would work just fine, he thought gleefully.
He glanced up. Sandy's heavy weapons types were set, and her other people were creeping up beside him, "energy guns" ready. It was just like laser tag, he thought, prepping his implants to activate his armor. And then he energized his com for the first time in almost six hours.
"Now!" he snapped.
Mid/4 Onishi Shidehara frowned as he stepped out of his HQ van to stretch. Crown Prince or no, MacIntyre was a hot dog, and the cautious sparring being reported by the outposts wasn't like him. It was only skirmishing, and along the most logical line of advance, at that. Mid/4 Onishi expected to kick His Imperial Highness's ass most satisfyingly, but so far he'd seen barely ten percent of the opposition, which suggested MacIntyre meant to try something fancy. For Onishi's money all that razzle-dazzle might look good to the instructors, but only MacIntyre's luck had let him get away with it so long. This time he was going to have to do things the hard way, and—
Something kicked dust in front of him. In fact, dozens of somethings were falling all over his position! He just had time to feel alarm before they erupted in the brilliant flashes of "nukes" and "warp grenades," and he went down in an astonished cloud of dust as the flash-bangs' override pulses locked his armor and blanked out his com implant to simulate a casualty.
He whipped his head around, trapped in his inert armor, and saw his entire HQ staff falling about him. A second wave of flash-bangs deluged his position, catching most of the handful who'd escaped the first, and then a horde of armored figures came down off the ring wall shooting.
It was over in less than thirty seconds, and Mid/4 Onishi gritted his teeth as one armored figure loped over to squat beside him with a toothy grin.
"Zap!" Sean MacIntyre said insufferably.
It had taken Horus months to learn to smile again after Isis' death, but today his grin was enormous as he entered Lawrence Jefferson's office.
"What's so funny?" the Lieutenant Governor asked.
"I just got back from Birhat," Horus said, still grinning, "and you should've heard Colin and 'Tanni describing Dahak's latest brainstorm!"
"Oh?" Unlike most people, Jefferson preferred an old-fashioned swivel chair, and it creaked as he leaned back. "What 'brainstorm'?"
"Oh, it was a beaut! You know how protective he is of the kids?" Jefferson nodded; Dahak's devotion to the imperial family was legendary. "Well, their middy cruise's coming up in a few months, and he had the brilliant idea that they should make it aboard him." The old man laughed, and Jefferson frowned.
"Why not? They couldn't possibly be in safer hands, after all!"
"That was his point," Horus agreed, "but Colin and 'Tanni won't hear of it, and I don't blame them." Jefferson still looked puzzled, and Horus shook his head and hitched a hip onto the Lieutenant Governor's desk.
"Look, Dahak's the flagship of the Imperial Guard, right? Not even a unit of Battle Fleet at all."
Jefferson nodded again. Colin MacIntyre had lost ninety-four percent of the Fourth Empire's resurrected Imperial Guard Flotilla in the Zeta Trianguli Campaign. Only five ships remained, and repairing them had taken years, but they were back in service now. They were also fundamentally different from the rest of the Fifth Imperium's planetoids, for their computers lacked the Alpha imperatives which compelled the rest of Battle Fleet to obey Mother, not the Emperor directly. Herdan the Great, the Fourth Empire's founder, had set Battle Fleet up that way as an intentional safeguard, since Mother wouldn't obey an emperor who'd been constitutionally removed by the Assembly of Nobles or whose actions violated the Great Charter stored in her memory. That neatly cut the legs out from under a monarch with tyranny on his mind, but the Guard was the Emperor's personal command, and its units weren't hardwired to obey Mother.
"All right," Horus continued, "every midshipman makes his senior-year cruise aboard a unit of Battle Fleet, so how would it look if Colin sends his kids out in Dahak? Bad enough that their fellows might resent it, but what kind of messag
e does it send the twins? Besides, Dahak dotes on them; he'd find it mighty hard to treat them like any other snotties!"
"I suppose that's true." Jefferson swung his chair gently from side to side and grinned. "One doesn't tend to think of emperors and empresses as harassed parents. But if they're not using Dahak, what are they doing?"
"Well, Colin was all for letting the assignments be made randomly, but Dahak can be a bit mulish." Horus's eyes twinkled, and Jefferson laughed. He'd been present on one occasion when the computer had been moved to intransigence, and the Emperor's expression had been priceless.
"Anyway, they argued about it for a while and finally reached a compromise. Imperial Terra's almost ready to commission—they're working up her final programming now—and Dahak 'suggested' using her. She'll be the newest and most powerful ship in Battle Fleet, and Dahak's personally vetted every detail of her design. Nothing's going to happen to them aboard her."
"It is a bit hard to conceive of anything threatening her," Jefferson mused. "In fact, I think that's a very good idea. With all due respect to Their Majesties, we shouldn't run risks with the succession."
"That's how Dahak brought them around in the end, and just between you and me, I'm glad he did," Horus agreed, and Jefferson nodded slowly.
"Here." Father Al-Hana took the data chips from his bishop and crooked his heavy eyebrows. "We've only got about two weeks to set this one up," Francine Hilgemann continued, "but don't take any chances."
"I see." Al-Hana slipped the chips into his pocket and wondered what they said. "Which group should I route them to?"
"Um." Hilgemann frowned down at her desk, playing with her pectoral cross as she considered. "Which is closest to Seattle?"
"That would be Stevens' group, I believe."
"Oh?" Hilgemann's smile wasn't pleasant. "That's nice. They've been spoiling for a mission. Are they ready for one?"
"I'd say so. The training cadre reports very favorably on them. And, as you say, they're eager. Shall I activate them?"
"Yes, they'll do nicely. But if this one goes sour the consequences are going to be fairly dire, so make sure of your cutouts. Use someone else if there's any way they could be traced back to us."
"Of course," Al-Hana said, and tried almost successfully to hide his surprise. Whatever was on the chips, it was important.
Vincente Cruz parked his rented flyer outside the cabin and inhaled deeply as he popped the hatch. Imperial technology had long since healed the worst scars from the Achuultani bombardment of Earth. Even the temperature was coming back to normal, and the terrible rains following the Siege had produced one beneficial side effect by washing centuries of accumulated pollution out of the atmosphere. The mountain air was crystal clear, and while he knew many of his fellow Bureau of Ships programmers thought he was crazy to spend his vacations on Earth instead of the virgin surface of Birhat, he and Elena had always loved the Cascade Mountains.
He climbed out to unload the groceries, then paused with a frown, wondering why the kids weren't already here to help carry them in.
"Luis! Consuela!"
There was no response, and he shrugged. Luis had been in raptures over the fishing. No doubt he'd finally talked Consuela into trying it, and Elena had taken the baby and gone along to keep an eye on them.
He gathered up a double armload of groceries—no particular problem to a fully-enhanced set of arms—and climbed the steps to the porch. It was a bit awkward to work the door open, but he managed, and stepped through it, pushing it shut behind him with a toe. He started for the kitchen, then froze.
A man and a woman sat in front of the fireplace, and their faces were concealed by ski masks. He was still staring at them when he grunted in anguish and crashed to the floor. Cascading milk cartons burst like bombs, drenching him, but he hardly noticed. Only one thing could have produced his sudden paralysis: someone had just shot him from behind with a capture field!
He tried desperately to fight, but the police device had locked every implant in his body—even his com had been knocked out. He could neither move nor call for help, and panic filled him. His family! Where was his family?
The man from the fireplace rose and turned him onto his back with a toe, and Vincente stared up into the masked face, too consumed by terror for his family to feel any fear for himself even as the man knelt and pressed the muzzle of an old-fashioned Terran automatic into the base of his throat.
"Good afternoon, Mister Cruz." The high-pitched voice was unpleasant, but menace made its timbre utterly unimportant. "We have a job for you."
"W-who are you?" Just getting out those few words against the capture field took all Vincente's strength. "Where are my—"
"Be quiet!" The voice was a whiplash. The pistol muzzle pressed harder, and Vincente swallowed, more frightened for his family than ever.
"That's better," the intruder said. "Your wife and children will be our guests, Mister Cruz, until you do exactly as we tell you."
Vincente licked his lips. "What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.
"You're a senior programmer for Imperial Terra," his captor said, and even through his fear Vincente was stunned. His job was so classified even Elena didn't know precisely what he did! How could these people—?
"Don't bother to deny it, Mister Cruz," the masked man continued. "We know all about you, and what you're going to do is add this—" he waved a data chip before Vincente's eyes "—to the ship's core programs."
"I-I can't! It's impossible! There's too much security!"
"You have access, and you're bright enough to find a way. If you don't—" The man's shrug was a dagger in Vincente's heart. He stared into the eyes in the mask slits, and their coldness washed away all hope. This man would kill him as easily as he might a cockroach . . . and he had Vincente's family.
"That's better." The masked man dropped the chip on his chest and straightened. "We have no desire to hurt women and children, but we're doing the Lord's work, and you've just become His instrument. Make no mistake; if you fail to do exactly as you're told, we will kill them. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," Vincente whispered.
"Good. And remember this: we knew where to find you, we know what you do, and we even know what ship you're working on. Think about that, because it also means we'll know if you're stupid enough to tell anyone about this."
The masked man stepped back, joined by his female companion and a tall, broad-shouldered man with the capture gun. They backed to the door, and he lay helpless, watching them go.
"Just do as you're told, Mister Cruz, and your family will be returned safe and sound. Disobey, and you'll never even know where they're buried."
The leader nodded to his henchman, and Vincente screamed as the capture field suddenly soared to maximum and hammered him into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
Senior Fleet Captain Algys McNeal sat on his command deck and watched his bridge officers with one eye and the hologram beside him with the other. Physically, Admiral Hatcher was several hundred thousand kilometers away, but fold-space coms let them maintain their conversation without interruptions. Not that Captain McNeal felt overly grateful. Commanding Battle Fleet's most powerful warship on her maiden cruise was quite enough to worry about; having both heirs to the Crown aboard made it worse, and he did not need the CNO sitting here flapping his jaws while Imperial Terra prepared to get under way!
" . . . then take a good look around Thegran," Hatcher was saying.
"Yes, Sir," McNeal replied while he watched Midshipman His Imperial Highness Sean MacIntyre running final checks at Astrogation. The Prince had obviously hoped for assignment to Battle Comp, but he was already a competent tactician. He'd learn far more as an assistant astrogator, and so far, McNeal was cautiously pleased with Midshipman MacIntyre's cheerfulness in the face of his disappointment.
"And bring back some green cheese from Triam IV," Hatcher continued.
"Yes, Sir," McNeal said automatically, then twitched and jerked both
eyes to his superior's face. Hatcher grinned, and McNeal returned it wryly.
"Sorry, Sir. I guess I was a bit distracted."
"Don't apologize, Algys. I should know better than to crowd you at a time like this." The admiral shrugged. "Guess I'm a bit excited about your new ship, too. And frustrated at being stuck here in Bia."
"I understand, Sir. And you're not really crowding me."
"The hell I'm not!" Hatcher snorted. "Good luck, Captain."
"Thank you, Sir." McNeal tried to hide his relief, but Hatcher's eyes twinkled as he flipped a casual salute. Then he vanished, and McNeal's astrogator roused from her neural feeds to look up at him.
"Ship ready to proceed, Sir," she said crisply.
"Very good, Commander. Take us out of here."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Commander Yu replied.
Birhat's emerald and sapphire gem began to shrink in the display as they headed out at a conservative thirty percent of light-speed, and Imperial Terra's officers were too busy to note a brief fold-space transmission. It came from the planetoid Dahak, and it wasn't addressed to any of them, anyway. Instead it whispered to Terra's central computer for just an instant, then terminated as unobtrusively as it had begun.
"Well, they're off," Hatcher's hologram told Colin. "They'll drop off a dozen passage crews at Urahan, then move out to probe the Thegran System."
Colin nodded but said nothing, for he was concentrating on the neural feed he'd plugged into Mother's scanners. Imperial Terra had to be at least twelve light-minutes from Bia to enter hyper, and he sat silent for the full ten minutes she took to reach the hyper threshold. Then she blinked out, with no more fuss than a soap bubble, and he sighed.
"Damn, Gerald. I wish I was going with them."
"They'll be fine. And they've got to try their wings sometime."
