"Shadowline - Starfishers Triology - Book 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Glen)Book Three#8212;GALLOWSFifty-Two: 3052 AD Never be amazed by me. My teachers were classics. Strategy and Tactics: Professor Colonel Thaddeus Immanuel Walters. Command and Administration: Professor Colonel Gneaus Julius Storm. Hatred, Vengeance, and Puppet-Mastery: Professor Sangaree Head Norbon w'Deeth. Cute Tricks, Cunning, Duplicity, and Artful Self-Justification: Professor Entrepreneur, Adventurer, and Financier Michael Dee. Between them they provided me a very solid background. Cuss the Admiral if you want. The most he did was give me an opportunity to do post-graduate work. I was a stinker when he recruited me. #8212;Masato Igarashi Storm Fifty-Three: 3032 AD Mouse crouched over his father for a long time, holding Storm's hand, fighting back tears. Someone came and rested gentle fingers on his shoulder. He looked up. Pollyanna had come over, using a laserifle as a crutch. "He's dead," Mouse said. Disbelief distorted his face. "My father is dead." "They're all dead. Everybody's dead but us." Her voice was as dull as his. He rose slowly, mumbling, "Everybody. Helmut and Thurston. And Lucifer. And everybody." The magnitude of it slowly sank in. His father and two brothers. His father's friend. And all the people and family who had died already... "I'll kill them," he whispered Then, screaming, "All of them!" He started smashing consoles with his rifle. But it was a delicate weapon. Soon he held nothing but a shard. "We've got things to do, Mouse," Pollyanna reminded, indicating the corpses and wreckage. Her voice held no real interest. She was in such a state that getting on with the job was the only glue holding her together. "I suppose." The dull voice again. "Will you be all right while I hunt up some of our people?" "Who's left to hurt me?" Mouse shrugged. "Yes. Who's left?" He went hunting Legionnaires, using business like a sword with which he could fend off the madness clawing at his mind "All of them," he kept muttering. "Someday. Every Dee. Every Sangaree." Withdrawing from Twilight took a day. Too many people, including Hawksblood and the brothers Dee, could not make it to the Time to leave arrived. And a new problem raised its Scylla-like head. "Polly," Mouse said, "I don't know if we're going to make it back " "What? Why not?" "I'm the only pilot left, and I'm not rated on anything like the "Call for somebody to come up here." "Can't waste time waiting for somebody to come overland. I'll just give it my best go myself." "Don't be stupid." "It can't be that much harder than piloting Cassius's corvette. I managed that fine." "With him there to help if you got in any trouble." "Yeah." He truly believed he could handle the cruiser. And he was determined to try. "Strap in, lady." "Mouse... " "Then get out and walk." She grinned. "You're as stubborn as your father." He grinned back. "I'm his son." His liftoff was a little rocky. "Gah!" Pollyanna grunted, nearly throwing up. "We're off!" "That was the part that had me worried. Anybody can come down. It's just how fast you're going when you get there... " "A man does what he has to," Mouse told her. For a few hours the pain and hatred did not touch him. The cruiser demanded all his sweat and guts and concentration. He managed to get the Getting down required some careful maneuvering. A bank of ships had arrived during their absence. They were the battered bones of the Legion's once-powerful little fleet. They had brought Hakes Ceislak in from Helga's World. They were still off-loading the commando battalion. Mouse had not informed anyone that he was returning, but the word was out by the time he entered Edgeward. Blake was waiting for him. "Where's Colonel Storm?" Blake asked. His face was drawn. He feared the worst. "My father was killed in action against Sangaree... " Mouse stopped to look inside himself. Somehow, for the outside world, he was removing himself from his feelings. He was reporting it as if it had happened to a stranger. "And Albin Korando?" "Killed in action, Mr. Blake. I'm sorry." "No. That's terrible. I'd hoped... What about Colonel Darksword?" "Dead, sir. If you don't see someone with me, he's dead. The cruiser is full of bodies. It was rough up there." "Your brother Thurston, too?" Mouse nodded. "Who's going to take charge? Colonel Walters is cut off in the Shadowline... " "I speak for the Legion, Mr. Blake. We have a new commander. Nothing else changes. If you'll excuse me?" Blake struggled to roll along with Mouse. "What happened?" There was an almost whining, pleading note in his voice. The Shadowline War was tearing him to pieces. For a moment Mouse could sense the man's feelings. Blake was thinking, Mouse shut everything out. He strode toward City Hall, unconsciously imitating the walk of Gneaus Julius Storm. Knifing through his pain was a driving need to demonstrate his competence, to show everyone that he could step into his father's role. Heads turned when he entered the war room. He checked the boards. Dee now held the Whitlandsund. Cassius's marker had reached the shade station. The unit markers were dense there. Only a handful lay more than five hundred kilometers west of the station. Those were all small units meant to aid the Twilighters in their withdrawal from the Shadowline's end. The situation was in balance, in tension. Cassius was ready to jump off. It was discussion time. "Get Colonel Walters on the scrambled clear trunk," Mouse ordered. The man responsible, who seemed on the edge of exhaustion, gave him a brief who-in-the-hell-are-you? look before turning to his equipment. Cassius came on quickly. "Masato, Colonel." "Mouse. How are you?" Then Walters got a better look at his face. "What happened?" "Father's dead. And Helmut. And Thurston and Lucifer. Both younger Dees. And Richard Hawksblood. They murdered him and his staff." Cassius frowned. "All beyond-the-resurrection." Cassius's features grew taut, grim. "Cassius, we're the only ones left." "It's ending, then. But first there's Michael Dee. And his Sangaree." "Dee is trapped. We cleaned out Twilight. He can't go back." "He doesn't know? Don't let him find out." "Ceislak's here now. I'm taking over at this end. I can squeeze him... " "Keep Ceislak at Edgeward. Protect the city. Don't let Dee hold it hostage. And get your ships off the ground. Don't give Dee any way out. Make him stand and fight. But let me take care of that part. I'll make the wasting of the Legion useful." Mouse had never seen Cassius's face so expressive. His grief and hatred were primal. "As you wish. I'll make my dispositions right away." "Did your father... say anything?" "Not much. He did it on purpose, Cassius. To give me a chance to get the Dees from behind. He left a letter. He wrote it before he went up. I haven't had a chance to read it yet. I have a feeling he knew he wasn't coming back." "Let me know what he had to say. Soon. We'll be jumping off in a few hours." "Right." Blake, with his wife's help, arrived. The head of the Corporation seemed to have shrunk into a tiny old cripple. Before he could begin condolences that would only aggravate, despite their sincerity. Mouse told him, "It'll be over soon, Mr. Blake. We'll start clearing the Whitlandsund in a few hours. I'll be holding Ceislak's battalion in reserve in case Dee turns on Edgeward." Blake started to say something. Grace touched his hand lightly. "Pollyanna's in the hospital, Mr. Blake. I expect she'd appreciate a friendly face. I think her heart has been hurt worse than her body. She lost Lucifer and Korando both, and she was very fond of my father." He turned away from Blake. "Ceislak. I want a screen of pickets around the crater. I want all the listening devices out there doublechecked. If Dee turns on us, we'll need all the warning we can get. Donnerman. Where's Donnerman? Donnerman, I want your ships off planet as soon as possible. Gentlemen, I'll be in my father's apartment if I'm needed." He pushed out of the war room and went to Storm's quarters. Geri and Freki whined pathetically. They rushed into the hall, ran back and forth anxiously, searching for their master. Finally, they turned on him with sorrowful eyes. "He won't be coming back," Mouse whispered. "I'm sorry." They seemed to understand. The whining grew louder. One let out what sounded like a low moan. Mouse looked at the ravenshrikes. They had retreated into their little nest, into a tight, intertwined tangle from which they refused to be drawn. They knew. He tried coaxing them with canned meat from the store of delicacies his father had kept. They would not open their devil eyes. He sighed, looked for the letter. It lay on his father's desk, page after page of hasty scrawl beneath a plain sheet bearing nothing but the name Masato. Storm's Bible and clarinet weighted them down. The Bible lay open at Ecclesiastes, the clarinet book-marking. "I should've guessed when he didn't take them with him," he whispered. The letter, though addressed to him, sounded like an ecclesiastical missive from Gneaus Storm. It began: "Today I hazard the Plain of Armageddon, the blood-drenched field of Ragnarok, to play my part in a destined Gotterdamerung... " Mouse read it three times before he returned to the war room, the Sirian warhounds tagging his heels apathetically. Their tails were between their legs and their noses were down, and they made strange snuffling sounds in their throats, but they stayed with him. A whisper ran around the room. Technicians turned to watch his entrance. The Legionnaires took the behavior of the dogs as somehow symbolic, as a seal on the transfer of the mantle of power. "Cassius," Mouse said, "he knew he was going to die. He planned it. So there wouldn't be any reason for the rest of us to coddle Michael Dee anymore. It was the only way he could keep from breaking his word." Cassius's laugh was both harsh and sad. "He always found a way to slide around that promise. Too bad he couldn't find it in him to go back on it." Walters's mad humor faded. "Don't let Michael find out. That's got to be our most important secret." Walters's face became dreadful, something inhuman, something demigodly. Something archetypal. "It's time to jump off. Take care, Mouse." He switched off before Mouse could question him as to his intentions. At times one or another of the technicians would glance his way and shudder. A slim, oriental youth of small stature filled the Colonel's chair, yet... Yet there was an aura about him, as if a ghost sat in the chair with him. The body of Gneaus Julius Storm had perished, but the spirit lived on in his youngest son. Fifty-Four: 3032 AD The man called Cassius, through holonet exposure in Michael Dee's merc war documentaries, was more widely known than Confederation's Premier. Yet he was a figure of mystery, an unknown even to his intimates. What made him tick? What made him laugh or cry? No one really knew. He surveyed the Legion. He considered his public image, and reflected that he probably knew Cassius less well than did all those billions who watched the holocasts. They had an image of Thaddeus Immanuel Walters, and the tape editors maintained its consistency. But the Walters self-image rambled around centuries, and he had not had time to discover who and what he was. The massed crawlers showed up well on infrared. There were thirty-five of them, in two long lines, idling, awaiting his commands. The longer line of twenty-five, led by eight captured battle crawlers, would run for the Whitlandsund. They would do so without benefit of shade, which would warn Dee that they were coming. The remaining ten units would follow Cassius himself. "Charlemagne, Charlemagne, this is White Knight. Acknowledge go. Out." "Charlemagne, out." The larger force began rolling. Cassius's group consisted of six long-range charters, three pumpers, and his own command combat crawler. The charters, carrying minimum crews, were expendable. They would find the way. The four big rigs were crammed with men and equipment. Cassius shifted comm nets. "Babylon, Babylon, this is Starfire. Signals follow. Stray Dog One, go. Stray Dog One, go. Over." A charter rumbled into sunlight. The formations Cassius used crossing uncharted territory, once he entered it a few hours north-northeast of the Shadowline, he adapted from those of ancient surface navies. The charters ran in a broad screen ahead of the four important crawlers, ready to relay warning of any danger. They ran far faster than was customary for explorers. The run Cassius was making was dangerously long. If the crawlers escaped sunlight at all, it would be with screens severely weakened. He kept the crawlers rolling, knowing his chances were grim. Maximum computation capacity and power in each vehicle was devoted to keeping in touch with Walters. He wanted to know what was happening every instant, hoping he could keep up speed and still not lose two crawlers to the same trap. Like a spider in hiding, waiting for something to disturb her web, he sat amid his comm gear, listening. Hour upon hour passed. He said not a word. His crewmen began checking to see if he was all right. He could do nothing but endure the pain, the care, the fear. He tried to banish the ghosts that came to haunt him, and could not. He discovered that he had acquired a new squad. His wife and daughter. The Fortress of Iron. Gneaus, Wulf. Helmut. Big, dull Thurston, who may have been the only happy man in the Legion. Richard Hawksblood, the ancient enemy, with whom he had felt a bond of spirit. He had not seen Hawksblood in so long he could not remember the man's face. Homer. Benjamin. Lucifer. The younger Dees, long might they burn in torment. Doskal Mennike, who had been his prot#233;g#233; at Academy. Someday he would have to explain to Mennike's father. What could he tell the old man? Only that, one and all, they had been played for pawns and fools by Sangaree. It was not an admission that would come easily. A long-ago ghost came. Tamara Walters, a favorite niece whose ship had vanished without trace during the Ulantonid War. Why was he remembering that far back? Hadn't he made his peace with the elder terrors? Were all his losses, injuries, and sins going to return and parade? "Starfire, Starfire, this is Stray Dog Four. I've hit heat erosion. Can't back free." The voice was tight and rigid. The man talking knew there would be no rescue attempt. There was not enough time. To try would seal the fate of everyone else. But he had accepted the risks when he had volunteered. "My instruments show a streak running zero five seven relative, eighty meters wide at least six meters deep. Good luck, Starfire. Stray Dog Four, out." Cassius did not respond to the signal, merely passed the warning to the other crawlers, each of which slowed to skirt the danger. What could he say to a man he was leaving to die? He could do nothing but add a face and name to the list of men he had, through his own doing, outlived. The media and his colleagues called him the ultimate commander. None but he realized that the ultimate commander was a pose, an image behind which Thaddeus Immanuel Walters concealed himself. Sometimes he managed to delude himself with the illusion. Life, it would seem on remote observation, was something Cassius held no more holy than did the universe itself. Yet, like certain forgotten gods, he noted the fall of every sparrow, and put himself through silent, private purgatories for each. And still he went on, from battle to battle, without thought of becoming anything but what he was. Like Gneaus Storm, like so many mercenaries, he was a fatalist, moved by convictions of personal predestination. Unlike Storm, he did not fight and mock Fate, merely accepted it and sailed dispiritedly toward his final encounter with it. At least a touch of solipsist madness was a must at every level of the freecorps. Once past the heat erosion he redistributed his screen to fill the gap left by the lost crawler. He lost another charter before he reached the Thunder Mountains three hundred kilometers north of the Whitlandsund, and yet another, through screen failure, while searching for a shadowed valley where the unit could hide from the demon sun. The crucial four heavy crawlers remained unharmed. As soon as the charters had cooled down and loaded some gas snow, he sent them out again. Somewhere up here, according to the surveys done before the orbitals burned out, there was a possibility of slipping over the Edge of the World. A way to sweep around and beat Michael's game of Thermopylae. The pass had shown as a small, dark trace on a few photo printouts... It was a long shot. The darkness might not be a pass at all... While he waited on the charters Cassius played with the command nets, hoping to intercept something from the war zone. He got nothing but static, which was all he really expected in that cove of darkness on the shores of the sea of fire. He thought Brightside was what the old Christians had had in mind for Hell. With the Legion here Blackworld certainly was a planet of the damned. The charters returned two days later. They had found the way across the mountains, but did not know if the larger units could manage it. "We'll give it a try," Cassius said. He had spent too much time with his thoughts and away from his command. He had to be moving, to be involved, soon, or he would go mad reliving his losses. The pass was a tight, tortuous canyon, and the going was slow, but there were few real problems till they had crossed the Edge of the World. Then, after they had passed the limit of the original survey, they encountered a crack in the mountain which crossed and blocked the way. The crevasse threatened Cassius's entire scheme. He refused to turn back. "We're going over these mountains here," he growled, "or we'll die here. One or the other. Let's find out how deep the son-of-a-bitch is." His driver idled down. Cassius clambered out his escape hatch, approached the obstacle. The lead crawler had put lights on it, but they did nothing to illuminate its depths. He stared down into darkness. After a minute he fired his lasegun downward. The flash revealed a bottom much nearer than he expected. He returned to his crawler. "Stray Dog One, this is Starfire. Maneuver your unit around parallel to the crevasse. Over." It took two hours for the charter to wriggle into a position that suited him. "Stray Dog One, abandon your unit. Stray Dog Three, Stray Dog Six, push it over. Over." The two surviving charters groaned and strained. The vibration of their effort shook the stone of the Thunder Mountains, made the big crawlers shudder. Their engines growled and whined, their tracks ripped at the earth. They injured themselves badly, but managed to topple the crawler into the crevasse. Cassius offloaded his troops and had them gather loose rock. They dumped the detritus around the fallen charter. Hours crept away. The bridge grew, became level. Cassius sent a charter over to test and tamp, then an empty pumper. The fill held both times. One by one, the remaining units rolled. That crevasse was the last serious obstacle. Abandoning the surviving charters because they could no longer keep pace, Cassius swung the big units onto the route between Twilight and Edgeward. He sped southward, maintaining radio silence. Near Edgeward he swung west, toward Michael Dee and the Whitlandsund. His troops were exhausted. They had been cramped in their crawlers for days, racked by tension, constantly haunted by the fear that the next minute would be the one when a track went into heat erosion, or the mountain slid away beneath them. Even so, Cassius offloaded them at the eastern mouth of the Whitlandsund and sent them in. They made contact quickly. Walters broke radio silence at last. "Andiron, Andiron, this is Wormdoom, do you read, over." Mouse came on net only minutes later. "Wormdoom, this is Andiron. Shift to the scrambled trunk, over." Cassius shifted. Mouse squeaked, "Cassius, where the hell are you? We've been trying to get ahold of you for six days." "I'm right outside your door, Mouse. Moving into the Whitlandsund. I need Ceislak's men." "You're on this side of the Edge of the World?" "That's right. How soon can you get those men here?" "How did you manage that?" "Never mind. I did it. Send me those men. We can talk after we finish Dee." "All right. They're on their way. I don't know how you did it... " Cassius cut him off, turned to listen to the tactical nets once more. He had been listening in since returning to Darkside, trying to assess the situation back in the Shadowline. It did not look good for those he had left behind. Fifty-Five: 3032 AD It was a very grim, very sour Masato Storm who watched the big board in the war room. It looked terrible. Someone moved a chair into place beside him. He glanced up at at a commtech. He was holding the chair for Pollyanna. Mouse smiled weakly. "How are you? Any better?" "Ready for anything. Except I limp a little. They say it'll go away. How is it going?" "Not good. I haven't heard from Cassius for days. I'm scared for him. And up there... " He indicated the board showing the Whitlandsund. "We made some gains when the first wave came over, but it's slowed down. Way down. We're still pushing them back, but not fast enough." "But you outnumber them." "We've lost too many tractors. We can't bring our people over fast enough. It looks like we've only got two chances. Either Cassius turns up or my uncle runs out of ammunition." "Sir!" one of the commtechs yelled. "Sir, I've got Colonel Walters on Tac One." "Put him on over here. Pollyanna, you're a good-luck charm. Maybe I'll strap you into that chair." She smiled wanly. "I wasn't too lucky for Frog. Or Lucifer. Or... " "Can it." Cassius's grim face came on screen. They argued back and forth about Ceislak's battalion, and Mouse tried to discover how Walters had gotten to Darkside. Cassius broke off. "He's in a foul mood, isn't he?" Pollyanna asked. "That he is. And he can be just as nasty as he wants as long as he does his job. I feel a thousand percent better now." "Sir," commtech said a few minutes later, "I have Colonel Walters again." "Put him over here." "Mouse?" Cassius said, "Sorry about snapping. It's the nerves, I guess. It's grim out here. As your father would put it, the Oriflamme is up." Pollyanna frowned a question. Mouse whispered, "No quarter given or asked." Cassius continued, "We're in a bad spot. Nobody can back down. It's all or nothing, and the losers die the death-without-resurrection." "I understand, Cassius. We're all under pressure." "Your uncle has got what he wanted. His battle to the death." A nasty smile crossed Walters's mouth. "I don't think the fool counted on being part of it, though." "No. One thing. He doesn't know about Father yet. I want to save that as a special surprise. Let him count on that last-minute protection till it's too late." "But of course! That's why I wanted to keep it quiet." "The Legion never fought this bitterly," Mouse said. "Never before. We've got an emotional stake in this one, Mouse." Had it not been for the topographical advantages, Michael's crew would have been obliterated long since. Dee's men were good fighters, but they were not soldiers, not in the sense that the Legionnaires were. They were unaccustomed to extensive teamwork and the complexities of large, enduring operations. Though largely of human origin, they were tainted with the Sangaree raid-and-run philosophy. "Michael's people aren't doing bad." "They're cornered. I've got to get back to it. I just wanted to say sorry for growling." "It's all right." Cassius's battalions shoved Dee deeper and deeper into the Whitlandsund. The lines facing Edgeward had been thin and unprepared for a heavy stroke. The hours cranked along. Mouse sat that chair till his behind began to ache. Pollyanna remained beside him, partly because she was interested in events, partly because she sensed his need for a bridge to the Mouse that used to be. Dee's resistance stiffened. "He's figured it out," Mouse said. "He's shifting men now." Cassius kept the pressure on. At the far end of the pass Legionnaires from the Shadowline began to make headway against defenses weakened by the removal of men shifted to halt Cassius. Pollyanna touched his hand lightly. "You think we're going to do it?" "Uhm? What?" "Win." "I don't know. Yet. I think the odds are shifting." He caught fragments of tactical chatter. Cassius was moving Ceislak's commando battalion into position. Hours dragged on. Finally, Pollyanna whispered, "You've got to rest before you collapse." "But... " "Your being here or not won't change anything, Mouse. They can tell you if they need you." "You're right. I won't be any good to anybody if I pass out from exhaustion. I'll stagger over to the apartment... " Pollyanna went with him. When he returned to the war room he carried a ravenshrike on his shoulder. The commtechs' eyes widened. A secret understanding seemed to pass among them. Mouse surveyed the boards as the warhounds began their fruitless search for enemies. He sensed the change in the men. They had accepted the shift in power. It was not a matter of humoring the Old Man's kid anymore. He had become the Old Man. The boards did not look good. Things had gone static. "Sir," one of the commtechs said, "Colonel Walters would like to speak with you at your convenience." "Okay. Get hold of him." Cassius was on the scrambled trunk in minutes. "Coming up with a few problems, Mouse. We've pushed them from both sides till we've got them surrounded in a big crater. They've dug in on the outside of the ringwalls, where they can fire down into the pass. They've pulled back into a small enough circle so that they can run men from one place to another faster than I can make surprise attacks. I was going to cut them up one place at a time. Slice off a little group and take them prisoner. They've managed to keep me from doing it. Looks like it could turn into an old-fashioned siege." "There're thirty thousand people in the Shadowline who don't have time for that, Cassius. They're running out of air." "I've heard the reports." The breathables situation was becoming dangerous. Food and water were good for weeks yet, with rationing, but there was no way to cut back on a fighting man's air. Recycling was never completely efficient, and lately the equipment had begun to deteriorate. Mouse said, "I got the medical people started putting the wounded into cryo storage yesterday. We can resurrect them when we open the pass. They suggested we do the same to Meacham's people." "They have the cryo storage facilities?" "No. Not enough." "I may start using some of Hawksblood's people. If I can get them over to this side." "Why?" "Sometimes you run out of ways to finesse. Then the only thing left is the hammer. Hit hard, with everything you got, and grit your teeth about the casualties." "Your munitions picture don't look good for something like that." "That doesn't bother me as much as the air situation. It looks like Michael will run dry first. His fire patterns show he's trying to conserve ammunition." "That's a plus." "I don't know. What I'm afraid of is having to offer terms so we can save the people across the way. I think that's what he's doing now. Trying to hold on till we're ready to trade his outfit for ours." Mouse glanced at a depressing visual from Blake's shade station. The station was surrounded by a tide of emergency domes occupied by men waiting to be evacuated or sent into action. The encampment grew steadily as Hawksblood's men and Twilight's miners filtered in. Dee could lose his war and still win a Pyrrhic victory. Mouse looked over at charts listing the various crawlers and their status. "Cassius, we're going to be in trouble no matter what. We don't have enough crawlers to get everybody out." "So don't be proud. Ask your neighbors for help. Have Blake call the City of Night and Darkside Landing and beg for help if he has to." "We've tried once. They say they won't risk their equipment if there's fighting going on." "Keep trying, boy. I'm looking it over here. I'm going to try one more big push, then see what Michael is willing to dicker about." "Don't deal. Not unless there's no choice." "Of course not. I saw the trap that got your father into." Mouse summoned one of the techs. "See if you can find Mr. Blake. Ask him to come down." Blake joined him a half-hour later. Pollyanna accompanied him. "Mr. Blake, could you try Darkside Landing and City of Night again? You can tell them the fighting will be over before they can get their equipment here." The worn wreck of a man in the wheelchair showed a sudden interest in life. "Really? You've finally got them?" "Not exactly. We're going to try one more push, then negotiate if it fails." Blake protested. Boiling anger resurrected the man who had ruled the Corporation till the impact of the Shadowline War had driven him into hiding. "My feelings exactly," Mouse agreed. "I don't want any of them getting away. But we may have no choice. It could be negotiate or let the men in the Shadowline die." "Damn! All this slaughter for nothing." "Almost. We could console ourselves with the thought that my uncle isn't getting what he wants, either. In a way, even if he negotiates his way out of the Whitelandsund, he'll have lost more than we have. He'll be on the run for the rest of his life. He used nuclears. He served the Sangaree. Navy won't forgive that. They'll confiscate his property... " Pollyanna had been rubbing Mouse's shoulders. Now her fingers tightened in a surprisingly strong grip. "You negotiate if you want. You make a deal for the Legion. You make a deal for Blake and Edgeward. But don't count me in, Mouse. Don't make any deal for me. August Plainfield got away once. He won't again." Mouse leaned back, looked up. Her face betrayed pure hatred. "You been drinking snake venom again?" She squeezed so hard his shoulders ached. "Yes. I drink a liter with every meal." "Wait." Mouse indicated the boards. Cassius was starting his attack. "Sir, he's sending in everybody this time," one of the techs reported. "He's even stripped the crawlers of their crews." Mouse stood up. "Mr. Blake, find me a crawler. Anything that will run. I'm going out there." Fifty-Six: 3032 AD Cassius found himself a laserifle and climbed the crater ringwall. The fighting was close, grim, and positional. Rock by rock, bunker by foxhole, his men flushed Dee's and drove them back. Man by man, they broke the Sangaree defense. The Legionnaires invested all their skill and fury. Dee nearly fought them to a standstill. What had Michael said to make his people so damned stubborn? Cassius wondered. "Wormdoom, this is Welterweight. I've got my hands on a prime chunk of ringwall rim real estate. Give me some big guns." "You've got them, Welterweight." Finally, Cassius thought. A break. He ordered all the artillery possible into the position Ceislak had seized. The nets resounded with chatter about furious counterattacks and dwindling ammunition stocks. Cassius decided to join Ceislak. The man's position had to be held. It provided a platform from which the interior of the crater could be brought under fire. He studied the fighting from the rim. It took time to fall into patterns. He had nothing but weapons flashes by which to judge. "I think that last one was their last counterattack," Ceislak told him. "We're ready to finish them." Gesturing, he indicated the far rimwall. Heavy weapons flashes had begun to appear there. Legionnaires were coming over from the Shadowline side. Ceislak's bombardment had broken the stubborn defense of the ringwall. A dwindling number of enemy weapons flashes indicated failing powerpacks and munitions supplies on the other side. "Looks like we might manage it," someone said. Walters turned slowly, wondering who had broken radio silence. One of a pair of figures, just joining the crowd and barely visible in the backflash of Ceislak's weapons, raised a hand in greeting. "It's me. Masato. I said it looks like we've finally got them." "That's Michael Dee down there," Cassius growled. "He'll still have three tricks up his sleeve. What the hell are you doing here? You're the last Storm." "It isn't a private war," was all Mouse said by way of defending his presence. Cassius turned back to the crater. The boy was his father's son. There would be no talking him out of staying. A flash illuminated the face of Mouse's companion. "Damn it, Mouse! What the hell's the matter with you, bringing a girl out here?" Pollyanna reminded him of that niece he had lost during the Ulantonid War. He felt strangely avuncular and protective. He was startled by an insight into his own ambivalent feelings toward Pollyanna. Tamra had meant a great deal to him. The flashes on the far rim showed the Brightside troops making good headway. Michael's people seemed to be running out of ammo fast. Good. "Looks like we won't have to offer terms." Mouse stuck with his previous contention. "She has as much right to be here as anybody. Her father... " "Was I arguing? I've heard all about it." He caught a ghost of something in the timbre of Mouse's voice. The little slut had gotten her hooks into another Storm. "Let's stick to business. It's time to find out if Michael's ready to give up." Michael contacted him first. One of Cassius's officers called on Command One.. "Sir, I've got Dee on a public frequency asking to parlay with Colonel Storm. What should I do?" "I'm on the rimwall right now. Tell him he'll be contacted as soon as possible. And don't let on about the Colonel. Understand?" "Yes sir." With Mouse and Pollyanna tagging along, Walters descended to his crawler. He ran through the command nets, ordering his officers to keep the pressure on hard. Several units reported the surrender of individual human, Toke, and Ulantonid soldiers. One commander reported, "Their munitions situation is so desperate they're taking small arms ammo from their troops and saving it for Sangaree officers." "Good old Michael," Cassius said. "Really knows how to make and keep friends." He started to signal Dee, suddenly stopped. "I just had a nasty idea." He went across the command net again. "Wormdoom. Gentlemen. I want a radiation scan on that crater. These guys used a nuke on us once before." In two minutes he knew. There were two radiation sources not identifiable as tractor piles. They were nowhere near any of Dee's heavy units. "Looks like my dear old uncle was going to close the pass after he made terms with Father." Cassius smiled. "He's in for a surprise." "He'll be asking merc terms, won't he?" Mouse asked. "Of course. But he's not going to get them. If I end up dealing at all. I'm going to be against the wall hard before I let Sangaree get out." "Better get hold of him before he panics." Cassius found the band on which Michael was waiting. "Dee?" "Gneaus? Where the hell have you been?" Only Dee's word choices betrayed his anxiety. His voice was cheerful. "I've been waiting half an hour." Cassius silently mouthed, "He hasn't caught on about Twilight yet. That gives us the angle on him." "Set the hook and reel him in," Mouse suggested. "Been out directing artillery," Cassius said into the pickup. He kept the visual off so he would not correct Dee's presumption that he was speaking with Gneaus Storm. "What you want?" "Keep it on the edge of the band or he'll recognize your voice," Mouse whispered. Cassius nodded, made a fine adjustment. "Terms. We're beaten. I admit it. It's time to stop the bloodshed." Cassius controlled a snort. "What reason do I have for giving them? We're winning. We'll have you wiped out in a couple hours." "You promised... " "I didn't promise your people anything. They aren't covered by any of the usual conventions anyway. They're not merc. They're Sangaree hired guns." "But... " "If you want to talk, come to my crawler. We'll sit down face to face." Dee crawfished. He wriggled. He squirmed. But Legionnaires now held all the heights. Their artillery made an ever more convincing argument. "You think he'll come in?" Mouse asked. "Yep." Cassius nodded. "He isn't finished, though. He's got a trick or two up his sleeve yet. Besides the bombs. If he wants to have any men left to help pull whatever it is off, he's got to get them out. He'll come trotting over like a bad little boy expecting to get his hand slapped." "I'm going to call Blake." Mouse cleared another channel, spoke with the city. "Cassius, he did it. City of Night and Darkside Landing are sending crawlers." Cassius felt a century younger, knowing there was a chance. "What about those nuclears?" "I've got a plan. Stand back and be quiet. I'm going to call him again. Michael? You coming over here or not?" "All right. But you make sure nobody shoots me on the way." "You're clear. I'll leave the carrier on as a homer." Walters gave orders for one crawler to be allowed to leave the crater. "Better watch him close," Mouse said. "He could have those bombs rigged to blow on signal. He won't give a damn if he loses his army." "Maybe not. But he'll parlay first. Now listen close. Here's what I want. You two just be hanging around here when he comes in. I'll be back in the next section. You cover him and make him get out of his suit. Make him get out of everything, just in case. You don't know what he might be carrying." Which was exactly what Mouse and Pollyanna did while Walters watched through the cracked door to the slave section. Stripping with a great show of wounded dignity, Dee kept demanding, "Where's your father?" Michael had grown gaunt during his sojourn on Blackworld. He had spent so long in-suit that he was emaciated and pale. He shook noticeably. His nerves seemed to have been stretched to their limits. Cassius watched, and searched his soul. He could find no sympathy for Michael Dee. Dee had made this bed of thorns himself. He stepped into the command cabin. "Michael, you've got one chance to live out the day." "Cassius!" Dee was startled and frightened. "How the hell did you get over here? You're supposed to be in the Shadowline." He whirled to face Mouse. "And you're supposed to be at the Fortress. What's going on? Where's your father?" "Tell us about the nuclears you've got planted up there," Cassius suggested. "And I might give you your life." And immediately Walters found himself fighting an intense desire to kill Dee. Wulf. Helmut. Gneaus. All the others who had died because of this fool... But Storm's ghost whispered to him of his duty to his men, to the thousands still trapped in the Shadowline. He did not often run on his own emotions. He almost always ran on the feelings and ideals of his dead commander. His own inclination, at that instant, was to let the bombs blow and send the Legion off in one huge, dramatic stroke. It would be like the ancients sending their dead out to sea in a burning ship. He had very little purpose left in life, he thought. Since leaving the Shadowline he had not looked ahead, beyond surviving long enough to exact revenge. He was no longer a man with tomorrows. "Tell me about those bombs, Michael. Or I'll kill you now, here." "You can't." Sly smile. "Gneaus wouldn't permit it." "Oh, my poor foolish friend," Cassius said, wearing his cruelest, most self-satisfied smile. "Have I got news for you. Gneaus Julius Storm died leading a successful assault on Twilight Town. You and yours are all mine now." Dee became more aguey and pallid. "No! You're lying." "Sorry, boy. He died at Twilight, along with Helmut, Thurston, Lucifer, and your wife and sons." Metallic chuckle. "It was a classic bloodletting. And now you've got no exits." Dee fainted. "The circle closes, Michael," Cassius said when Dee recovered. "The cycle completes itself. The last revenges are in the wind. Then it begins anew." Wearily, Cassius drew the back of his handless wrist across his forehead. "Those were some of your brother's last thoughts." Mouse picked it up. "A revenge raid on Prefactlas to even scores with the Sangaree, and from the ruins a survivor returned like a phoenix to exact a revenge of his own. Now Cassius is the only survivor of the Prefactlas raiders. And of Deeth's people there's only you." The word had come, while Michael was unconscious, that Navy had caught up with the remnants of the fleet that had attacked the Fortress. No quarter had been given. None ever was. Though there was no physical proof, Cassius wanted to believe that the Sangaree Deeth had died there. But there was no justice in this universe. His hope might prove mere wishful thinking. "You and me, Michael," Cassius said. He laid a gentle hand on Mouse's shoulder. "Then it begins anew, with Gneaus's phoenix." He was sad for Mouse. The boy was filled with hatred for his father's killers. He had done some tall and frightful promising during Michael's unconsciousness. "Mouse, I wish you wouldn't. I wish you'd just let it be," he said. A stubborn, angry expression fixed itself on Mouse's face. He shook his head. "Michael? About the bombs?" Fifty-Seven: 3032 AD Deeth waited till the woman was a step away, swinging her knife. He blocked the blow, stepped inside, sank his own blade into her chest. She clawed at his face as she went down. He stood over her, watching her die. His stroke had been the only one he had struck himself. This was the first death he had dealt personally since he had killed the old man in the cave. He felt no special satisfaction or joy. He felt almost nothing. The lack surprised him for only an instant. He never had been enthusiastic about fulfilling his father's plans. What now? The Norbon revenge was nearly complete. The debt was almost paid. The final act, under Michael's direction, was beyond his participation. There was nothing left but to evade the fleet now passing the Fortress, pursuing his raidships. Nothing remained but the mundanity of Norbon directorship. A huge loathing welled up within him. He never had wanted to be Head. He no longer needed the position's power. And without Rhafu, feeling the way he felt now, he might not be able to hold on. He stalked through the Fortress of Iron, a thoughtful specter silently prowling a tomb. He paused in Storm's study, slowly poked through his enemy's effects. He began to feel a sense of spiritual kinship, to scent out a kindred loneliness. The man was not entirely alien. He was as much out of tune with humanity as his enemy was with his own people. He found several undamaged, space-ready singleships on the shiplock level. He considered them. They were slow, but could travel almost indefinitely, seizing their power from the binding energy of the universe itself. A man who had the time could ride one forever. Deeth summoned his remaining raidmaster, gave him a letter for his cousin Taake. It assigned Taake the duties of Head till his own return. The raidmaster glanced at it. "Where will you be, sir?" "I'm going to make a pilgrimage." "Sir?" Deeth waved him away. "Go. Go on. Get out before they send someone back to check this place out." Still not sure what he would do, Deeth boarded the ship he had chosen. It was a fat, slow vessel that had done small-time raven work. It carried both medicare cradles and cryobiological storage units. But no instel. Even the Legion had been unable to afford instel for all its ships. The raidmaster spaced. Deeth spent more hours wandering the ruins of his enemy's home, wondering, at times, if Boris Storm and Thaddeus Walters had done the same after silencing the Norbon station. He finally took space himself, cutting a hyper arc for the center of the galaxy. He had no intention of going that far, only of running along till he had come to some understanding with and of himself. His course sloped through the Centerward March of Ulant. He dropped hyper long enough to gather news of what had happened on Blackworld. He could not be sure. It sounded like he had failed. Without Rhafu there to push him he could not care. It no longer seemed to matter. He apologized to his father's ghost, set his drives on auto, sealed himself into a cryo storage unit. Someday the drive would fail and he would fall into normspace. Then he would waken and look out at a whole new universe... Or the ship might plow through the heart of a sun, where the field stresses were so great they would yank the vessel out of hyper. Or... He did not care. Staying alive did not much matter either. Fifty-Eight: 3032 AD Mouse sat in the crawler operator's seat, watching Cassius and Pollyanna. Polly kept zigging round, unable to stand still. She kept looking at Cassius strangely. And Cassius kept smiling that funny, boyish, embarrassed smile. Mouse was a little surprised at Walters too. Cassius never thought out loud. Not about the way he felt. Walters asked Pollyanna, "You know the character in "Shylock." "Yeah. Shylock. That's me. I'm like him. I've got a right to be human too. It's just that I'm so old and been in this business so long that I don't show it anymore." "But that wasn't what Shylock was really talking about. He was just trying to rationalize the revenge he was taking on... " She shut up. Mouse did not know Shakespeare, but he got the feeling Pollyanna had reached the sudden conclusion that Cassius and this Shylock were alike after all. He lifted a leg onto the control panel, leaned back, chewed the corner of a fingernail. "You're not going to start singing your death song, are you?" he asked Cassius. "Me? Never. I may not be completely happy with my life, but I sure as hell plan to stick around as long as I can. No, I've been thinking about getting out of the mainstream. If this kind of life has been in it. I might become a crazy old hermit on a mountain somewhere, coming down to prophesy at the villagers once a year. Or run off to the Starfishers. Or become a McGraw or a Freehauler. Anything to get away from the past. I'd just as soon do my fade before Confederation starts investigating the Shadowline, too. I don't have the patience to deal with those people. That's why I left the Corps." "Somehow," Mouse said, "I can't picture you being anything but what you are. What about those bombs? Wouldn't you say Michael's had enough time to decide?" Dee, still standing in the middle of the cabin, had not spoken for a long tune. Only his eyes had moved, watching every muscle in Cassius, Mouse, and Pollyanna. And the weapon hanging with such apparent negligence in Cassius's hand. "What're you going to do?" he whimpered. "Now, if it was up to me and I could do what I want," Cassius replied, "I'd kill you. But I won't. Unless you don't start talking about those damned bombs. You've had your time. Talk. And talk straight, because you're going to be out there beside me when we disarm them. How are they armed? How did you plan to set them off?" The tractor's comm buzzed, demanding attention. "Mouse, get that. Michael, start talking." "Guarantees, Cassius. I want guarantees," Dee countered. "You don't know what he's like. You don't know what he'll do if I don't set them off." "Who?" Mouse asked. Dee ignored him. "He'd destroy the whole universe to get you and the Storms. He's been a raving madman since you killed Rhafu." "All right, damn it. I'll keep you in my closet if I have to. Just tell me how to get rid of those bombs." "Your word?" "What do you want? Me to cut my wrist and write it in blood? You're getting too good a deal now, and you know it." "They're radio-controlled. My driver has the trigger." "How long before he pushes the button?" "He won't. He doesn't know he has it. I screwed up. I was too sure I'd find Gneaus here." "Ah." Cassius chuckled evilly. "Fooled you." "You promised." "Cassius," Mouse said, "here's a little something to brighten your day. Helga's surrendered Festung Todesangst." "What?" Michael demanded. "That's the word from Naval Intelligence." "For God's sake, why?" Dee demanded. "I don't believe it. She would have blown her scuttles... " "I don't know why," Mouse said. "The report came from the Corps, filtered through Intelligence. They didn't explain. They just said it was a standoff, with Helga threatening to blow the scuttles and the Marines hanging on but not pushing her so hard she'd really do it. Maybe she got wind of what happened at Twilight and decided it wasn't worth it anymore. She suddenly just gave up." Michael frowned and shook his head. "What the hell's the matter with her?" he muttered to himself. "The spoiled, self-centered twit. Just because she got what she wanted. We needed... " Cassius was frowning, too. "It's got to be a trick. She put the bombs on timer or something. Dees are always up to tricks." "Cassius, they got Benjamin and Homer out. They look like they'll be all right. We'll be able to resurrect them." "Uhm? Good. Maybe. If she didn't have them programmed, or something. What kind of deal did she make? It can't be anything good for us." Michael turned on Mouse. The Dee cunning took control of his face. He shook with anticipation, sure his daughter would have made a worthy trade. Mouse smiled at him. "Nothing. No deal. Just plain surrender. Like she didn't have anything to live for anymore, so she quit." "But?... " Cassius started to ask. Mouse glanced at Michael, who seemed appalled. "They killed her, Cassius. Beckhart himself shut her support systems down." "Dead?" Dee asked in an incredibly tiny voice. "My little girl? All my children? You've killed all my babies?" Mouse sat up as a mad light caught fire in his uncle's eyes. "You murderers. My wife. My children... " "They all got a clean death," Mouse snapped. "Which was damned well better than they deserved. They brought it on themselves." Cassius took a step toward Dee, staring into his eyes. He spoke slowly, twisting the knife. "He's right. They should have died a thousand deaths each, in fire. And even then they wouldn't have hurt enough to suit me." Pollyanna screamed. "Mouse!" Dee plunged forward. Cassius was not expecting it. He suffered from the lifelong misconception that a coward could not act in circumstances where he did not hold the upper hand. Michael Dee was a coward, but not incapable of acting. Cassius's instant of delay cost him his life. Dee knocked the pistol from his hand, caught it in the air, fired one lucky, nose-destroying shot before Mouse slammed into him from the side and sent the weapon skittering across the cabin. Cassius fell disjointedly, slowly, like an empire, almost in pieces, as if different parts of his body were being acted upon by varying gravities. His mechanical voice box made skritching, clacking noises, but no sound that could be interpreted as anger or a cry of agony. He piled up in a heap, twitching, voice box still making those strange noises. Mouse and Dee thrashed about on the deck, the youth cursing incoherently and weeping while he tried to strangle his uncle. At first Dee fought in pure panic. He scratched, kicked, bit. Then reason set in. He broke the stranglehold, writhed away, unleashed a kick that hit Mouse over the heart. Mouse got onto hands and knees. He put all his strength into attaining his feet. The deck rushed toward him instead. Dee poised for a killing kick to his throat. "No." He turned slowly. Pollyanna held the weapon that had killed Cassius. Her hands shook. The weapon's muzzle waggled uncertainly, but threatened. "Pollyanna, dear, put it down. I won't hurt you. I don't want to. Promise. This's between them and me. You're not part of it." He used his silkiest voice. And he may have meant what he said. He had no real reason to harm her. Not then. "Stand still," she said as he started toward her, hand reaching for the weapon. She was terrified. This was the moment for which she had been living. This was the instant for which she had put herself through a personal hell. "I Dee's whole face seemed to pucker with consternation. "You don't even remember, do you? You bloody, cold-hearted snake. You don't even remember the name you used when you murdered my father." "What on earth are you talking about, child? I've never murdered anyone." "Liar! You damned liar. I saw you, Mr. August Plainfield of Stimpson-Hrabosky News. I was there. You gave him drugs and made him tell you about the Shadowline, and then you murdered him." Dee went pale. "The little girl at the hospital." "Yes. The little girl. And now it's your turn." Dee attacked, diving first to one side, then bearing in. Had he remained where he was, waiting, Pollyanna might never have pulled the trigger. In the crux, when it came time to take a life in cold blood, she was not as ready as she had thought. Dee's sudden movement panicked her. She shot wildly, repeatedly. Her first bolt hit the control console. The second pierced Dee's leg. He pitched past her with a shriek of pain and despair. She fired again, wounding him again. Then again. And again. Groggily, not even quite sure where he was, feeling like someone had tied an anvil to his chest, Mouse again forced himself up off the deck. He shook his head sharply, to clear the water from his eyes and get them into focus. He saw Pollyanna pounding Dee's ragged, almost unrecognizable corpse with the butt of the spent weapon while babbling incoherencies about Frog. He dragged himself over, took the weapon away, folded her up in his arms and held her head against his chest. "It's over now, Polly," he murmured. "It's over. It's all over. He's dead now. They're all dead but us." She cried for almost an hour, the hysteria-sobs gradually becoming the great, deep, soul-wrenching grief-sobs, and those eventually diminishing to sniffles, and finally, to nothing but the occasional whimper of an injured animal. "You just stay here," he whispered when she finished. "I've got work to do. Then we can go away." He rose, went to the comm panel, found a frequency which worked, and resumed command of the Legion. Fifty-Nine: 3032 AD In the deep black gulf great engines throbbed. A ship more vast than many planet-bound cities began to move. Her commander ordered maximum tolerable acceleration. She had fallen months behind her sisters. Clouds of smaller vessels gathered to her. They had finished their part in the Shadowline War. There were no more debts to pay. The Starfisher decision-makers were saddened because the results had not been more positive. But history, like everything else, is seldom fair. The balance had been rectified, and that was enough. The great ship fled ever farther into the deep. Sixty: 3052 AD Who am I? What am I? I am the bastard child of the Shadowline. That jagged rift of sun-broiled stone was my third parent. Understand what happened there and you understand me. Stir that hard, infertile soil and you expose the roots of my hatreds. The Shadowline and four men. Gneaus Julius Storm. Thaddeus Immanuel Walters. Michael Dee. Norbon w'Deeth. Stand me trial for what I am and you had better indict them too. And that, my friend, is fact. #8212;Masato Igarashi Storm |
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