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Fourteen: 3031 AD

Storm, Cassius, and the dogs crowded into an elevator. It dropped away toward the Traffic Control and Combat Information Center at the planetoid’s heart.
Benjamin, Homer, and Lucifer whirled when their father entered the Center. Storm surveyed their faces grimly. The glow of the spatial display globes, overplayed by the changing light keys of the tactical computer’s situation boards, splashed them with ever-changing color. No one spoke.
Storm’s sons stared at their feet like shamed boys caught playing with matches. Storm half turned to Cassius, eye on the senior watchstander. Cassius inclined his head. The officer would have to explain his failure to report ships in detection. He would be reminded of his debt to Gneaus Storm. It would be a tempestuous admonition.
The officer’s failure was beyond Cassius’s comprehension. He never let his hatred of the Dees impair his trust. The Dees were a raggedy-assed gaggle of hypocritical thieves, boosters, and news managers. They were a waste of life-energy. But . . . Cassius suppressed his feelings because he had faith in Storm’s judgment. This watch officer had not been with the Legion long enough to have developed that faith.
Should Storm ever fail, openly and dramatically . . . Cassius did not know what he would do. He had been with Storm so long that, chances were, he would bull right along in the official line.
Storm surveyed his sons again. He awarded Lucifer one of his rare smiles. The fool had been trying to kill his own wife.
Storm thought of Pollyanna, shuddered.
He had to let them off easy. This pocket revolt was his own fault. He should have passed the word about the woman.
He did not think much of himself just then. He had done his usual trick, not letting anyone know what he was doing or why. He was screwing up too much lately. Maybe he was getting old. In this business survivors eliminated the margin of error.
He locked gazes with Lucifer. His son stepped back as if physically shoved.
Lucifer was just six years older than Mouse. He was large and well-built, like his father, but his mind had his mother’s bent.
Lady Prudence of Gales had been a High Seiner poetess and musician in the days when her people, the mysterious Starfishers, had not completely retreated into the interstellar deeps. She had come to the Fortress as an emissary, recalling Prefactlas, begging for help to save her sparsely populated, remote homeworld from Sangaree domination.
She had touched Storm with naked trust. No man knew where to find the elusive Seiners. She had given him that secret in the naive hope that that would move him to help. She had cast the dice, betting everything on a single roll . . . And she had won.
And Storm had had no cause for regrets.
He remembered Prudie better than most of his women. A hot, hungry little morsel in private. Cool, competent, and occasionally imperious in public, and daring. Bedazzlingly daring. Never before or since had anyone cozened the Iron Legion into fighting on spec.
He had pulped the Sangaree on her world. She had given him a son. And they had gone their separate ways.
Storm had known countless women, had fathered dozens of children. His parents had had no concept of fidelity either. Three of his brothers had had different mothers. Michael Dee had had a different and mysterious father.
Frieda Storm was guilty of her indiscretions, too. She did not press Storm about his.
So Lucifer had been an artist born. And he was good. His poetry had appeared with that of giants like Moreau and Czyzewski. The visualist Boroba Thring had done a kaleidoshow based on Lucifer’s Legion epic, Soldaten, using one of Lucifer’s Wagnerian scores as background music. But Lucifer considered writing and composing mere hobbies.
He was determined to prove himself a soldier. It was a vain ambition. He did not, as they say, have the killer instinct.
The free soldier had to act without thought or remorse. His antagonists were professionals. They were quick and deadly. They would permit him no time for regrets or reflection on the barbarity of it all.
Storm forgave Lucifer’s shortcomings more readily than he did those of sons with no talents. He had hopes for the boy. Lucifer might someday find and become true to himself.
Benjamin and Homer were twins. Storm’s only children by Frieda, they were, in theory and their own estimation, his favorites. They were rebels. Their mother defended them like an old bitch cat her kittens.
Probably my fault they’re delinquents, Storm thought. They’ve been men for decades and still I treat them like boys. Hell, they’re grandfathers.
This extended life leached a man’s perspective. The twins were as unalike as night and day. Storm sometimes wondered if he had fathered both.
Benjamin was a blond Apollo. He was the darling of the younger Legionnaires, who considered his father a historical relic. But did they turn to Benjamin in the tight places? They did not. Benjamin Storm tended to fold under pressure.
His mother and friends believed he was the Legion’s Crown Prince. His father thought not. If the Iron Legion survived Gneaus Storm, none of his children but Cassius’s favorite had what it took to rule and fight a freecorps.
Benjamin could win loyalties with a word, with a gesture. He had that knack for making each individual feel he was the only human being in the universe Benjamin cared about. But could he inspire faith?
Benjamin might command the Legion one day if his father did not appoint a successor. For one commission. Storm could see his son taking over on force of personality. He could not see him succeeding in the field.
Benjamin could play Piper of Hamlin to his own, but those hard cases across the battlefields, the Hawksbloods and van Breda Kolffs, would cut up his charisma and spread it on their breakfast toast.
Homer was Benjamin’s antithesis. He was dark of mind and body, ugly, malformed, and congenitally blind. He repelled everyone but his twin. Benjamin was his only friend. He followed his brother everywhere, as if only Benjamin could neutralize the blackness in his soul.
In compensation for her cruelties Nature had given Homer a weak psionic ability that never did him any good. He was bitter, and not without just cause. He was as sharp as anyone in the family, yet was trapped in a body little better than a corpse.
Storm’s men saw the twins as living examples of the dualities in their father. Benjamin had received the looks and charm, Homer the hurt and rage and darkness of spirit.
Benjamin met his father’s eye and smiled his winningest smile. Homer started sightlessly, unrepentant. He was unafraid. There was no way to punish him more than life had punished him already.
He expected nothing but evil. He accepted it.
Storm hurt for him. He knew the shadow that ruled Homer. It was an old, ultimate companion.
At least once a day Storm turned to the book that time had forgotten, rereading and contemplating the message of a Storm dead four thousand years.

Gneaus Storm, even more than had Homer, had watched the rivers run into the seas, and knew the seas would never fill. Rather, they grew shallower with the ages, and someday would disappear. What did a man profit if, in the end, all his deeds were illusion? The Enemy could not be overthrown. Its resources were infinite and eternal and Storm knew he would only lose the long struggle.
Unlike the Preacher in Jerusalem, Storm refused to surrender. In spite of everything, there could be victory in the spirit. If he kept his courage he could scratch his memory on the cruel visage of defeat. Either to surrender, or to go to his fate with laughter on his lips. This was the only real choice he, or any man, was ever given in this life.
“There’s a ship coming in,” he growled at last. He jerked his arm upward. The ravenshrike fluttered into the shadows. No one paid it any heed.
No one argued. The truth was evident in the display globes.
“Michael Dee’s ship, I believe. Contact him. Clear him a path through the mine fields.”
The soldiers did not “yes sir” before returning to work. They would try to impress him with their efficiency now. Trouble lurked beyond the end of their watch.
“Traffic, contact the cruiser too. I want to speak to her master. All defense systems, move to standby alert.”
“I have contact with Dee,” said the man on Traffic Comm. “Clear channel, visual.”
“Thank you.” Storm seated himself at a visual pickup. Cassius moved in behind him. Michael Dee’s fox face formed on screen. Worry lines faded away. A pearly-toothed smile broke through.
“Gneaus! Am I glad to see you. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t answer.”
“I had to think about it.” Dee’s smile faded. His was a con man’s face, blandly honest, as reassuring as a priest’s. But little folds uplifting the corners of his eyes gave him a sly look. “I could still change my mind. Did you bring my cargo?”
Dee was wearing his natural face. No makeup. No disguise. His dark eyes, narrow face, pointy nose, and prominent, sharp teeth gave him a definite vulpine look. This is the true Michael, Storm thought.
Dee was a man of countless faces. Seldom was he out of disguise, and his talent for shifting identities was preternatural. Given study time, he could adopt the speech habits and physical mannerisms of almost anyone. He found the talent useful in his trade. He was, supposedly, a free-lance newsman.
“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?” Dee sneered as if to say he knew his brother would not throw him to Hawksblood’s wolves.
“Show me, Michael.”
Exasperated, Dee backed off pickup. Pollyanna Eight showed her pretty face. A little sigh ran through the Center.
“All right. You’re clear in. Out.” Storm nudged the comm man. He took the hint. He secured the channel before Dee could come back on.
Lucifer sputtered behind his father and Cassius. Storm turned. He forbore any remark but, “Lucifer, go take charge of the ingress locks. Don’t let Michael wander. Get him out of his ship and search it.”
Dee was treacherous. From childhood he had thrived on sparking strife. The feud between Richard Hawksblood and his brother was his masterwork.
He could not help himself. Meddling and deceit were compulsions. One day his weakness would kill him.
Michael would be involved in more than just bringing Pollyanna home. He was not a one-track man. He always kept several balls in the air.
Storm thought he knew what Dee was up to. Richard’s being interested in Blackworld was the giveaway.
Michael would try to involve the Legion. Merc wars made great holo entertainment. He had grown rich covering them. He had engineered a few to have something to tape.
Knowing what Michael wanted was inadequate forewarning. He was devious. His manipulations might not be recognizable.
The Traffic Comm man established contact with Dee’s pursuer.
“Cassius. Who is he?”
“Lawrence Abhoussi. One of Richard’s best.”
“Richard must have sent him out blind. He’s surprised to see me.”
“Characteristic.” Hawksblood was a demon for secrecy.
Storm keyed for sound. “Commander Abhoussi, you’re entering restricted space.”
The Ship’s Commander replied, “We did note the automatic warnings, Colonel. But we were given explicit orders. We have to capture the yacht.”
“Polite, anyway,” Storm whispered.
“And scared.”
The Legion had burned respect into Hawksblood’s men. And vice versa.
“I know the ship, Commander. My daughter-in-law is aboard. I have to extend her my protection. Why don’t you pursue your quarrel with her master after he leaves? If the ship is stolen, I’ll let you send in a skeleton crew to collect her.”
Abhoussi grew pale. Storm’s defenses were formidable. “My orders are explicit, Colonel Storm. I’m to recover the vessel and everyone aboard her.”
“This is getting dangerous, Gneaus,” Cassius burred.
Storm nodded. “I know your employer, Commander. He’s a disciplinarian, but he’ll make allowances when you explain why you lost the yacht.” Storm killed the sound. “I’m trying to give him an out, Cassius.”
“He knows.”
The Ship’s Commander paused before replying. He kept glancing off screen. Finally, he keyed for sound and said, “I’m storry, Colonel Storm. I have no option.”
“Damn,” Cassius said.
“I’m sorry too, then. Good-bye, Commander.” Storm broke the link. “Fire Control, activate the passive defenses. Don’t take the cruiser under fire unless she looks like she’ll catch Dee.” He rose, started toward the elevators. The dogs rose as he approached.
“Father!” Benjamin called. “Hold on. They’ve gone Norm.” Storm turned. “Abhoussi’s inherent velocity is aligned with Dee’s and he’s closing fast. He’s accelerating. Catch point about nine hundred thousand kilometers out.”
“Computer?” Storm asked the air.
“Active,” a Cassius-like voice replied.
“You following the current situation?”
“Affirmative.”
“Analysis please.”
The machine confirmed Benjamin’s assessment. It added, “Smaller target is decelerating on a line of approach to the ingress locks. Traffic Comm has docking control. Larger target still accelerating in line of approach. Probability nine-zero plus: Intent is to take hyper with the smaller vessel within its influential sphere.”
“Free missiles,” Storm ordered. “This Abhoussi is damned smart,” he told Cassius. “He jumped on the only chance he’s got.”
By snagging Dee with his more powerful influential field Abhoussi could neutralize the yacht’s drive and drag her beyond the range of Storm’s superior weaponry. He could then drop hyper and deal with Michael at his leisure.
It was a tactic as old as spatial warfare, though a dangerous one. Both ships could be destroyed if either’s drives were far out of synch.
“That man was a McGraw,” Cassius guessed. “Only a pirate would have the nerve to try it.”
“Free guns on the outstations,” Storm ordered. “Commence action. You’re right, Cassius. He’s got guts. Pity he’s wasting them.”
“Some people fear Richard Hawksblood more than they fear Gneaus Storm,” Cassius observed laconically. “Then again, he could know something you don’t. You haven’t analyzed his chances. He comped them while he was talking to you.”
“Right. Computer. Analyze success probabilities for the assumed mission of the larger target, henceforth desig Enemy, Bogey One.”
Practically trampling Storm’s final words, the computer replied, “With Traffic control of Friendly, probability six five plus. Without Traffic control, probability four seven plus. Analysis of random minetracks incomplete.”
“Pretty good,” Cassius observed. “I’d buy those odds myself.”
“And win. He’s got the jump on us. Traffic, put Dee on his own hooks. Cassius, take the gun-control master.”
Storm himself assumed control of the master board commanding the mines and missiles protecting the planetoid. “Computer. Probability of Enemy success with new board control.” The machine was a cryocyborg unit. It could enter the skills of known human operators into its probability equations.
“With Friendly free of Traffic control and analysis of random minetracks complete, probability three one plus.”
Storm was pleased. He and Cassius made a difference.
He did not like the ever-present plus. The computer was weighting the probability shift in Abhoussi’s favor.
Storm examined his board. None of his active mines or hunter-killer missiles would pass close enough to Abhoussi to detonate. The weapons in line of approach were inactive for Michael’s sake.
He blew several nearby mines. Maybe he could rattle Abhoussi.
He suspected the plus was being awarded because Abhoussi was performing better than the average Ship’s Commander profiled in the computer. Richard did not hire average men. No merc captain did.
Storm punched more fire buttons. He did no good. Abhoussi was crawling into Michael’s safety shadow. The only sure way to stop him was to activate weaponry in the approach path.
“Bogey One, probability of success, four two plus,” the computer announced, and almost immediately raised its ante to four three, four four, and four five. Storm cursed softly and continuously.
“Time to jump?” he demanded.
“Twenty-three seconds optimum.” Then the computer added, “Hit, beam, remote station twelve. Field anomalies indicate a temporary reduction of efficiency in Bogey One drives. Probability of Enemy success, three one steady.”
Storm smiled. “Good shooting, Cassius.”
Cassius was too busy to acknowledge the applause. He bent over his master console with the intensity of a virtuoso pianist, totally immersed in his art, webbing Abhoussi with beams of destruction.
Storm turned to his own master, secured it. He had not rattled Abhoussi at all.
He leaned back and watched Cassius while fighting off visions of Pollyanna being crisped by Abhoussi’s weaponry. Hawksblood’s man was firing only in self-defense, but might have orders to kill if he could not capture.
The odds against Abhoussi lengthened. Storm fidgeted. He placed little faith in computer analyses. He had beaten their odds when they had been five-to-one against him. The best games machines, with brains cyborged in, could not take into account all the human factors of a battle situation.
“Hit, beam,” the computer announced. “Drive anomalies. Bogey One no longer accelerating. Probability of generator damage seven zero plus.”
“Catch time,” Storm asked. It had been telescoping, but Abhoussi had been hand-over-handing it up the scope.
“Eleven seconds.”
Storm smiled. Abhoussi was climbing an ever-steepening slope. One more perfect shot from Cassius would do it.
Again he paid his chief of staff his due. The man was not just trying for hits, he was sharpshooting Abhoussi’s facility for dragging Michael off to neutral space. And that at a time when he could have eased up and allowed his most hated enemy to perish.
Storm grabbed a mike, called the ingress locks. “Get a boat ready for rescue work. Have it crewed and standing by for astrogational instruction. Is Lucifer there yet?” He cut off before he received a reply. The computer was chattering again.
“Hit, beam. Major drive anomalies. Probability of generator damage nine zero plus. Probability of Enemy success, one three minus.”
Storm moved to Traffic. “Contact the cruiser,” he told the watchstander.
“Bogey One commencing evasive maneuvering,” the computer continued. “Probability that Enemy is attempting to disengage, nine five plus.” Abhoussi had accepted defeat.
Establishing the comm link took longer than the action had. Abhoussi was more interested in survival than in chitchat.
When the pale-faced Ship’s Commander finally responded, Storm asked, “Can you manage your generators yourselves, Commander? Any casualties you can’t handle? I have a rescue boat standing by.”
Abhoussi gulped air, replied, “We’ll manage, Colonel. We took no casualties.”
“All right.” Storm blanked off. “Cease firing,” he ordered.
The order was unnecessary. Cassius had secured his gun board.
Was Abhoussi telling the truth? He had the feel of a man who would let his people die the death-without-resurrection before putting them into the hands of an enemy capable of using them against his employer later.
Storm called the ingress locks again. “Cancel the boat alert. We won’t need it.” Then, “Cassius, let’s go meet Michael. He’ll have an interesting story. Might even tell the truth.”
“Good show, gentlemen,” Cassius told the watch-standers. “Run a full systems check before you go off duty. See that Supply and Weapons know which mines and missiles to replace.” His hard gaze darted from face to face. No one met it.
Storm peered into the shadows. The ravenshrike had concealed itself. It was alert.
“I think we did all right,” he told Cassius as they followed the dogs into an elevator. “It was my kind of battle. Nobody got hurt.”
“They should all be so chesslike.”
A shadow moved in the shadows of a corner of Combat. The eyes of Storm’s ravenshrike burned as they watched Homer and Benjamin. Homer slipped into the still warm seat before the mines and missiles board. The blind man caressed trigger switches and status boards with his sensitive fingers. He listened for his sporadic psi. He depressed an activation key, paused, tripped a fire switch.
Daggers of flame scarred the deep space night two light seconds from the Fortress. A swarm of hyper-capable seeker missiles went looking for Commander Abhoussi’s cruiser.
The vessel had not traveled far.
Alarms screamed aboard the warship. Automatic weapons responded.
Constellations vanished behind a veil of fire. Abhoussi’s engineers seized their only chance. They kicked in the damaged generators. The cruiser twisted away into hyperspace, leaving fragments of itself behind. The seekers, unaware of the cruiser’s destination, began cutting lazy search patterns over half-light-year quadrants.
Homer’s faint and seldom reliable psi touched upon a remote, short-lived scream. He leaned back and smiled at an aghast Benjamin. “It’s done.”
“Ah, Homer . . . ” Benjamin could not think of anything to say. He could not meet the eyes of the watch-standers.
Their faces were long and grey. Storm was going to cut their hearts out for not stopping this.
The ravenshrike shuddered as it sensed the psionic scream and the pure disgust of the Center watch. It wrapped itself in wings and shadow, closed its eyes, and awaited its master’s return.

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Fourteen: 3031 AD

Storm, Cassius, and the dogs crowded into an elevator. It dropped away toward the Traffic Control and Combat Information Center at the planetoid’s heart.
Benjamin, Homer, and Lucifer whirled when their father entered the Center. Storm surveyed their faces grimly. The glow of the spatial display globes, overplayed by the changing light keys of the tactical computer’s situation boards, splashed them with ever-changing color. No one spoke.
Storm’s sons stared at their feet like shamed boys caught playing with matches. Storm half turned to Cassius, eye on the senior watchstander. Cassius inclined his head. The officer would have to explain his failure to report ships in detection. He would be reminded of his debt to Gneaus Storm. It would be a tempestuous admonition.
The officer’s failure was beyond Cassius’s comprehension. He never let his hatred of the Dees impair his trust. The Dees were a raggedy-assed gaggle of hypocritical thieves, boosters, and news managers. They were a waste of life-energy. But . . . Cassius suppressed his feelings because he had faith in Storm’s judgment. This watch officer had not been with the Legion long enough to have developed that faith.
Should Storm ever fail, openly and dramatically . . . Cassius did not know what he would do. He had been with Storm so long that, chances were, he would bull right along in the official line.
Storm surveyed his sons again. He awarded Lucifer one of his rare smiles. The fool had been trying to kill his own wife.
Storm thought of Pollyanna, shuddered.
He had to let them off easy. This pocket revolt was his own fault. He should have passed the word about the woman.
He did not think much of himself just then. He had done his usual trick, not letting anyone know what he was doing or why. He was screwing up too much lately. Maybe he was getting old. In this business survivors eliminated the margin of error.
He locked gazes with Lucifer. His son stepped back as if physically shoved.
Lucifer was just six years older than Mouse. He was large and well-built, like his father, but his mind had his mother’s bent.
Lady Prudence of Gales had been a High Seiner poetess and musician in the days when her people, the mysterious Starfishers, had not completely retreated into the interstellar deeps. She had come to the Fortress as an emissary, recalling Prefactlas, begging for help to save her sparsely populated, remote homeworld from Sangaree domination.
She had touched Storm with naked trust. No man knew where to find the elusive Seiners. She had given him that secret in the naive hope that that would move him to help. She had cast the dice, betting everything on a single roll . . . And she had won.
And Storm had had no cause for regrets.
He remembered Prudie better than most of his women. A hot, hungry little morsel in private. Cool, competent, and occasionally imperious in public, and daring. Bedazzlingly daring. Never before or since had anyone cozened the Iron Legion into fighting on spec.
He had pulped the Sangaree on her world. She had given him a son. And they had gone their separate ways.
Storm had known countless women, had fathered dozens of children. His parents had had no concept of fidelity either. Three of his brothers had had different mothers. Michael Dee had had a different and mysterious father.
Frieda Storm was guilty of her indiscretions, too. She did not press Storm about his.
So Lucifer had been an artist born. And he was good. His poetry had appeared with that of giants like Moreau and Czyzewski. The visualist Boroba Thring had done a kaleidoshow based on Lucifer’s Legion epic, Soldaten, using one of Lucifer’s Wagnerian scores as background music. But Lucifer considered writing and composing mere hobbies.
He was determined to prove himself a soldier. It was a vain ambition. He did not, as they say, have the killer instinct.
The free soldier had to act without thought or remorse. His antagonists were professionals. They were quick and deadly. They would permit him no time for regrets or reflection on the barbarity of it all.
Storm forgave Lucifer’s shortcomings more readily than he did those of sons with no talents. He had hopes for the boy. Lucifer might someday find and become true to himself.
Benjamin and Homer were twins. Storm’s only children by Frieda, they were, in theory and their own estimation, his favorites. They were rebels. Their mother defended them like an old bitch cat her kittens.
Probably my fault they’re delinquents, Storm thought. They’ve been men for decades and still I treat them like boys. Hell, they’re grandfathers.
This extended life leached a man’s perspective. The twins were as unalike as night and day. Storm sometimes wondered if he had fathered both.
Benjamin was a blond Apollo. He was the darling of the younger Legionnaires, who considered his father a historical relic. But did they turn to Benjamin in the tight places? They did not. Benjamin Storm tended to fold under pressure.
His mother and friends believed he was the Legion’s Crown Prince. His father thought not. If the Iron Legion survived Gneaus Storm, none of his children but Cassius’s favorite had what it took to rule and fight a freecorps.
Benjamin could win loyalties with a word, with a gesture. He had that knack for making each individual feel he was the only human being in the universe Benjamin cared about. But could he inspire faith?
Benjamin might command the Legion one day if his father did not appoint a successor. For one commission. Storm could see his son taking over on force of personality. He could not see him succeeding in the field.
Benjamin could play Piper of Hamlin to his own, but those hard cases across the battlefields, the Hawksbloods and van Breda Kolffs, would cut up his charisma and spread it on their breakfast toast.
Homer was Benjamin’s antithesis. He was dark of mind and body, ugly, malformed, and congenitally blind. He repelled everyone but his twin. Benjamin was his only friend. He followed his brother everywhere, as if only Benjamin could neutralize the blackness in his soul.
In compensation for her cruelties Nature had given Homer a weak psionic ability that never did him any good. He was bitter, and not without just cause. He was as sharp as anyone in the family, yet was trapped in a body little better than a corpse.
Storm’s men saw the twins as living examples of the dualities in their father. Benjamin had received the looks and charm, Homer the hurt and rage and darkness of spirit.
Benjamin met his father’s eye and smiled his winningest smile. Homer started sightlessly, unrepentant. He was unafraid. There was no way to punish him more than life had punished him already.
He expected nothing but evil. He accepted it.
Storm hurt for him. He knew the shadow that ruled Homer. It was an old, ultimate companion.
At least once a day Storm turned to the book that time had forgotten, rereading and contemplating the message of a Storm dead four thousand years.

Gneaus Storm, even more than had Homer, had watched the rivers run into the seas, and knew the seas would never fill. Rather, they grew shallower with the ages, and someday would disappear. What did a man profit if, in the end, all his deeds were illusion? The Enemy could not be overthrown. Its resources were infinite and eternal and Storm knew he would only lose the long struggle.
Unlike the Preacher in Jerusalem, Storm refused to surrender. In spite of everything, there could be victory in the spirit. If he kept his courage he could scratch his memory on the cruel visage of defeat. Either to surrender, or to go to his fate with laughter on his lips. This was the only real choice he, or any man, was ever given in this life.
“There’s a ship coming in,” he growled at last. He jerked his arm upward. The ravenshrike fluttered into the shadows. No one paid it any heed.
No one argued. The truth was evident in the display globes.
“Michael Dee’s ship, I believe. Contact him. Clear him a path through the mine fields.”
The soldiers did not “yes sir” before returning to work. They would try to impress him with their efficiency now. Trouble lurked beyond the end of their watch.
“Traffic, contact the cruiser too. I want to speak to her master. All defense systems, move to standby alert.”
“I have contact with Dee,” said the man on Traffic Comm. “Clear channel, visual.”
“Thank you.” Storm seated himself at a visual pickup. Cassius moved in behind him. Michael Dee’s fox face formed on screen. Worry lines faded away. A pearly-toothed smile broke through.
“Gneaus! Am I glad to see you. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t answer.”
“I had to think about it.” Dee’s smile faded. His was a con man’s face, blandly honest, as reassuring as a priest’s. But little folds uplifting the corners of his eyes gave him a sly look. “I could still change my mind. Did you bring my cargo?”
Dee was wearing his natural face. No makeup. No disguise. His dark eyes, narrow face, pointy nose, and prominent, sharp teeth gave him a definite vulpine look. This is the true Michael, Storm thought.
Dee was a man of countless faces. Seldom was he out of disguise, and his talent for shifting identities was preternatural. Given study time, he could adopt the speech habits and physical mannerisms of almost anyone. He found the talent useful in his trade. He was, supposedly, a free-lance newsman.
“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?” Dee sneered as if to say he knew his brother would not throw him to Hawksblood’s wolves.
“Show me, Michael.”
Exasperated, Dee backed off pickup. Pollyanna Eight showed her pretty face. A little sigh ran through the Center.
“All right. You’re clear in. Out.” Storm nudged the comm man. He took the hint. He secured the channel before Dee could come back on.
Lucifer sputtered behind his father and Cassius. Storm turned. He forbore any remark but, “Lucifer, go take charge of the ingress locks. Don’t let Michael wander. Get him out of his ship and search it.”
Dee was treacherous. From childhood he had thrived on sparking strife. The feud between Richard Hawksblood and his brother was his masterwork.
He could not help himself. Meddling and deceit were compulsions. One day his weakness would kill him.
Michael would be involved in more than just bringing Pollyanna home. He was not a one-track man. He always kept several balls in the air.
Storm thought he knew what Dee was up to. Richard’s being interested in Blackworld was the giveaway.
Michael would try to involve the Legion. Merc wars made great holo entertainment. He had grown rich covering them. He had engineered a few to have something to tape.
Knowing what Michael wanted was inadequate forewarning. He was devious. His manipulations might not be recognizable.
The Traffic Comm man established contact with Dee’s pursuer.
“Cassius. Who is he?”
“Lawrence Abhoussi. One of Richard’s best.”
“Richard must have sent him out blind. He’s surprised to see me.”
“Characteristic.” Hawksblood was a demon for secrecy.
Storm keyed for sound. “Commander Abhoussi, you’re entering restricted space.”
The Ship’s Commander replied, “We did note the automatic warnings, Colonel. But we were given explicit orders. We have to capture the yacht.”
“Polite, anyway,” Storm whispered.
“And scared.”
The Legion had burned respect into Hawksblood’s men. And vice versa.
“I know the ship, Commander. My daughter-in-law is aboard. I have to extend her my protection. Why don’t you pursue your quarrel with her master after he leaves? If the ship is stolen, I’ll let you send in a skeleton crew to collect her.”
Abhoussi grew pale. Storm’s defenses were formidable. “My orders are explicit, Colonel Storm. I’m to recover the vessel and everyone aboard her.”
“This is getting dangerous, Gneaus,” Cassius burred.
Storm nodded. “I know your employer, Commander. He’s a disciplinarian, but he’ll make allowances when you explain why you lost the yacht.” Storm killed the sound. “I’m trying to give him an out, Cassius.”
“He knows.”
The Ship’s Commander paused before replying. He kept glancing off screen. Finally, he keyed for sound and said, “I’m storry, Colonel Storm. I have no option.”
“Damn,” Cassius said.
“I’m sorry too, then. Good-bye, Commander.” Storm broke the link. “Fire Control, activate the passive defenses. Don’t take the cruiser under fire unless she looks like she’ll catch Dee.” He rose, started toward the elevators. The dogs rose as he approached.
“Father!” Benjamin called. “Hold on. They’ve gone Norm.” Storm turned. “Abhoussi’s inherent velocity is aligned with Dee’s and he’s closing fast. He’s accelerating. Catch point about nine hundred thousand kilometers out.”
“Computer?” Storm asked the air.
“Active,” a Cassius-like voice replied.
“You following the current situation?”
“Affirmative.”
“Analysis please.”
The machine confirmed Benjamin’s assessment. It added, “Smaller target is decelerating on a line of approach to the ingress locks. Traffic Comm has docking control. Larger target still accelerating in line of approach. Probability nine-zero plus: Intent is to take hyper with the smaller vessel within its influential sphere.”
“Free missiles,” Storm ordered. “This Abhoussi is damned smart,” he told Cassius. “He jumped on the only chance he’s got.”
By snagging Dee with his more powerful influential field Abhoussi could neutralize the yacht’s drive and drag her beyond the range of Storm’s superior weaponry. He could then drop hyper and deal with Michael at his leisure.
It was a tactic as old as spatial warfare, though a dangerous one. Both ships could be destroyed if either’s drives were far out of synch.
“That man was a McGraw,” Cassius guessed. “Only a pirate would have the nerve to try it.”
“Free guns on the outstations,” Storm ordered. “Commence action. You’re right, Cassius. He’s got guts. Pity he’s wasting them.”
“Some people fear Richard Hawksblood more than they fear Gneaus Storm,” Cassius observed laconically. “Then again, he could know something you don’t. You haven’t analyzed his chances. He comped them while he was talking to you.”
“Right. Computer. Analyze success probabilities for the assumed mission of the larger target, henceforth desig Enemy, Bogey One.”
Practically trampling Storm’s final words, the computer replied, “With Traffic control of Friendly, probability six five plus. Without Traffic control, probability four seven plus. Analysis of random minetracks incomplete.”
“Pretty good,” Cassius observed. “I’d buy those odds myself.”
“And win. He’s got the jump on us. Traffic, put Dee on his own hooks. Cassius, take the gun-control master.”
Storm himself assumed control of the master board commanding the mines and missiles protecting the planetoid. “Computer. Probability of Enemy success with new board control.” The machine was a cryocyborg unit. It could enter the skills of known human operators into its probability equations.
“With Friendly free of Traffic control and analysis of random minetracks complete, probability three one plus.”
Storm was pleased. He and Cassius made a difference.
He did not like the ever-present plus. The computer was weighting the probability shift in Abhoussi’s favor.
Storm examined his board. None of his active mines or hunter-killer missiles would pass close enough to Abhoussi to detonate. The weapons in line of approach were inactive for Michael’s sake.
He blew several nearby mines. Maybe he could rattle Abhoussi.
He suspected the plus was being awarded because Abhoussi was performing better than the average Ship’s Commander profiled in the computer. Richard did not hire average men. No merc captain did.
Storm punched more fire buttons. He did no good. Abhoussi was crawling into Michael’s safety shadow. The only sure way to stop him was to activate weaponry in the approach path.
“Bogey One, probability of success, four two plus,” the computer announced, and almost immediately raised its ante to four three, four four, and four five. Storm cursed softly and continuously.
“Time to jump?” he demanded.
“Twenty-three seconds optimum.” Then the computer added, “Hit, beam, remote station twelve. Field anomalies indicate a temporary reduction of efficiency in Bogey One drives. Probability of Enemy success, three one steady.”
Storm smiled. “Good shooting, Cassius.”
Cassius was too busy to acknowledge the applause. He bent over his master console with the intensity of a virtuoso pianist, totally immersed in his art, webbing Abhoussi with beams of destruction.
Storm turned to his own master, secured it. He had not rattled Abhoussi at all.
He leaned back and watched Cassius while fighting off visions of Pollyanna being crisped by Abhoussi’s weaponry. Hawksblood’s man was firing only in self-defense, but might have orders to kill if he could not capture.
The odds against Abhoussi lengthened. Storm fidgeted. He placed little faith in computer analyses. He had beaten their odds when they had been five-to-one against him. The best games machines, with brains cyborged in, could not take into account all the human factors of a battle situation.
“Hit, beam,” the computer announced. “Drive anomalies. Bogey One no longer accelerating. Probability of generator damage seven zero plus.”
“Catch time,” Storm asked. It had been telescoping, but Abhoussi had been hand-over-handing it up the scope.
“Eleven seconds.”
Storm smiled. Abhoussi was climbing an ever-steepening slope. One more perfect shot from Cassius would do it.
Again he paid his chief of staff his due. The man was not just trying for hits, he was sharpshooting Abhoussi’s facility for dragging Michael off to neutral space. And that at a time when he could have eased up and allowed his most hated enemy to perish.
Storm grabbed a mike, called the ingress locks. “Get a boat ready for rescue work. Have it crewed and standing by for astrogational instruction. Is Lucifer there yet?” He cut off before he received a reply. The computer was chattering again.
“Hit, beam. Major drive anomalies. Probability of generator damage nine zero plus. Probability of Enemy success, one three minus.”
Storm moved to Traffic. “Contact the cruiser,” he told the watchstander.
“Bogey One commencing evasive maneuvering,” the computer continued. “Probability that Enemy is attempting to disengage, nine five plus.” Abhoussi had accepted defeat.
Establishing the comm link took longer than the action had. Abhoussi was more interested in survival than in chitchat.
When the pale-faced Ship’s Commander finally responded, Storm asked, “Can you manage your generators yourselves, Commander? Any casualties you can’t handle? I have a rescue boat standing by.”
Abhoussi gulped air, replied, “We’ll manage, Colonel. We took no casualties.”
“All right.” Storm blanked off. “Cease firing,” he ordered.
The order was unnecessary. Cassius had secured his gun board.
Was Abhoussi telling the truth? He had the feel of a man who would let his people die the death-without-resurrection before putting them into the hands of an enemy capable of using them against his employer later.
Storm called the ingress locks again. “Cancel the boat alert. We won’t need it.” Then, “Cassius, let’s go meet Michael. He’ll have an interesting story. Might even tell the truth.”
“Good show, gentlemen,” Cassius told the watch-standers. “Run a full systems check before you go off duty. See that Supply and Weapons know which mines and missiles to replace.” His hard gaze darted from face to face. No one met it.
Storm peered into the shadows. The ravenshrike had concealed itself. It was alert.
“I think we did all right,” he told Cassius as they followed the dogs into an elevator. “It was my kind of battle. Nobody got hurt.”
“They should all be so chesslike.”
A shadow moved in the shadows of a corner of Combat. The eyes of Storm’s ravenshrike burned as they watched Homer and Benjamin. Homer slipped into the still warm seat before the mines and missiles board. The blind man caressed trigger switches and status boards with his sensitive fingers. He listened for his sporadic psi. He depressed an activation key, paused, tripped a fire switch.
Daggers of flame scarred the deep space night two light seconds from the Fortress. A swarm of hyper-capable seeker missiles went looking for Commander Abhoussi’s cruiser.
The vessel had not traveled far.
Alarms screamed aboard the warship. Automatic weapons responded.
Constellations vanished behind a veil of fire. Abhoussi’s engineers seized their only chance. They kicked in the damaged generators. The cruiser twisted away into hyperspace, leaving fragments of itself behind. The seekers, unaware of the cruiser’s destination, began cutting lazy search patterns over half-light-year quadrants.
Homer’s faint and seldom reliable psi touched upon a remote, short-lived scream. He leaned back and smiled at an aghast Benjamin. “It’s done.”
“Ah, Homer . . . ” Benjamin could not think of anything to say. He could not meet the eyes of the watch-standers.
Their faces were long and grey. Storm was going to cut their hearts out for not stopping this.
The ravenshrike shuddered as it sensed the psionic scream and the pure disgust of the Center watch. It wrapped itself in wings and shadow, closed its eyes, and awaited its master’s return.

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