Twilight of the clans III: the hunters

by Thomas S. Gressman

  With it came a tightness around the eyes that Andrew Redburn had never noticed before.

  Morgan crossed the bridge, going, not to the holotank as was his wont, but to the main viewscreen. There, all the glory of the universe was displayed in its diamond brilliance against the black velvet of the void.

  Here and there, Redburn saw the faint gleam-and-fade of the fleet's starships, as the light of the nameless, numberless star far below was caught and reflected by them. The three officers stared silently at the scene before them, each lost in his private meditations.

  How far we've come. Redburn's thoughts echoed in his mind. From the Garden to the stars, twenty thousand years of human history have all led up to this point.

  Suddenly, a deep sigh escaped Morgan's lips. Startled out of his reverie, Redburn whirled around to see his friend and commander leaning heavily on the narrow lip surrounding the viewscreen, his eyes closed, head down.

  "Morgan?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Andrew. I didn't mean to startle you," Morgan said softly as he lifted his face toward the viewer once again. "I'm just a little worn out.

  "Whuhh," he sighed again. "We could all use some rest, but I don't think there'll be much to go around until this business is over with."

  A distant look came into Morgan's eyes as he straightened, running his hand through his hair. Then he seemed to come back to the moment, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  "I'm all right, Andrew." Widening his gaze to include Commodore Beresick, Morgan gestured at the viewscreen. "Why don't you two turn in? You've both worked hard these last couple of days, I think I'd like to stand here and watch the stars for awhile."

  Beresick bade Morgan good night with a short, formal bow, but Redburn lingered for a moment. "You sure you're all right?"

  "I'll be fine, Andrew. I'll be fine." Morgan laid a hand on his friend's shoulder and guided him gently toward the bridge pressure lock. "Don't worry about me, old friend. We've seen it all, and we'll make it through this one too."

  As the lock cycled open, Morgan turned back toward the viewscreen. Redburn paused and watched him for a moment. For the first time in his life, he noticed the toll that had been taken on his friend in the service of his nation. Lines of care had etched themselves deeply into his face. Like most soldiers of his generation, Morgan had a perceptible darkening of the skin on his face, hands, and arms, even after months of isolation aboard a starship. The permanent sunburn was a legacy of too many hours spent in the sun, either on parade or in battle. Still, his back was as straight, his step as sure and strong, and his green eyes as clear and bright as the day they'd met thirty years before.

  Briefly, Redburn considered returning to his friend's side, but the love and respect he felt kept him from doing it. Bidding Morgan a silent good night, Andrew Redburn stepped into the lock and headed for bed.

  * * *

  Morgan stood in front of the viewscreen, staring at the glittering stars. His thoughts ran in many channels. He thought of his father, gone these thirty years. He thought of Kym, again wondering how long before he'd see her again. He thought of the mission before him, and wondered when he would see his home once more.

  The Com Guard Officer-of-the-Deck stole several surreptitious glances at Morgan as he leaned on the viewscreen's edge.

  Abruptly, Morgan straightened, and saw how the OOD flinched. He could see that the man had been about to reach for the button labeled "General Quarters."

  Realizing that he'd startled the OOD, Morgan smiled sheepishly. Reading the nametape stitched over the man's right breast, he called him by name.

  "Good night, Mister Frei."

  "Good night, sir."

  Without another word, Morgan adjusted his tan uniform jacket and walked off the bridge, feeling the accustomed spring in his step.

  During the short trip back to his cabin, Morgan encountered no one. It was the middle of the watch, and most of the Invisible Truth's off-duty personnel were either asleep or relaxing in one of the battle cruiser's eight rec rooms. In a way, he was grateful for the solitude. His time of meditation at the viewscreen had left him feeling more relaxed and refreshed than he had been in a long time. Running into someone he'd have to talk to would have ruined the quiet, almost dream-like peace in his heart.

  Upon reaching his quarters, he keyed in a request with the ship's central computer for an 0600 wake-up call.

  It'll be good to get up early, he told himself. Maybe I'll even get in a couple of kilometers before staff meeting. He laughed briefly at the thought. Morgan hated the stationary treadmills located in the officer's rec room, preferring instead to run laps around the Truth's number one cargo bay.

  Tossing his jacket over a hook bolted to the back of his bedroom door, he rummaged around in a drawer of the wood-veneered night stand next to his bunk, eventually coming up with an odd-looking contraption of tubes and valves. Opening the lower, locked compartment of the night stand, he shoved the big, blue steel Colt auto pistol out of the way, extracting a three-sided bottle half-full of a rich, amber-colored liquid. The gold foil label proclaimed the contents to be Glengarry Black Label, Special Reserve. Though some, Colonel MacLeod among them, might argue the point, Morgan believed that the natives of Glengarry produced the finest single malt whiskey outside of the Scottish Highlands.

  Taking a small nightcap was one of his few vices. He'd taken to it recently to help ease the aches and pains of age. It was something he wouldn't allow the less than one quarter gravity of a recharging JumpShip to interfere with. Pulling the real cork stopper from its mouth, Morgan attached the device to the bottle. The turn of a valve allowed compressed gas to hiss from a small cartridge through the tubing and into the bottle, where it forced the golden liquid through a second set of conduits, which carried the whiskey into a plastic squeeze bulb. As the bulb filled, Morgan closed the valve and removed the transfer system from the bottle.

  Taking a deep breath of satisfaction, he sat back on his bunk, not even removing his boots first. His Com Guard steward had often groused about his habit of lying down not only fully clothed, but still wearing his boots. The highly polished synthleather, according to steward, left black scuffs on the sheets, though Morgan had never been able to see them.

  Taking the plastic bulb's nozzle between his teeth, Morgan gently squeezed out a mouthful of the liquor. Closing his eyes, he rolled the whiskey around his tongue, savoring the smoky, faintly iodine taste imparted to the malt by the slow peat fires over which it was roasted. A second, long, slow sip emptied the bulb, which Morgan carefully replaced in the drawer, along with the high-low pressure transfer system.

  As he relaxed against the thin foam pillow, he felt a slight numbness in the roof of his mouth and tongue. Brother, they brew it strong on Glengarry.

  As he was closing his eyes, a light, polite rap sounded at his door.

  I knew it was too good to last, Morgan thought as he sat up.

  Or tried to. Something was wrong. His arms refused to obey. Summoning all his will, Morgan tried to swing his legs off the bunk, but failed. There was a tightness in his chest, as though a thick leather band was being slowly tightened about his torso.

  Fighting the raw edges of panic, he tried to call out for help. A faint, rattling gasp escaped his lungs.

  As his sight began to dim, his thoughts flashed between the wife and family he was leaving behind and the mission he was leaving unfinished.

  Blackness collapsed in on him, leaving only one bright spark at the center of his vision. Then, it too went out.

  31

  Battle Cruiser ISS Invisible Truth

  Task Force Serpent

  Deep Periphery

  03 January 3060 0845 Hours

  "Let him sleep." Andrew Redburn told an orderly as Ariana Winston entered the conference room. "Yesterday was a long day. We can get by without him for awhile."

  "Morgan?"

  "Yeah." Redburn turned to her. "He was really beat. I don't ever remember seeing him look so wor
n out. You're the second-in-command, General. How about if you take over this meeting?"

  "All right," Winston agreed. "But it seems a little strange, like I just launched a coup or something."

  In ones and twos, the rest of the staff wandered in, some of them clutching noteputers, others nursing steaming cups of soycaff, a bitter coffee substitute common to military rations. Most looked like they hadn't gotten much sleep. Winston felt almost as tired as they looked. She and her regimental colonels had spent several hours after leaving the Invisible Truth going over the Light Horse's phase of the assault against the Jaguar home-world. Edwin Amis and Sandra Barclay both had dark smudges under their eyes, and the Twenty-first's veteran commander wore a heavy stubble of beard. Only Charles Antonescu showed no outward signs of fatigue, appearing to be as fresh as though he'd enjoyed ten hours sleep, instead of the four they'd all had. Winston had purposely avoided looking in a mirror before she'd left the Gettysburg. She knew that she was looking just as bad as the rest of her staff.

  At least I can't get dark circles under my eyes, she told herself, grateful that her dark skin hid some signs of fatigue.

  In spite of the fact that the weariness gripping the commanders limited the amount of joking and chatter that usually marked the slack time before staff meetings, it took Winston a long time to bring the session to order.

  "Where's Morgan?" Marshal Sharon Bryan asked.

  "Marshal Hasek-Davion is indisposed," Winston answered quickly, forestalling any response by Andrew Redburn. "As the executive officer of this task force, I'll be taking over today's sessions until he can join us." The sharpness in Winston's voice offered a challenge to anyone who might dare to oppose her.

  Bryan decided not to push it.

  "When we broke up last night, I believe Marshal Hasek-Davion asked us to refine the plans for our individual phases of the operation. Major Ryan, your people will be going in first, so we might as well start with you. Let's have it."

  Ryan rose to his feet.

  "As we discussed yesterday, my teams will be going in a few days ahead of the main assault force." Ryan ran down the operational outline the staff had established for his commandos the previous day. He explained the changes he and his staff had made in order to make the plan more workable, and more survivable.

  "We'll start by making a HALO insertion pass, as discussed. The Haruna will jump in and out at the zenith point. I'd rather use a pirate point, but our system maps just aren't accurate enough. We'll be using recognition codes supplied by Agent Trent and masquerading as Clan ships. Our original plan called for us to use the Bisan. But since we captured a Clan DropShip, we may as well use it. The Stiletto will detach and make a normal burn for the planet. After deploying the teams, the DropShip will ground in a concealed locatiqn in the Lunar Range on Abysmal. The Haruna will go through a standard recharge and jump outsystem again."

  Ryan answered questions concerning the special teams' targets, schedules, and operating procedures, until the staff was satisfied with the plan. By the time he took his seat again, the first phase of the Huntress assault, code-named "Stalking Tiger" bore only a passing resemblance to the one he'd initially presented. Ariana could tell that Ryan was unaccustomed to having "amateurs" planning special forces operations, but admired the way he gave no sign. She wondered if he was just putting on a good face now, but would simply conduct the operation his own way later.

  And so it went, for several hours. Each commander presented his refined operational plan, and suffered while the command staff mutated it into something else. Several times during the course of the session, Winston caught Redburn glancing anxiously at the door.

  She knew he was watching for Morgan. She couldn't stop glancing at the door now and then herself. Where could he be?

  Halfway through the meeting, the conference room door slid open to reveal a man wearing a khaki jumpsuit of a junior petty officer. The single blue stripe on his shirt cuff marked him as a cabin steward. Quietly, he circled the table, cutting behind Colonel Samuel Kingston as the Capellan officer was delivering a self-aggrandizing lecture on his unit's role in the overall operation. Approaching Winston, the steward leaned over and spoke into her ear in a hurried whisper.

  Twisting in her seat, Winston stared at the young man, forgetting the documents she'd been examining. They slipped from her fingers and bobbled around her in the zero-G.

  "General, are you all right?" asked Beresick.

  "Yes, Commodore," Winston replied, gathering up the sheets of hard copy that had escaped from her fingers. "Will you please take over the meeting until I return?"

  Without waiting for a reply, she rose quickly and elbowed her way out of the crowded briefing room, the cabin steward close on her heels.

  As she was leaving, Winston heard Commodore Beresick try to cover the awkwardness of the moment with a joke. "So, who's going to take over when I have to leave?"

  In the lift car, Winston turned to the steward.

  "Are you sure?" she whispered, as though she didn't want someone to hear the answer.

  "Yes, ma'am," The steward's voice was also hushed. "It looks like it happened sometime last night."

  Winston squeezed out through the widening gap as soon as the lift doors began to open and darted down the passageway. Rounding the corner, she saw a pair of Com Guard marines standing outside Morgan's stateroom door.

  Rorynex needle rifles cradled in their arms, they stared up and down the corridor, looking as though they would fire at any suspicious sound.

  Striding through the open stateroom door, Winston ignored the marines' stares. The flag office looked the same as it always did; clean, but untidy. Stacks of hardcopy files and datachips littered the desktop. Morgan's personal data-reader sat untouched on the sideboard. Incongruously, a fresh pot of coffee sat steaming next to the reader, brewed automatically by the timer-controlled machine.

  In Morgan's stateroom, the scene reminded Winston of a sequence from some bad detective holoshow. The Invisible Truth's chief medical office, Captain Joel Donati, was standing beside the Marshal's bunk, gazing sadly at a sheet-covered form. Glancing up at Winston's breathless arrival, he blinked a few times and shook his head.

  "How did he die, Doctor?"

  "I'm not sure, General." Donati shook his head. "It looks like his heart just gave out."

  "I didn't know Morgan had a heart problem," Winston said.

  "I didn't, either." Donati shrugged, but he was obviously having difficulty maintaining his air of professional detachment. "It happens that way sometimes. .. ." His voice broke. He cleared his throat, and said, "Some hidden flaw suddenly manifests itself, and bang, you're gone." He shook his head again, refusing to meet Winston's eye. "It just happens."

  "All right. Blast." Ariana felt as though she should say something else, but her mind was reeling. She tried to think about what to do next. "I suppose you'd better take him to sick bay. I've got to tell the staff."

  She surveyed the stateroom. The room was as neat as the flag office had been cluttered. Not a single object was out of place. Already, the presence of the man who had occupied this space was beginning to fade. It looked as though it could be anyone's room. Sorrow began to well up within her. The pain and sense of loss was almost as great as she'd felt when her father died.

  Steeling herself, Winston squared her shoulders and marched out of the stateroom, passing a pair of white-clad hospital stewards. Something familiar about the man carrying one end of the stretcher caught her eye. The man must have felt her curious stare. He turned to face her. Tears fell from the steward's almond-shaped eyes, but there was no flicker of recognition. Perhaps she'd encountered him during one of her visits to the flagship. With a bow of apology, she turned the corner and made her way to the lift.

  * * *

  Unexpectedly, General Ariana Winston bobbed her head at him in a token of respect and apology. For the first time in his career, Kasugai Hatsumi was thrown off balance.

  In the shuffling of personnel th
at had followed the battle at Trafalgar, the nekekami leader had received orders transferring him to the medical staff aboard the Invisible Truth. The message said that his mission was at hand, and he'd be given his target once the fleet was safely away from the battle area. They'd been in-system for less than three hours when a long coded message was sent to his data unit. Translating the message, he saw that the mission assigned was indeed of great importance. It took all of his skill at hengen-kashi no jitsu to maintain the false persona of a ComStar hospital steward that had been created for him. Fortunately, his study of personality traits, which was so much a part of that discipline, was sufficient to see him through. When Captain Donati called for a stretcher to be brought to Marshal Hasek-Davion's stateroom, Hatsumi was one of the stewards assigned to the task.

  Briefly, he'd been afraid that Winston had recognized him as the technician who'd serviced her Cyclops on Defiance, but then she hadn't seemed to remember him.

  "C'mon, Yee," Corpsman Leland Newell said, calling Hatsumi by his cover name, and nudging him with the stretcher. "Let's get this over with."

  * * *

  Ariana Winston felt as though she couldn't think. As she returned to the briefing room, she only wanted to get what she had to do next over with quickly. She leaned for a moment against the bulkhead alongside the door, taking a moment to collect herself and put her thoughts in order. Drawing in a few deep gulps of air, she straightened, and strode purposefully through the door.

  The shock etched into her face betrayed her.

  Commodore Beresick, the first to see her enter, jumped to his feet.

  "General, what's wrong?" he asked.

  Stepping mechanically into the room, Winston grabbed an empty chair and leaned against its metal frame.

  "Give me your attention." Her voice started out strong, but caught in her throat. Twice, she coughed, trying to open up her swelling throat. Finally, a third cough freed her voice. "Sometime last night, Marshal Morgan Hasek-Davion died of an apparent heart attack."