The Fleet-Book Four Sworn Allies

by David Drake (ed)

  The group around “Sergeant Bradley” backed away as though he had suddenly grown an extra head.

  The imposter in uniform tried to run. Sienkiewicz grabbed him by the throat from behind. “Thought you’d be a big hero, did ya? Some clerk from personnel, gonna be a hero now it’s safe t’ be a hero?”

  The imposter twisted around. A quick-release catch snicked, shooting the knife from his left sleeve into his palm.

  Sienkiewicz closed her right hand over the imposter’s grip on his knife hilt. She twisted. Bones broke.

  The knife came away from the hand of her keening victim. She slammed the point down into the bar top, driving it deep into the dense plastic before she twisted again and snapped the blade.

  “Big hero . . .” she whispered. Her expression was that of nothing human. She gripped the Weasel-tail stole and said, “How much did these cost ‘cha, hero?” as she tore the trophies away and flung them behind her.

  The bartender’s finger was poised over the red emergency button that would summon the Shore Police. He didn’t push it.

  Sienkiewicz’s grip on the imposter’s throat was turning the man’s face purple. Nobody moved to stop her. Her right hand stripped off the uniform sleeve with its Headhunter insignia and tossed it after the stole.

  Then, still using the power of only one arm, she hurled the imposter into a back booth also. Bone and plastic cracked at the heavy impact.

  “I’m okay, Sie,” Kowacs repeated, but he let his corporal put her arm back around him again.

  As the two Headhunters left the Red Shift Lounge, one of the enlisted men muttered, “You lying scum,” and drove his heel into the ribs of the fallen man.

  Kowacs found that if he concentrated, he could, walk almost normally. There was a lot of traffic this close to the docking hub, but other pedestrians made way good-naturedly for the pair of big Marines.

  “Sie,” Kowacs said, “I used to daydream, you know? Me an old man, my beard down t’ my belt, y’know? And this little girl, she comes up t’ me and she says, ‘Great-grandaddy, what did you do in the Weasel War?’”

  “Careful of the bollard here, sir,” Sienkiewicz murmured. “There’ll be a shuttle in a couple minutes.”

  “And I’d say to her,” Kowacs continued, his voice rising, “‘Well, sweetheart—I survived.’”

  He started to sob. Sienkiewicz held him tightly. The people already standing at the shuttle point edged away.

  “But I never thought I would survive, Sie!” Kowacs blubbered. “I never thought I would!”

  “Easy, sir. We’ll get you bunked down in a minute.”

  Kowacs looked up, his red eyes meeting Sienkiewicz’s concern. “And you know the funny thing, Sie,” he said. “I don’t think I did survive.”

  “Easy . . .”

  “Without Weasels t’ kill, I don’t think there’s any Nick Kowacs alive.”

  Admiral Dav Su Allison, retired

  Rules of Command

  46.8475A1.1

  . . . the League years a firm policy of exploitation was established. Even in the early empire nonhuman races’ treatment was related more to their similarity to humanity and their physical attractiveness to mankind than for their real value. During the golden era of the High Empire, all races achieved a functional equality. During the millennium that followed the flight of the last Emperor, the treatment of aliens varied greatly depending on local conditions.

  The Fleet, today, attempts to use alien personnel in a manner for which their unique natures best suit them. In some cases this means simply not accepting such races as the Janna as recruits, even though their presence would likely improve the quality of life for shipboard personnel. In other cases the employment of nonhuman militia widens the envelope of where even bio-modified personnel can function effectively. Purely practical consideration mandates the use of the members of certain nonhuman races in specific circumstances. No being other than the Kurles of Hamilton’s World could survive in the sensory-depriving conditions required of distant monitoring stations. Nor could any but the short-lived Paglea operate under extremes of radiation.

  Still, the vast majority of the personnel of the Fleet is human. This is the result less of xenism than the recognition of the logistical necessity. For any navy to efficiently provide all of the needs of its personnel, a multiplicity of requirements must be avoided. The environmental support needed for a truly multiracial force would be staggering. Its requirements would, of themselves, preclude any level of combat effectiveness. In view of this, just as parts are standardized, so also must be the bulk of Fleet personnel. Taking into account mankind’s fecund nature and proclivity for violence, man has logically held the responsibility for manning the Fleet since its inception as a defense force for the Original Thirteen.

  Beyond sheer necessity, mankind has proven itself quite adept at combat. Few species share or understand our admiration for destruction. Without exception, those that do are counted as mankind’s staunchest allies or bitterest enemies.

  “IT LIES!”

  The messenger quivered with indignation, drawing himself up on his hind legs—in indignation, yes, but also to bring his own eyes level with Steetsin’s, where he reclined on the couch from which so many of his ancestors had delivered judgment.

  Around them, the Great Chamber of Wedge Hold stirred to the mutter of Steetsin’s warriors. Above their heads hung the tattered banners captured in hundreds of years of fighting. The walls boasted their trophies, too—ancient weapons from celebrated battles.

  There were a few more recent weapons—sidearms and slugthrowers once carried by officers and men of the Fleet.

  “Chief of the Wedge Sept,” the messenger insisted, “this missive was penned by the Clan Chieftain’s own hand!”

  “It cannot have been!” Steetsin snarled. “Never would a Khalian chieftain stoop to such cowardice!”

  “How can it be cowardice, if the Clan Chieftain does it?” the messenger demanded.

  The Syndicate envoy leaned close to Steetsin’s back and murmured, “How can the Clan Chieftain have done it, if it is cowardly?”

  The answer was clear, and Steetsin did not shy from it. “If it was the Clan Chieftain in truth who wrote it, he must have taken the Terrans’ pay!”

  The messenger spat an oath in sheer shock, before he managed to control his outrage. His voice quivered with rage as he said, “It is not cowardice, but the honorable respect due an adversary who has proved himself worthy.”

  He did not explain; he did not need to. The Fleet had driven the Khalia back on all fronts, had captured Target in spite of the Khalia’s furious defense, and now had invaded the home world itself! They might he hateful, but they were mighty—and being mighty, they were worthy of allegiance.

  And being the victors, Khalian honor demanded that the Khalia accept whatever task the Fleet assigned them, so long as it was in battle.

  Yet they had slain Steetsin’s mate and cubs on Target and, what was worse, had slain them unknowing, when the city in which they denned had exploded in flame. That, Steetsin could not forgive—nor could he truly think of the men of the Fleet as allies. “Therefore does the Chief of Clan Ruhas say that we must be done with war-for-hire, and ally with the Alliance Fleet, who had proved themselves worthy—and be done also with the Syndicate, who have sought to buy our honor, and have lied!”

  “Be still!” Steetsin flowed off his couch, claws out, lips writhing back in a snarl. “I will hear no evil against the councilor who has advised me so long and so well! Cartwright is no liar, but a tried and valiant warrior, who has watched with me in the cold of the night and has stood by my side through many battles. Speak not against him, or his kind!”

  Cartwright smiled and inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment of Steetsin’s praise.

  The messenger’s lips writhed back in a harsh laugh. “What! Are we to hear no
wrong of your Syndicate shadow, who would have honor for coin, and say the Chief of Clan Ruhas lies?”

  “If he speaks truly, let him come here to the Hold of the Wedge and speak it to my face! Let him stand against the upbraiding of a vassal who has ever been honorable and true! Until he does, the Khalia of the Wedge Sept will harry any human of the Fleet who comes near!”

  “Then up and out!” the messenger sneered. “For an army of the Fleet even now rolls through your valley, coming to your gate with tokens of friendship—and its gunboat circles overhead!”

  Steetsin stood rigid. Then he hissed, “If they come, they bring destruction, not gifts—and we shall know you for the traitor you are!”

  Running steps, and a soldier burst into the Great Chamber. “Lord Steetsin! The Blind Eyes show an army within the Wedge, and a Scout overhead!”

  Steetsin spared the messenger a look of hatred.

  “Go up to your battlements,” the messenger urged. “Look down and see that they are truly humans of the Fleet—and count any weapons you may see, that are more than sidearms!”

  “I go,” Steetsin hissed, “and if I see cannon, you shall die!’

  * * *

  Cartwright was only two paces behind Steetsin, in spite of the steep incline of the tower steps. The Chief noted the fact with grim satisfaction as he came out onto the battlements—as he had said, Cartwright was a warrior. He leaped to the crenels and reared up, forelimbs resting on the stone—stone that had been laid down by his father (dead in battle ten years ago), with money given them by the Syndicate—money, and the use of gigantic shambling machines that had cut and lifted the stones. He looked down, as his father had before him, and his grandfather, and all his forefathers, over the Wedge—the two rivers, dimly seen off to each side, that flowed toward each other, meeting in a point as they flowed into the Great River. Beyond its waters lay the domain of Clan Chirling—allies now, but for hundreds of years, enemies. Hundreds of years, until the Syndicate had come and shown them wondrous weapons, that could be theirs if only they would fight the Fleet. He felt a stab of shame, quickly buried—there was no surprise that the Khalia had hearkened to the Syndicate’s promises, for who would not at the sight of weapons that could reach to the horizon, and ships that could carry an army to the stars? They must have been wonders indeed to Steetsin’s grandfather, and he could not be amazed that all the Khalia had put aside hostilities to pounce on the contemptible humans of the Fleet . . .

  And here came the contemptible ones, marching ten abreast in a long flowing carpet, down the valley and up toward his gates.

  He stared again at hairless skin and unc1awed hands. How could such creatures know of fighting? It should have been so easy . . .

  But it had not been, and the Chirlings were his friends now, had been the shield on his back at Target, and the enemy was now his ally . . .

  The memory rose up of his mate and cubs, a memory sheathed in flame, as he imagined it must have been when the bomb struck, and the hatred raged up again. What honor could they have, who cared not if they slew families and cubs? How could the Chiefs of the Clans have made peace, and allied with the Fleet? Better to have died one and all, each and every Khalian! He had to admit to a certain sneaking admiration for the enemy, for their tenacity arid their fighting skills but the hatred was still there, over all.

  “It is true, Cartwright,” he hissed. “I see no rocket launchers, no cannon. They come in peace—as much as an army can do.”

  “And how much is that?” Cartwright breathed at his shoulder. “What will happen if you admit them within your gates, Steetsin?”

  Steetsin stood rigid, and the lifelong animosity of one raised to regard the humans of the Fleet as his enemies rose to the fore, and with it the hatred in flames. “Gunner!” he snapped to the soldier nearby. “Bring down that gunboat!”

  The soldier was too well trained to hesitate or argue. He turned to his cannon. Its barrel rose, swiveling, and a huge gout of flame burst from the muzzle. Its thunder shook the turret as the energy bolt split air aside, and the gunboat lit with a brief dazzle.

  “A force-shield!” Steetsin spat. “Treachery!”

  But the gunboat had been too close for the shield to absorb all the energy—an edge was twisted, scorched. Not enough to cause any great damage, no, but enough so that the gunboat spat back at him, a lightning bolt that seared the air near Steetsin and blasted two crenels off the turret. By the time they started to fall, Steetsin was already down under the stone. “What friends are they who fire!?”

  “Ones who insult you.” Cartwright was down beside him.

  “So little energy, so small a shot . . .”

  “They shall learn the anger of the Wedge Sept!” Steetsin howled, leaping to his feet. “All warriors! Arm and form for a sally! As your grandfather did, against Khalian thieves!”

  “No-o-o-o-o!” The cry split the air, freezing all the warriors in surprise. The messenger leaped into motion, a brown blur streaking toward the gate. Too late, Steetsin realized his error—he should have had the warrior bound hand and foot and cast into the dungeon. But he had not, and the Khalian rose up next to the gate, forelegs reaching out to the great bar.

  “Kill him!” Steetsin screamed, but none of his warriors moved against the Clan Chief’s messenger. “Bum him!” And Steetsin himself leveled his sidearm, but too late, too late, for even as the gun leaped in his hand, the messenger had wrested the bar from its staples. He leaped in pain as Steetsin’s bullet took him; he fell crumpled in the dust, dead—but the huge gate swung inward, and the army of the Fleet filled the portal.

  “Fight!” Steetsin howled. “Slay as you retreat!” For he knew the Hold was lost.

  Finally, his warriors came alive. These were no loyal Khalians they faced, but the age-old enemy, tales of whose cruelty and cowardice had filled their ears almost from birth; these were the monsters who had somehow overwhelmed them. Not a warrior among them but had lost a wife or a comrade on Target; not a warrior among them but bore his own store of hate for the Fleet. Guns racketed all around the courtyard. Humans of the Fleet fell, gouting blood, but others took cover behind the gate or ran for the flimsy protection of carts and dead bodies. Guns barked in Fleet hands—puny sidearms and rifles, but so many of them, so many! And Steetsin’s men began to fall . . .

  “To the postern!” he screeched as he fled down the tower stairs. “To the tunnel!” as he raced for the great portal in the side of the Great Chamber. “Down and away!” as his men began to file down to the escape passage.

  Steetsin himself ran to join the rear guard, to heat his barrel to melting with bullets for the humans of the Fleet, knowing that Cartwright was nearby, would follow, would shadow him, even though Steetsin could see him not . . .

  * * *

  When the last of the men had stumbled through, Steetsin ran the pads of his paws lightly over the tunnel wall, found the third brick from the top, lifted it, and pressed the button underneath. A hundred yards away, on the other side of the river, a muffled explosion sounded. Steetsin turned away, the knowledge bitter within him that one wall of his ancestral Great Chamber was now choked with a jumbled mass of stonework—but no enemy would follow through the blocked mouth of the tunnel. “Raid leaders!” he called. “Tally your men!”

  His lieutenants counted quickly and reported in. Only two thirds of Steetsin’s warriors had come out of the keep. His neck fur bristled at the thought. “So many comrades slain! Yet we shall avenge them.” He looked about him, gimlet-eyed. “Where is Cartwright?”

  There he came, turning away from a warrior with a wounded arm—bandaged now, and healing, thanks to Cartwright’s Syndicate medicine. “Do you seek me, Steetsin?”

  For some reason, the man’s atrocious accent suddenly grated on Steetsin’s nerves—now, after all these years! He told himself again that the human mouth was not made for Khalian shrills and whistles, and school
ed himself to patience. “What say you, Cartwright? How shall we desecrate this messenger’s memory, he who opened our gate to the humans of the Fleet? For surely, he deserves to be forever abhorred!”

  But a wordless protest sounded, from a hundred throats, and Steetsin turned, shocked. “How can you speak well of him!” he shrilled at his men. “He, who betrayed us!”

  Now, now they were silent. They stood, eyeing one another uneasily.

  “What—would you defend him, but not have the boldness to tell why?” Steetsin demanded. “Raznor, speak! You, who are my second in command! How can you defend the vile action of this traitor!”

  Raznor glanced at his captains, then turned back to Steetsin. “I do not, Chieftain—but he placed his faith in the Clan Chief, and was loyal to him.”

  Steetsin stared.

  “He must have known he would die,” Raznor explained, “but even so, he stuck fast to his word of loyalty. Such courage must be admired. Wrongheaded or not, his memory should not be desecrated.”

  Steetsin’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Truly, there was nothing to say.

  But Raznor was not done. “Who are we, to forswear loyalty to the Chief of our Clan? Tell, Steetsin—what cause have we to think he betrayed us? For surely, it is not for us to say what is best or worst for all Clan Ruhas!”

  Steetsin swelled with the horror, the enormity of it. “How could you have forgotten, forsaken the memories of your glorious comrades?” he shrilled. “What! Do you not remember their suffering? Do you not remember the fall of Target?”

  Then he took up the tale, began once again to recount the atrocities of the Fleet, to remind them of the falling fires, the twisted limbs, the charred wreckage and the wasted lives, of the eternal oblivion of male cubs who would not now have their chance to prove their courage, to gain their honor; of females who would not win through to ever-life through the honor of their sons.