Adrienne Martine-Barnes

by The Dragon Rises (v0. 9) (epub)

  “Be sure you mark the portions where the baton showed I was lying. The Adjudicator’s office likes accurate records. If I go on at my present rate, however, my legal cases will fill a warehouse by the time I die. Now, Commander Villiam, you are either with Admiralty Intelligence or working directly for the Empress as a watchdog for Gyre.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think we have time for games, Villiam.”

  “True. And my devotion to the Emperor is as great as your own.”

  “I presume, then, that you knew about this conspiracy.” “Oh, yes.”

  “And did nothing about it?”

  “My ways are not your ways, ur Fagon. It had to be allowed to run its course.”

  “Why?”

  “Araclyde, Admiral, must be stopped in a way that is final and effective. She was becoming a greater and greater threat to the Empire. There have been seven attempts on Clyven’s life in the past year, four of which we can lay at her door.”

  “Then why, if I may ask, didn’t you just remove her? I understand your people are very good at that.”

  “There are reasons. In any case, it was decided that discredit was a better political expedient than death.” Gilhame looked at Villiam with distate. “I see. What, then, would you have me do—let the Nabatean fleet take Gemna?”

  “Of course not, ur Fagon. You weren’t sent on this mission for your looks. You are to take command of both fleets when we come out into normal space.”

  “And what about the renegades who are in charge of key ships in Gyre’s fleet?”

  “I’ll take care of them,” Villiam answered.

  Gilhame made a faint moue with his thin lips, then shrugged. “As you wish. Is there anything else? I have some work to do before we get to Gemna.”

  When they left a few minutes later, Mafrin was still upset and Villiam had no expression at all. Gilhame paced the length of the room, striking his right fist into his left hand. Alvellaina watched him tensely, but Buschard was unmoved. The Witness seemed to be frozen in her seat.

  Finally, Gilhame picked up a half-empty tea mug and smashed it against the far wall. It broke, pouring the green liquid onto the wall and floor.

  “Damn butcher! Filthy assassin! Pers, how many run-ins have we had with these cloak-and-dagger politicians?” “Six, maybe seven. Yes, this is the seventh,” Buschard answered thoughtfully.

  “And what would you estimate was the number of lives lost through their machinations?”

  “Pretty high. If you throw in the population on Gretry— about eighty million.”

  “Eighty million people die for political expediency. What a waste! What a desolation!” He took a deep breath. “I’ll see you on the bridge later.” Gilhame opened the portal and vanished.

  “Buschard, what was all that?” Alvellaina asked. “Witness, I think you can go now.”

  “Yes, halba.”

  “Well, Buschard?” She studied him while she waited for an answer. Even tired and disheveled, he was a good-looking man. His light-blond hair fell onto his brow, and his generous mouth was drawn down at the corners.

  “Oh, it’s all of a piece with what happened between him and your father. Even at the Academy, the only thing that made him really angry, hot angry, was the useless spending of life. He’s a fighter, not some pacifist, but if you read his stats, you’ll find he has a fine record for keeping his men alive and his equipment intact. It’s one of the reasons men are eager to serve under him.

  “You see, he is aware that if he hadn’t figured out what Gyre was about, that bastard Villiam would have let him go renegade at Gemna or Gretry or who-knows-where, just to get enough evidence on Araclyde to nail her hide to the wall. Gil doesn’t ljke that—thinks it’s a dishonest way to fight.” He smiled and stood up. “He’ll go down to the ‘farm,’ weed a tank or two, to the great distress of the Hydroponics staff, and come back his old sardonic self. Don’t worry.” He patted her on the shoulder as he got up, gave her a light kiss on the cheek and left.

  Alvellaina stared at the portal after he had gone, frowning. Then she got herself another cup of tea and waited for the next development.

  Chapter XIX

  Gilhame sat upon his high seat on the bridge, running data on his screen at top speed. He had a headset on, and he murmured continuously into the mouthpiece. People scurried past him or stood at their stations. A tiny portion of his mind noted the curious similarity between the silent but continuous movement around him and some fantastic undersea panorama. Then he returned his full attention to the probable tactics of the Nabatean fleet.

  Finally he stopped, removed the headset and looked around. A pretty yeoman darted forward with a tray. She handed him a cup of hot liquid. “Thank you,” he said absently.

  Commander Frikard came up as he was sipping what appeared to be soup. “Well,” Gilhame asked, “are we going to get there first, or will they?”

  “We will, sir, but not by much. And, it looks like there are six dreadnought-class ships in addition to the Star of Nabat, their flagship.”

  “Six, hmm? Don’t look so glum. A dreadnought is a terrific ship if you’re blasting away space rabble, but if maneuvers like a beached whale. Besides, if our records of their staff are accurate, they don’t have a single officer capable of managing one of those tubs effectively. Ven, I sometimes get the impression that you derive some obscure pleasure from the threat of disaster. It makes me glad it is such a frequent thing in our lives together. So, seven dreadnoughts, and Araclyde will probably be on the Star.”

  “Do you think she is actually present?”

  “The computer does. Eighty-seven percent probability. I suppose I should speak to Commander Villiam, though if the truth be told, I’d rather talk to a var-leech.” He activated the comm, and a few seconds later they were linking him to the intelligence man.

  Gilhame looked at Villiam’s thin face and took a deep breath. “Commander,” he began without ceremony, “it is highly probable that the Empress is aboard the Star of Nabat. Do you have a preference as to her disposition— dead or alive?”

  “Of course I don’t want her killed. She must be taken! My lord, man, don’t you comprehend the situation?” “Commander, I am a simple fighting man. I have no wish to understand the situations you politicians create for whatever reasons. You want the Empress alive, and I’ll do my best.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, ur Fagon?”

  “Like you? Commander, my feelings are not relevant. But I expect you have quite a welcoming committee in the overworld, Commander, from Copia and Gretry. I have my own, of course, but every man who has died serving with me knew why he died. I’ve never sacrificed the population of an entire world to capture one woman—whatever her political importance.”

  “There are factors in the matter which . . .”

  “. . . have been deliberately withheld from me throughout the entire venture. I am fully cognizant of that, Villiam. As I said, I’m a simple man. I go where I am told and destroy the Emperor’s enemies. You, on the other hand, have no compunctions about removing anyone and anything to achieve whatever ends you feel necessary. The terms ‘friend’ and ‘foe’ have no meaning for you, do they? Ah, well, I don’t suppose it will matter in a century or two, not one bit. Just do me a favor, will you? After this is all over, if we ever meet socially, pretend you don’t know me. I am getting rather fussy about the company I keep.” He cut the link and watched Commander Villiam’s startled face vanish.

  The screen lit up almost immediately with technical information about the Nabatean fleet. He wondered if the population on Gemna had already been infected with the ingarit. He also wondered where those eight ships which Gyre had left on patrol had gone off to. He put his headset back on and started running the data as fast as he could. Finally, he felt he had as clear a picture of what he would find at Gemna as could be constructed by the computer.

  He and Frikard conferred, as they had done many times before, on the positioning of the fleet. Gilha
me was still nagged by the eight unaccounted-for cruisers. There was no indication of them on any of the inner-space tracks leading to Gemna. Were they already there?

  Gilhame suddenly asked, “How accurately can we calculate where the Nabatean fleet will emerge from inner space?”

  Frikard shrugged. “Within point-oh-one percent.” “And how well can we spot the Star of Nabatl “In inner space?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose we can differentiate it from the other dreadnought-class ships by its position in the line. The Nabateans are pretty conservative in their formations.” “What do you think? Can we use the trick we used on E-varit against the Star—just as they emerge?”

  “I don’t know. Cruisers aren’t going to be much use against a dreadnought.”

  “How about before they come out?”

  “In inner-space?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible. It’s never been done.”

  “Now, Ven. Impossible? The only thing which functions in I-S besides the drive units is tractor beams, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well?”

  “That’s insane!”

  “Probably. But if we can take out the Star, we may be able to save a great deal of trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.” Frikard sounded resigned.

  “Otherwise, it’s all hacking and hewing, with no science in it.”

  Frikard gave a slow grin. “Quite so, sir.” The previous year, ur Fagon had been asked to do some lecturing for the Academy on the subject of space warfare. He had done so, but he had not given the Academy either what it had expected or wanted. For ur Fagon had studied the aesthetics of ten famous space battles, had indicated to the students how an intuitive grasp of the dynamics of a situation could save lives and win battles and had played general mischief with the orthodox approaches to the subject. Frikard knew, after his years with ur Fagon, that the man saw patterns in battle formations which were not immediately apparent to others, and did not believe that they were invisible to anyone but himself. So, Frikard knew that ur Fagon’s desire to capture the dreadnought Star of Nabat indicated neither fear nor laziness on his admiral’s part, but was rather an admission that he had not yet visualized a pattern. Seizing the Star was the most direct way to shorten the battle and save lives. He also knew that mere ‘hacking and hewing’ offended his superior’s sensibilities.

  “The Gemna system in ten minutes, sir,” said one of the helmsmen.

  Gilhame punched some buttons and stared at the screen beside him. Frikard, looking over his shoulder, could see it was a schematic of the inner-space avenues leading to the Gemna system. After a moment, Gilhame said, “Tell me, Frikard, how much does it cost to reconstruct the fabric of space once it is disrupted?”

  “About six million talers, sir.”

  “That much? That’s more than some planet’s gross product in a century.”

  “It is.”

  “Still, it’s cheap compared with the loss of men and materials. What did Valdar Straits cost, exclusive of recompense?”

  “About two million.”

  “And that was only because we got E-varit’s flagship and stopped the battle.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “I still feel as if a critical piece of information is unknown to me. I wish I knew precisely what that bastard Villiam was up to. There are too many variables here to suit me.” He whistled tunelessly for a minute.

  Then he said. “Alright, Frikard. Get a warp-bomb squadron ready. I want the point of emergence that the Nabat will use mined as soon as we are out in normal space. And pray we have time. And pray Villiam knows what he is doing and doesn’t have his cranium inserted rectally, as I suspect he does. This one is not going to be shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “Sir, what about using ‘screamers’?”

  “The noise weapons we used on the gamester machine! We don’t have time to make any.”

  “We have plenty. Morshull got fascinated by the notion and has been playing with them ever since.”

  “Has he? It might just do the trick. How clever of you to think of it, Ven. What a way to even our odds! If Morshull ...”

  “He has modified the original device so that he can change the tone to disrupt the molecular structure of almost anything.”

  “Including flesh, no doubt. And to think, it all came out of the Elves’ Parade. What a misuse of music. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Alright, get some ready. We’ll mine the exit point too. I’d rather trap a good portion of the Nabatean fleet where they can’t get to us than try to take the whole by force.”

  He activated his headset and began giving orders. He was concentrating on this when the comm flashed. He finished the section of deployment he was working on and then opened the link.

  The less-than-lovely features of Captain Chillworthy of the battle cruiser Meldebone of Gyre’s fleet greeted him. Gilhame knew him from the profiles he had gotten on the conspirators hours earlier, but he decided to feign ignorance. Section captains were not supposed to interrupt Admirals.

  “What the devil is the meaning of this insubordination?” he roared at the screen, reflecting that there was some advantage to having the reputation of a son-of-a-demon. “Who are you?”

  “Chillworthy of the Meldebone, Admiral. What have you done with Admiral Gyre?”

  “Done? I haven’t done anything with the bugger. He’s asleep—or he was the last time I looked. Get off this line. I’m busy. I don’t have time to discuss Gyre’s drug habits. Cosmos! What passes for discipline in your fleet would make a bird puke.” Villiam was supposed to be taking care of the renegades. Why hasn’t he?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you believe.” Gilhame reached forward to press the cutoff switch, and then he saw it. A tiny golden dart flew up behind Chillworthy’s head, paused for a moment, then touched the man’s skull. The screen was filled with brains and blood as Chillworthy’s head exploded.

  Gilhame hoped that Villiam survived this battle so that he could tell the man what a contemptible creature he was. There was something repellent to Gilhame about a weapon that could be activated anytime, anywhere, to find and kill an individual so that there were not enough pieces left to identify the body. The miniature antipersonnel mines were rarely used, but Gilhame regarded it as typical of a man of Villiam’s stamp. He wondered where in the ship Villiam had planted one with his life-pattern on it, and whether he still radiated the same rhythm as the original Gilhame had. He did not doubt that Villiam had planned his death, just to cover the eventuality that he and Gyre might reach some partnership. The Commander was that kind of doublethink, double-deal fellow.

  They emerged into normal space with the usual problems of ships barely moving out of the way in time for the ships behind them. Ur Fagon’s fleet was well-drilled and made the transition moderately well, but there were still close calls. Gyre’s fleet was not only not as well-disciplined, it was suffering from the indecision of numerous officers who had not only lost their admiral, but had seen their commanding officers exploded in front of them.

  Once in normal space, ur Fagon’s ships went as quickly as possible to their positions, as did some of Gyre’s forces. But many of Gyre’s ships veered away from the main fleet, while others turned to offer battle to the still emerging ships behind them. There was no time when a ship was more

  vulnerable than when she was emerging into normal space.

  “Some of Gyre’s ships appear to be revolting, sir,” Frikard reported.

  “All of Guthry’s ships are revolting, Ven; some are currently mutinying. And Villiam was so certain he had the matter well-in-hand. He really doesn’t understand us, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get the portal at I-S 476 GN mined and our ships into position, and don’t worry about anything else. Let Villiam handle what he can. He made the mess, let him clean it up. But, anything gets in our way, destroy it. I don’t have time for finicking niceties
on this one. And where the devil are those eight cruisers from Gretry? I don’t like it that we haven’t found a trace of them yet.”

  Gilhame began reassessing the deployment of his fleet. He had presumed that some of Gyre’s people would turn on him, so he had not given them a major role in his plans. He did not believe that the conspiracy had stopped at the top level or that Gyre had any notion of what his underlings had done on their own. But Gilhame did not want to find himself fighting both the Nabat and Gyre’s people.

  After several minutes, he was satisfied that he had as good a grasp of what was happening to the two portions of the Kardusian forces as he could with a rapidly changing situation. He opened the comm, tuned it to the fleet-wide frequency and began to speak. “This is a general order to the Eighth and Twelfth Fleets from Admiral Gilhame ur Fagon. Any ship not proceeding to its assigned position will be assumed to be in mutiny and will be destroyed.” He watched his words print themselves out on his screen as well as echo over the sound system. Then he waited.

  It was not quite an empty threat. It was true he did not have the time to indulge in a fight with his own forces. It was also true that if he attempted to meet the Nabat with hostile ships behind him, he might as well surrender now.

  Except that ur Fagon never surrendered. He knew that his very reputation would be a deciding factor on some of the revolting ships. He sensed that fear of him would influence the actions of many, and he almost pitied the officer who had to make the choice between Gyre’s conspiracy and ur Fagon’s ire. He lacked the time to fully savor the dilemma, so he went back to gathering information and giving orders.

  His own ships were scooting across the edge of the Gemna system at their best speed. Some of the smaller vessels had already reached their positions, and the contingent which was to mine the ‘exit’ through which the Nabat would arrive was already at work. If only the enemy did not arrive early, it might just work!

  Several of the mutinying ships fell into line almost immediately. A little destroyer winked out of existence, meaning that someone had activated the inner-space drive in normal space. But there was still enormous confusion in Gyre’s fleet when Gilhame got another priority-one call on his comm.