East of the Sun, West of the Moon tcw-4

by John Ringo

  East of the Sun, West of the Moon

  ( The Counsil Wars - 4 )

  John Ringo

  When the council that controlled the world spanning computer Mother fell out in civil war, it plunged the world in an instant from high-tech utopia to medieval nightmare. Now Herzer Herrick and Megan Trevante have been assigned the mission to capture the spaceship that supplies the fuel for the whole world. Given that Herzer vaguely thinks orbital decay is something having to do with teeth it should be… interesting. With all the usual combat expected in a John Ringo novel, East of the Sun and West of the Moon sheds new light on the bizarre relationship between Herzer and Megan, the politics of the new born world and fascinating details of space technology.

  East of the Sun, West of the Moon

  by John Ringo

  To Miriam.

  For reminding me how to laugh.

  And, as always, for Captain Tammara Long.

  You fly with the angels now.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank, as usual, Travis (Doc Travis) Taylor for help in technical aspects of this book. Notably, for straightening me out on some fairly simple aspects of orbital mechanics and reentry. I’d also like to thank Timothy (Uncle Timmy) Bolgeo for correcting my numerous mistakes in electrical design. I’d also like to thank Patrick Vanner for saving me from making various technical mistakes as well as for the suggestion to use shuttles. As usual, any mistakes that are left are mine and not theirs.

  I’d also like to thank Linda Donohue for a great outfit and the girls at the San Diego Hooters, Downtown, for providing me with about half the minor characters on Team Icarus. Inspirational ladies all.

  Prologue

  Orc Private Tur-uck was having a bad day. It had started by being left in the camp to guard the baggage and had only gotten worse when the humans counterattacked and took the portals. He slammed his shield into the human pussy and drove him back, striking hard with his broad, curved sword. The blow slipped past the human’s defenses and blood flew from a deep gash that gaped like a bloody grin. Then the orc stabbed back in a blinding reverse and drove the sword into the human’s throat, ripping it out in a welter of gore.

  “The doors!” Sub-leader Grath bellowed. “Forget the humans! Get the doors up!”

  Tur-uck sheathed his sword and dropped his shield, sliding his fingers under the edge of the fallen doorway. The portals, until the humans had taken them, had been spilling out the victorious hordes of the Masters. None could stop the Horde; it was victorious in every battle. Except, a quiet voice suggested, this one. The humans had appeared from their own doorways and were knocking down the doors of the Masters, and the Horde, blindly obeying orders, was dashing out of the camp, leaving it to the human invaders.

  The doorway was heavy and the attack had cost Grath’s group many lives. Lives were nothing; they were to be spilled for the Masters. But they had barely enough to lift the portal to the level of Grath’s knees, much less set it back upright. It was heavy metal with a concrete base and no matter how they struggled they could not get it more than a meter off the ground.

  Tur-uck suddenly let go and dropped to his hands and knees, scuttling under the doorway.

  “Come back here, you coward!” Grath shouted, his voice made guttural by the Changes to his throat and the large canine tusks in his mouth.

  “I’m going to get help!” Tur-uck shouted, but he knew he was too late. Already more of the humans were charging Grath’s remaining orcs and from the far side there would be no way to raise the doorway.

  Tur-uck jumped upward, exiting the portal near its top and falling through the air without a cry to thump to the ground on the far side. His ears were immediately assaulted by the blessed sound of thousands of orcs, angrily balked by the fallen doorways. One of them kicked him as he rolled across the ground, but that was more in the way of a greeting than in anger. It was simple courtesy to kick someone when they were down.

  “You!” one of the Lesser Masters shouted, striding forward and waving back the orcs that were gathered around the mirrorlike portal. “Where did you come from? What in the hell is happening?”

  “Master!” Tur-uck groveled, rolling to his hands and knees and bowing his head. “The humans have taken the portals and tipped them over! We tried to right them but we were about to be overwhelmed. I returned to bring word, Master!”

  “How the hell did that happen?” the Lesser Master shouted.

  “What the hell is happening?” another voice bellowed and the orcs fell silent, falling to their knees and bowing as a True Master approached.

  “Lord Chansa,” the Lesser Master said, bowing so that his robes swished back and forth nervously. “This one has returned through the portal. He says that the humans have taken the camp on the far side and are turning the portals face down. We can’t push through that.”

  “Damn!” Chansa shouted. “Damn and damn and damn again!”

  Chansa Mulengela was a huge “natural” human. He was nearly three meters tall, broad and thick in proportion, designed right at the limits of what a normal human could support. Huge, dark and fearsome, he appeared like nothing but a human juggernaut, especially when, as now, he let loose his volcanic temper.

  Tur-uck had assumed the full prostration, nose in the dirt, arms and legs spread, as the True Master approached. At the sight of the Master’s anger, many of the gathered orcs had followed his example.

  “You!” Chansa said, tapping him on the side. “Get up. Tell me what you know.”

  “Master!” Tur-uck said, almost overjoyed to be actually addressed by a Master but well aware that it might be the last conversation he ever had on earth. He stumbled to his knees and bowed his head, hands clasped in front of him. “I was part of Sub-leader Grath’s group. We were assigned to provide internal security to the southeast portion of the camp. The camp was attacked by dragons as the portals opened. We reacted to the landed dragons then saw many human soldiers pouring out of other portals. They were pushing the portals of the Masters over so we went to stop them. There were only four on the portal that we attacked, but they killed eight of my leader’s group. We took the portal and the remainder of us tried to raise it, but it was too heavy. So I came through to bring word. Master, spare me!”

  “Stand up, orc,” Chansa growled. “Let me look at you. Did your sub-leader order you to return?”

  “No, Master,” Tur-uck admitted, getting to his feet and standing to attention. The build of his body did not permit him to stand fully erect and his long arms dangled almost to his bowed knees. “He ordered me not to return.”

  “So, why did you?” Chansa asked, mildly.

  “I…” Tur-uck started to reply then stopped. “Masters needed to know. There was not time to explain, Master. I beg your forgiveness! I was not fleeing battle, Master! I am brave and willing to die. My life is yours, Master! But the Masters needed to be told!”

  “My God,” Chansa muttered. “Celine finally screwed up and produced an orc with initiative.”

  Tur-uck didn’t know what that meant so he remained mute.

  “Did you challenge Sub-leader Grath for his position?” Chansa asked, walking around the orc and looking him up and down. “You are a prime specimen. You might have won.”

  “I did not, Master,” Tur-uck admitted.

  “Why not?” Chansa asked.

  “Sub-leader Grath was a good leader, Master,” Tur-uck said, nodding in nervousness. “He kept us fed and told us of good ways to fight, to kill the humans. I… I did not wish to challenge him until he had taught me all I might learn from him.”

  “And one with patience?” Chansa laughed. “So all the portals are down?” />
  “They appear to be, Marshal,” the Lesser Master interjected.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Chansa snapped. “Orc, what is your name?”

  “Tur-uck, Master.”

  “All the portals are down, Tur-uck?”

  “Yes, Master,” the orc admitted. “The west side was commanded by a Greater Dragon and none could defeat her. Many human soldiers had also attacked and there appeared to be an attack on the south gate. Most of the Horde had left by the north gate by the time I came through.”

  “The human soldiers, you fought them?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “How was their armor marked? Their shields?”

  “The shields were marked with words and a sword, Master,” Tur-uck said. “I do not know the words. Their armor had a device of an eagle, here,” he said, indicating the left breast.

  “Blood Lords,” Chansa snarled. “Very well. Tur-uck, you are made a sub-leader as of now. Of course, you must fight to retain your position, but you have it. Good job coming back; I’m willing to accept that it was not for lack of courage.”

  With that the True Master strode away and Tur-uck sagged in relief.

  “I would have had your head off for disobeying orders,” the Lesser Master snarled.

  “I live to serve, Master,” Tur-uck said, falling to hands and knees. “My neck is yours to strike.”

  “Get up,” the Lesser Master said. “Your life is Marshal Chansa’s to take and his decisions I don’t question. I’ll assign you a sub-group. Don’t fisk up or I will have your head.”

  “Yes, Master,” Sub-leader Tur-uck replied, rising to his feet and admitting that maybe he wasn’t having such a bad day after all.

  Chapter One

  As the axe clanged off his shield, Herzer knew he was having a bad day.

  His opponent was as fast as he was and darned near as tall and strong. Furthermore, Herzer had never in his life fought someone who used an axe with such effectiveness. The weapon had a meter and a half metal-covered shaft and his opponent used it as a combination of quarterstaff and axe to great effect.

  Herzer Herrick was a young man just nearing his twenty-fifth birthday, a shade over two meters tall and broad in proportion, with black hair and dark green eyes that, as now, slitted into fiery intensity when he was in combat. His face had a long scar on the cheek and more scars crisscrossed his unguarded forearms, visible proof of his many battles.

  Herzer flickered the tip of his longsword forward and was rewarded with another one of those nasty spin and catches, the haft of the axe clanging into his blade then the head sliding down to trap it. Before he knew it, the butt of the axe was hammering into his shield and he leapt back, disengaging his blade with difficulty.

  “Think you’re tricky?” Herzer panted.

  “Very,” the man said. He began spinning the axe overhead, clockwise, moving back and forth lightly on his feet. “Trickier than you, Major. As you’ll learn when I kill you.”

  Herzer knew there was a reason to the motion but he couldn’t divine it. The axe could slam down but with all that momentum there was no way that his opponent could use it for an effective block. Especially if he came in low. He circled to the left, then lunged forward in a shield bash, his sword held low at his side, point angling upward to slip through chinks in his opponent’s armor.

  It took him a moment to realize what was happening as the axeman brought the spinning circle of steel downwards and neatly kicked the sword out of midline. The axeman rode the shield bash backwards, actually loosing contact with his axe as it spun around the fulcrum of Herzer’s useless sword. Then his shield was wrenched outwards as a tremendous blow struck him on his chest armor.

  “Kill point,” the judge said. “Break.”

  “Kill point?” Herzer protested, looking down at the blue mark. The axeman had first pulled his shield outward, then used his own energy to hammer the reverse point of the training axe into his armor. He supposed it would have punctured the armor and given him a wound. But he’d had, and fought with, far worse.

  “In space,” Colonel Carson said, pulling off his helmet, “that would have opened up your armor and vented your atmosphere. It’s a kill. Trust me.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not going along on your mission, then,” Herzer said, grinning. “On the other hand, I can think of two or three counters to that move. All of which would leave you disarmed, or dead, or both. How many do you have in your bag of tricks?”

  “Hopefully enough,” Carson said with a grin. “We’ve been training for this mission for two years and from what Miss Travante tells us, New Destiny had yet to even begin to plan when she… errr…”

  “Megan generally uses the term ‘escaped,’ ” Herzer said with a grin. “I generally say something like ‘blew that popsicle stand.’ Sometimes she doesn’t get the humor.”

  “I see,” Colonel Carson said, somewhat uneasily. While it was true that he outranked Major Herrick, there was no one in the army of the United Free States, with the possible exception of Duke Edmund Talbot, who was more famous. And with his engagement to the new Key-holder, Countess Megan Travante, Herrick’s career was presumably unlimited. Carson was well aware that he was probably dueling with a future boss and certainly someone with the ear of some very important people so he chose his words carefully. “I don’t say it will be a cakewalk, unless they intend to just let us steal all the fuel and do nothing about it. But we should be able to handle anything they throw at us.”

  Herzer grimaced despite the careful phrasing and shrugged.

  “Colonel, with all due respect,” he said, carefully, “I would strongly suggest that you not even think that. New Destiny is, in many ways, better at this war than we are. They are better at intelligence gathering, they are better at… call it ‘special systems’ development and they are not stupid when it comes to tactics. I’ve taken that attitude before and it bit me in the ass. So has Duke Edmund and it bit him in the ass. I would strongly suggest that you assume New Destiny is going to throw something you’ve never seen at you, that is game winning, and plan for it. Otherwise, it’s going to bite you in the ass. And there won’t be a second shot at this mission, sir.”

  Carson sighed. “So I’m aware.”

  “Big pressure, sir,” Herzer said, nodding. “Welcome to the world-saver’s club. Admission is hard. Staying in is harder,” he added with a grin, holding up one arm that terminated in a complex prosthetic.

  “You haven’t had that replaced, I notice,” Carson said, walking over to the racks and putting up his armor and weapons.

  “Well, Megan has access to the power,” Herzer admitted. “And Mistress Daneh, or even her daughter Rachel, is more than capable of doing the regeneration. But…” He looked at the device and clicked it thoughtfully. “It has some things it does better than a hand and, in general, I’ve found that those are useful. Maybe if we ever win this damned war I’ll have it replaced. Until then, I think I’ll keep it. Great for opening beer bottles.”

  “And speaking of Lady Megan,” Carson said, smiling. “Where is your fiancée?”

  “Getting ready for the Foundation Ball, sir.” Herzer grimaced, looking up at the wall mounted chronometer. “Which I’m also supposed to attend.”

  “Hanging out with the nobs, eh?” Carson said, smiling. “Why don’t you look happy? Plenty of majors would like an opportunity to bend the ear of the Army commander, for example.”

  “Well, honestly, I can bend Duke Edmund’s ear any time I’d like, sir,” Herzer said, shrugging. “And if he thinks it’s worthwhile he’ll bring it to Minister Spehar, which carries more weight than a major doing it. But, honestly, sir, it’s four hours of standing around making polite conversation with people who will take your words and use them as a knife in your back. Then there are the after-dinner speeches. I don’t even get to sit with Megan since she’s real high society and I’m just her… fiancé. I’ll be down in the peanut gallery with the lowlifes like… well… colonels and
select members of the House of Commons.”

  “Sounds idyllic,” Carson said with a chuckle.

  “Thanks,” Herzer replied, putting away the last piece of armor. “I hope to see you again before your mission, sir.”

  “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Herzer,” Carson said, holding out his hand. “Try to enjoy yourself at the ball. I understand that the cream of Washan’s lovelier ladies will be there as well.”

  “I’ve already got the loveliest girl at the ball,” Herzer replied with a grin.

  “You look absolutely lovely, Megan,” Mirta said, taking a last tuck in the councilwoman’s dress.

  Megan frowned at the mirror and opened her mouth, then cut off the comment. She couldn’t say she hated the dress because Mirta had made it and, honestly, it was beautiful. And she couldn’t comment on her hair with Shanea putting the final touches on it. Finally she grimaced and shook her head, lightly.

  “I’ve got a spot developing on my nose,” she snapped.

  “It’s impossible to see,” Mirta replied sharply. “Take a deep breath. You killed Paul; facing these people is a minor inconvenience. Your dress is lovely and beyond the height of fashion. It’s going to set the fashion for at least the next year. Your hair is lovely and it’s going to set a fashion. Your makeup is lovely. You are lovely. Meredith is fully dialed in on everything you’re going to achieve this evening and she is lovely but just a shade less lovely than you. You are absolutely going to slay them. Don’t you always?”

  “I think this will hold even in the humidity,” Shanea said, teasing Megan’s hair up and spraying a stray strand into place. “You’ll look great at the ball. I wish I was going instead of Meredith.”

  “There will be other balls, Shanea,” Megan said, smiling. Shanea was a dear but she had the brains of a gnat, and the Foundation Ball would be attended by all the highest of society. Which meant that more deals would be made and more bills finalized than in all the committee meetings in the next month. Which in turn meant that it would be a vicious political dogfight taking place over cakes and champagne. Taking Shanea into that was out of the question.