by John Ringo
Megan stood up and allowed Shanea and Mirta to help her into the dress. She could easily do it herself and would have preferred to, but the two, along with a few others, had attached themselves to her like limpets and, honestly, they were far more capable of this sort of thing than she was. She nodded as Meredith came into the vanity room and smiled.
“You look like Athena, Meredith,” Megan said.
“Thank you.” Meredith Amado Tillou was a tall, exquisite brunette dressed, like Megan, in a dress that was backless with a high collar and cut low at the front. Hers was not cut quite as low as Megan’s and it lacked the slits on the side that teasingly revealed long legs. She was not going to the ball to be noticed. Quite the opposite. If she had a choice in her manner of dress it would be a full coverage dress and a hooded cloak.
Her expression was much the same as it had been for four years in Paul Bowman’s harem, blank. But the eyes were different. While in the harem she had participated in one of the two revolts against Paul’s bondage and, when unsuccessful, she had been brain locked and kept as an imbecilic brood mare for Paul’s “breeding group.” When Megan killed Paul it released the bond, and the memories of four years of unwilling bondage, of the things that had been done to her and of the things she did. Now she viewed the world through eyes that were as cold as an iceberg and for all the world as deadly.
As Megan had quickly learned, the mind that had been released was at least as good as her own. Behind that blank mask was a brain like a computer with a virtually perfect memory and a phenomenal ability to synthesize information, making connections where others did not see them. For all that she had, apparently, no ambitions for greater power. She had become Megan’s political aide and would be attending the ball in that position.
As Mirta was fastening the last catch, Ashly walked in the room, frowning.
“Megan, there’s been a change,” she said, unhappily. “You were supposed to go to a late meeting with Duke Dehnavi and his wife after the ball. I just got word that he’s planning on bringing… someone other than his wife.”
“Cancel it,” Megan snapped. “I’m not going to be seen in public with him and his latest doxie!”
“He’s a key vote in the Intelligence Joint Subcommittee,” Meredith said, evenly. “Your father will need his support for the new funding bill. Especially if he wants to increase the size of the agent training program. The meeting will not cinch it but canceling it would inevitably cause him to view anything brought up by a Travante through a negative light. He has openly boasted of having managed to arrange it. He is also involved in the Agriculture Committee which will be looking at bills related to military food support over the next six months. Various other political items come to mind since he is a quiet power in the Corporate Party. Which is why Ashly arranged the meeting.”
Megan sighed and grimaced.
“Careful,” Mirta said, “don’t break the makeup.”
“Mirta, analysis, please?”
“Okay,” the older woman said, sighing. Mirta looked as if she was in her late teens, one of the reasons Paul Bowman had picked her up along with the others. In fact she was well over a hundred and besides being Megan’s seamstress acted in the role of socio-political advisor. Ashly handled the social planning but Mirta advised on who could and should be graced with the presence of the newest, and youngest, and prettiest, Key-holder in the increasingly political climate of the United Free States capital.
“Short term, you gain,” Mirta said. “You need the vote to get the bill out of committee without having it gutted. Long term… you’re giving support to the cookie eaters. That means all the wives will really get their knives out for you. If you were married to Herzer, he wouldn’t dare try this. But he thinks since Herzer’s your fiancé, and you’re assumed to be…”
“Carrying on relations,” Meredith continued for her.
“Yes. That. Since you’re carrying on regardless, he thinks he can score points and make it more acceptable for him to trot out his cookies. Since his wife is a rhino, politically, it’s actually better for him to attend with his cookies, believe it or not. But…”
“Herzer won’t want to come, anyway,” Megan muttered. “Ashly: Send a message to the duke telling him that I will be unattended by my… fiancé… and since it would be imbalanced, etc.”
“Good call,” Ashly said, relieved.
“Public, Ashly,” Megan snapped. “Very much public. A male aide, fine. I’ll have Meredith with me. A doxie, no.”
“Will do,” Ashly muttered. “De Funcha. Very new, very hip, brightly lit, I know the maitre d’ so getting you a good table at the last moment won’t be a problem, not that it ever is—”
“Handle it,” Megan said. “Meredith, let’s go.”
“The Honorable Jasper Thornton!” the majordomo at the top of the steps cried over the buzz of voices in the ballroom. “Mrs. Jasper Thornton.”
“Her name is Amelia, for God’s sake,” Megan muttered angrily.
“Smile for the cameras,” Herzer muttered as they stepped forward. “Although, I really hope he doesn’t screw up and call me ‘Mr. Megan Travante.’ ”
“Countess Megan Samantha Travante!” the functionary said without a glance at the card Herzer handed him. “Major Herzer Herrick!”
The low buzz of conversation stopped and the group broke into apparently spontaneous applause as a chemical flash caught the couple standing hand in hand. It would probably make the morning edition of the Washan Times, society page if not the front, and be in Lasang in no more than two weeks by courier.
Megan waved in appreciation of the applause as, shadowed by Meredith, they stepped down the stairs to the floor of the large room. The room was not filled to overflowing, by any stretch of the imagination, but Washan in summertime was hot and the candles and lamps that lit the room added to the heat of the pressed bodies, turning it into a sauna. Megan was afraid she could already feel her hairdo wilting.
“Remember, the slave said,” Herzer said, leaning over to whisper in Megan’s ear, “you too are mortal.” He was dressed in the most formal uniform of the UFS, a tight coat worn short, open at the front in deference to the heat, with a blinding white undertunic on which his Eagle hung from a thick scarlet ribbon. The coat was gray, the newly chosen color of the UFS Army uniform, with light blue lining to denote his branch of infantry. The gray pants had a blue stripe down the side as well. It was topped by a light blue beret. The coat was heavy with his medals and qualification badges; two silver eagles to match the gold, the now defunct aurea victorous, wound badges, dragon qualification, maritime aviation badge, air combat medal. Megan had insisted that he wear all of them. There were a few with more medals in the room, the UFS Army was already getting medal happy. But there were none with more medals for valor in combat.
Megan snorted softly and took the first hand that was outstretched to her.
“Duke Okyay, a pleasure to see you this evening…”
Herzer detached himself as soon as Megan began politicking, grabbed a glass of sarsaparilla and a plate of munchies and worked his way over to the corner where Edmund and the Army commander were ensconced.
“Duke Edmund,” he said, pushing past an aide. Most of the flunkies were staying well back from the great men and surreptitiously acting as a filter. The Army commander’s new aide had apparently not recognized the unknown major.
“Hey, Herzer,” Edmund said grumpily. “Welcome to the jungle.”
Herzer grinned slightly when he saw the turning aide grimace and face back to watch the goings-on.
“I’m afraid I’m going to be spending far too much time, here,” Herzer said, frowning. “Megan’s taken to it like a duck to water.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Edmund replied. The duke was noticeably older every year as the weight of being the preeminent field commander of the UFS forces bore down on his shoulders. What little hair he had left was entirely gray and was shorn close to his scalp. But he still retained his salt and pe
pper beard and an almost alarming presence. Next to him General Galbreath, ostensibly the commander of all UFS ground forces, was a pale, thin shadow. Effectively Edmund let Galbreath get on with the politicking and administration while Edmund got on with winning the war.
Barely seven years before, the world had been a virtual utopia with unlimited power and technology so advanced it approached magic. Disease and want had been eliminated and a worldwide network of teleportation and replication permitted humans to live as gods, their bodies and lives playthings in a continuous life of merriment.
In a moment it ended as the Council of Key-holders that controlled the network fell out in what amounted to a worldwide civil war. Now the majority of the power from the twelve remaining fusion power plants was devoted to energy attacks between the two factions of Key-holders and armies were forming on both sides. The Freedom Coalition, those who fought on the side of Queen Sheida and her allies, used unChanged humans for their forces while the New Destiny coalition modified the bodies of their soldiers, and increasingly their support forces, into bestial creatures that were almost incredibly tough and strong while being loyal to the point of suicide. Already, the United Free States, the portion of the Freedom Coalition that held Norau, had beaten off major attacks from the orcs of New Destiny. It was time for some payback.
Edmund Talbot had been a reenactor before the Fall, a person who spent his time creating a very close approximation of a time “when.” He’d lived in a stone house, crafted swords and armor, and generally lived a comfortable life as a feudal lord with extra amenities such as antique flush toilets. After the Fall it had been revealed that he was one of the few legends of the pre-Fall period, Charles “The Hammer,” a man who had gone into Anarchia and tamed it in a few short years, disappearing thereafter, as mysteriously as he had appeared, but leaving in his wake a stable government that, as far as anyone knew, still existed.
Since the Fall he had been the UFS’ preeminent general, winning battle after battle against New Destiny.
The brand new Key hanging from a ribbon around Duke Edmund’s neck, the one recovered from Elnora Still after her assassination by New Destiny, showed just who had true precedence between the two.
“Your reputation precedes you, Major,” Galbreath said, sticking out his hand. “I think that what the duke meant was that, given the planned counterattack on Ropasa, it would be… difficult for the Army to lose one of its brighter field lights to politic in Washan.”
“I’ve got a dozen posts I need you at now,” Edmund growled. “Professor at the War College comes to mind. So does a battalion command. Hell, command of the new legion we’re trying to raise. Get married, go on your honeymoon, get your tubes cleaned and then pack your bags.”
“Hell of a choice, sir,” Herzer said, grumpily. “With Megan, who I love and want in a the worst possible way, in the capital, doing this,” he said, with a dismissive wave at the height of Washan society, “or eating cold monkey on a stick in Ropasa.”
Edmund chuckled. “Let me guess which way you’d hop.”
“Cold monkey,” Herzer admitted. “Although, if I was at the War College Megan would at least be no more than a day away.”
“Once we have control of a significant portion of Ropasa,” Edmund reminded him, “we can set up portals. Then she’s just a jump away.”
“You’re going for a direct invasion of the mainland?” Herzer asked. “Megan supports an invasion through Gael and the retaking of Breton first.”
“Is that an unofficial message from a fellow council member?” Edmund asked, raising one eyebrow. “That is, after all, what parties like this are really for.”
“No, of course not,” Herzer said, testily. “But you know she supports the Gael. Don’t you?”
“I’m well aware of it,” Edmund said. “But with an invasion force on his home coast, Chansa will be forced to recall the units that are attacking the Gael. Then they can have Breton for all I care.”
“There’s that,” Herzer said, frowning. “I suppose you’re correct.”
“Penny for your thoughts?” Edmund grinned.
“Your mind is a bog, boss,” Herzer admitted after a moment. “But Chansa is anticipating a direct attack on the coast and from what I’ve seen he’s building up significant forces around fortified positions. From the reports I’ve seen he appears to already be pulling back forces from Breton. Even if we get a beachhead, we’ll be stuck butting our head against division after division of his orcs, many of them in fortresses. Even if we get the new legion, which is a real hot topic right now, the parity of forces will be extreme. And if we don’t take the fortresses, they’ll be in our rear. All of the ports are heavily defended so support will have to come over the beach. And it means shuttling all our forces across the Atlantis until we can take and hold a large enough area that Mother will consider it to be held by force majeure and we can set up portals.”
“Teaching me to suck eggs, Herzer?” Edmund said, smiling faintly.
“No, just wondering what you’re really planning,” Herzer admitted. He’d never been able to guess, but… it didn’t keep him from trying.
“With any luck at all, it will all be moot,” General Galbreath noted. “If Colonel Carson succeeds, the war will be over.”
“And he is training well,” Edmund said, distantly. “Herzer, have you taken a look at the Icarus force?”
“Not in depth,” Herzer admitted. “Among other things, I’m not cleared for full information. But I was sparring with the colonel earlier today and he’s a formidable fighter. If many of his men are like him, they’re going to do well.”
“And if we have the fuel tanker…” Galbreath said, breathlessly.
“That’s it,” Herzer said, nodding. “We keep the fuel and as soon as the New Destiny reactors run out, only Sheida and the rest will have power.”
“And then we’ll be able to stop this bloody war in its tracks,” Galbreath added, nodding. “No need for an invasion. For that matter, if we can track down the New Destiny Key-holders, and I’ll bet a lot that Sheida will have that well in hand, we can get back to a real life.”
Herzer looked at Edmund and raised an eyebrow.
“Color you pessimistic, boss?” he asked, lightly.
“There are few actions that are in and of themselves war winning,” Edmund admitted. “Think of it this way; if New Destiny gets the fuel, are we just going to roll over?”
“No,” Galbreath admitted, frowning. “Not given what they’ll probably do to the world.”
“I’d keep fighting,” Herzer said, working his jaw. “With my last breath.”
“There you are,” Edmund said, quirking one cheek in a grin. “And so will New Destiny, if only to keep from having us capture them alive. And the lack of intel on New Destiny’s plans makes me suspicious. I know they have to be planning something; they’re not asleep. But what is the question.”
“Less than a month until the first shuttle lands,” Herzer noted. “We’ll know soon enough.”
“In the meantime,” Edmund said, “we keep planning for victory and keeping one eye on failure. Which means we have to have the tenth legion. Even that is not enough. Sixty thousand legionnaires, less than half of them fully trained and the majority with no combat experience, against an estimated two hundred thousand Changed.”
“Ten thousand bowmen,” Galbreath reminded him. “Six thousand cavalry. And the dragon corps.”
“Three thousand actually bowmen,” Edmund said, shaking his head.
“And the private regiments,” Galbreath pointed out and then winced.
“Damn the private regiments,” Edmund said, almost shaking in anger. “If we put that money where it should be we wouldn’t be scraping and scrabbling for another legion!”
“Some of them are good,” Herzer said, trying to mollify his boss. Under the constitutional strictures that Edmund himself had supported, the de facto existence of small private armies was fully legal. But it had been a huge political fir
estorm when it had been suggested that they become associated with the regular army and in the end the compromise had been the worst of all worlds. The regiments were to be supported by the army if called to field duty while the army had little or no control over their training, equipment, doctrine or leadership unless they were on field duty.
The training and equipment of the regiments was highly diverse, from local militias founded around pikes to battalions of heavy horse with everything in between.
“And the dragons were decimated in the Atlantis battles,” Edmund grumped, apparently willing to forget that the private regiments existed for the time. “Less than a hundred of them are left and all but two are wyverns.”
“Hey!” Herzer interjected. “Nothing wrong with wyverns!” The nonsentient two-legged flying beasts made up the bulk of the dragon corps. There were three types of wyverns: Powells, which were the primary strike force; Silverdrakes, which were small, fast and highly colorful air-to-air fighters; and Torejos, which were heavier beasts that were rarely used in direct combat but could be used for aerial resupply or the rare airmobile mission.
“Of course not,” Edmund replied, soothingly. Herzer had been in three major battles on wyvern back, despite his official status as an infantry officer. For that matter, he was a fair bowman. “But what I wouldn’t give for the same number of greater dragons.”
“If wishes were fishes,” Herzer pointed out.
“Well, if we want that tenth legion, we’d best get out and circulate,” Edmund said, shaking his head.
“Perhaps and perhaps not,” General Galbreath said, laying a hand on his arm. “Have you been watching Countess Travante?”
“No,” Edmund said. “I’m not a dirty old man.”