The Bonds of Orion

by Owen R. O’Neill

  “I do see.” Peering through the scope at the target eight-hundred meters distant and noting the neat five-shot grouping he could easily cover with the palm of his hand, Danilov smiled. Not simply at the accuracy, but also that the target was not mere paper marked with a standard silhouette, but a facsimile of General Heydrich. “Though in all conscience, your hands are steady enough.”

  “Kind of you to say.”

  “It must be the prime jewel of your collection.”

  To this, Caneris answered with no more than slight widening of his lips, and Danilov saw his preamble was going on a shade too long.

  “But I’m sure you must be wondering at the reason for my importunate visit?”

  “It had occurred to me.” The smile broadening perceptibly.

  Danilov was not easily put out, and it was evident his friend was enjoying this rarity. He covered a faint, diplomatic cough and asked, “I heard of your affair the other morning. It is improper I regret but may I ask the cause of the quarrel?”

  That did in the smile, and the admiral’s mouth reassumed it more accustomed stern line. “If you must know and I suppose you must, or you would not have brought it up the young idiot impugned my granddaughter’s honor.”

  Any insult to his family was one thing the admiral would never let pass, as Danilov well knew, and Arianna’s headstrong nature did tend to engender a degree of comment. According to an unconfirmed report (no more than a bit of gossip, told thirdhand at best) the young idiot’s actual words were: “Let us see who will want her once the little bitch gets over the wall.” By Caneris’ expression, the report could now be considered confirmed.

  “I had suspected something of the sort. But . . .” He paused. “The idiot’s uncle is putting it about that you spoke against the Princeps and that his nephew answered in defense of the Princeps’ honor.”

  “I see.” Caneris’ tone was not far from disgust. Jerome, who had been serving as sole Proconsul in defiance of tradition (if not quite law), had recently named himself Princeps Civitatis. He had ransacked ancient Roman history for the title it translated from the Latin as “first citizen of the State” as an obvious first step toward claiming the title of emperor. Caneris did stand with those who disapproved of this step, but he was also a pragmatist, and if absolutely necessary, he was confident the phrase “Emperor Jerome” would not stick in his throat, any more than saying “Princeps” did when required.

  That the Dominion of Halith was an empire without an emperor was a consequence of a historical accident: the death of General Turabian, putative founder of the modern Halith State. It was an open secret among the aristocracy that the general had been poised to seize the title when he was killed. Indeed, it was sometimes whispered (darkly and very quietly) that this is why his flagship Bogatyr had so unaccountably blundered into range of ground fire during the invasion of Zalamenkar. But while it was still considered near-treasonous to taint the general’s legend, the weight of public opinion toward the once-anathematic title had changed to guarded acceptance.

  The militarist faction, which the idiot’s uncle led, had been quietly reminding Jerome that “fortune is bald behind” and urging him to seize the moment. If events handed Jerome a useful pretext and with some art the emergency at Amu Daria might be fashioned into precisely that? Caneris might find himself in a ticklish position upon his return. However, he did not think much of the general’s capacity for art, and a swift and satisfactory outcome at Amu Daria would go far in repairing his political fortunes. No doubt these claims about the duel were merely feelers, set out to see who might bite, not a serious attempt to undermine his position while he was not personally present to defend himself.

  “The General flatters himself. He can hardly expect much profit from such weak allegations.”

  “Do not take him lightly, Joaquin,” Danilov said gently. “He is not quite as stupid as he looks.”

  Caneris frowned. While he might personally be a bit skeptical on that point, if the general were determined to seek an eye for an eye, it would be another matter. Yet even there, Caneris was not unduly concerned. Before leaving on the mission which would end with the Battle of Apollyon Gates, Heydrich had suborned the young man assigned to be his new aide. It was a rather crude ploy, in Caneris’ opinion, and the fellow’s unhappy fate made it most unlikely there was would another such attempt.

  “You suspect he might be considering direct measures?” voicing his speculation.

  “I do not. The General is putting out information through unusual channels, which tells me he has gained influence in some unexpected quarters.” Caneris accepted the information without comment and waited for his friend to continue. After the briefest moment, he did. “I suspect he is aware of your overtures to Lord Geris. In regards to the POW question.”

  The admiral replied with a harsh sound. Those overtures had been most discreet, and to have them come to light in this manner was unnerving. Counselor Lord Geris was a man of undeniable political skill and considerable personal charm, though it must be said that no small part of that charm was embodied in his young and beautiful wife. Caneris did not approve of using one’s wife to ornament to one’s career, and he found Geris rather too slippery at times. But he had great influence over the unsettled, shifting faction that reposed, often uneasily, between Heydrich’s militarists and the more pragmatic members, who looked to Caneris for leadership. As things stood, the balance of power lay with Lord Geris and his centrists (as they were loosely referred to), so they were courted, or bullied, by both sides. An easily spooked bunch, they’d taken refuge with Jerome, who in turn employed them against whichever faction he felt the need to control at any given moment.

  It was chancy arrangement, always threatening dissolution, and Caneris had sought to make common cause with Geris and Jerome on the question of exchanging POWs, the one topic he felt they all might be able to agree on. The question arose because ever since Asylum, the normal practice of exchanging POWs had been suspended. The suspension had been put in place by League, using Halith’s secret treaty with the Maxor to abet an invasion of Regulus as a flimsy excuse, and it proved a major sticking point during the peace negotiations. At first, Halith objected fiercely: holding POWs, instead of paroling them and sending them home to sit out the war until they could be formally exchanged, was inhumane. It was also expensive, although this was not brought up in the same strident tones.

  But during the course of the negotiations, Heydrich, who had been the governor of a penal colony, was promoted to full general and placed in charge of Halith’s POW system. Instead of seeing this large prisoner population as a multitude that had to be fed, clothed, housed and guarded, he viewed them as a valuable asset to be exploited and had set about doing so. The tenor of the negotiations changed accordingly, and thereafter it was Halith who refused to restore the normal POW exchange protocols.

  In consequence, the POW population on both sides swelled. Caneris objected to the contravention of the norms of civilized warfare the breeding program the general had instituted, using female POWs to “enrich” (the general’s sordid term) the slave population, he found particularly odious and from the pragmatic point of view, he objected to the waste and the effect on military readiness. The League’s capture of Tau Verde and Illyria during Operation Overlight had greatly increased the number of Halith POWs the League held, to the point where it was now harming the war effort.

  Concomitantly, he saw benefits, both political and practical; both for himself and Halith vis-à-vis the League. But any such proposal coming from him would be dead on arrival. In addition, it would expose him to charges of disloyalty, especially after Apollyon Gates. Only if Jerome floated the idea could he, when asked, offer overt support. And Lord Geris was the best person to sound out Jerome.

  If the scheme succeeded, Heydrich and his militarists would be effectively isolated and balance of power would shift back where it belonged. Many things would become feasible. Approached, Geris had been predictably nervous.
Without Geris, there was little hope of swaying Jerome, and now some fool had been prating. It was not impossible the fool was Geris himself.

  Whoever the culprit, Caneris now found himself facing a new problem set. Success at Amu Daria meant reasserting Halith’s unquestioned rule and achieving lasting stability. Caneris saw only one way to do that: occupy the separatists in the capital with a small part of his force while using the rest to neutralize their sources of support in the outlying regions. By working this way from the outside, in, as it were the separatists would have nowhere to go, even if they managed to break out of the capital.

  The cost of this strategy was time; even more time if the separatists were willing to abandon the capital and the starport before he could even deploy his troops. Caneris though that unlikely, however: that they had succeeded in capturing the capital implied an unusual degree of cooperation between the various insurgent groups, and he very much doubted that could withstand the loss of face which would result from surrendering it without a fight (the fierce, indomitable unbending pride of the Amu Darians had often proved to be their Achilles’ heel when prudence was called for).

  More to the point, the capital was no soft target. Boasting formidable automated defenses and backed up by all the assets the separatists had captured, it could withstand a determined assault. All the more reason, in Caneris’ view, not to make one before the time was ripe. With the overwhelming force at his disposal, he had no doubt of retaking the capital, when and as he chose, but in the calculus of rebellion, a doomed heroic defense bulked as large as a victory. Rebellions were fought in the heart, and hearts must be either broken or starved. Considering correlation of forces, the only sure strategy was starvation.

  That is, until Danilov’s news had now upset this calculus. At best, he could not expect to achieve satisfactory results in less than several months, and he could not return until he had, for any setback would be held to his account, no matter the cause. After Apollyon Gates, he could ill afford that.

  But now, it appeared, he could ill afford to be absent for so long a time. His agents, acting in his stead, could only do so much and if Geris had fallen into Heydrich’s camp, his feelers regarding the POW question, combined with slow progress at Amu Daria, could be made to look very bad indeed. If the general had engineered this dilemma, he must rethink his measure of that man.

  Danilov, observing his friend’s increasingly closed and forbidding expression, and well aware what lay behind it, having worked through this problem himself, ventured, “Have you some intention in regards to this situation?”

  Coming back to the present, the admiral’s countenance did not soften, but it did show a spark that had not been there a moment ago.

  “My old tactics instructor always maintained that speed was the essence of attack.”

  By which Danilov understood that the admiral meant gamble everything on a single swift, crushing blow. Exactly as he expected. Reaching into an inner pocket of his coat, he withdrew a chip.

  “In that case, I should like to offer this.” And then, answering the admiral’s unvoiced question: “It is my office’s appreciation of the various leaders of the Amu Darian separatist groups and their chief lieutenants.” Caneris’ look brightened appreciably. “There is a further item, of which you might wish to take particular note,” Danilov continued. “The late general’s staff appeared to value convenience above prudence. Elements of their networks were entrusted to a local firm, Xela. I suspect a pecuniary interest was involved. But that to one side, it also appears that security procedures were not strictly adhered to, potentially compromising the capital’s defense network. I cannot prove it, but I suspect this materially contributed to the capital being overrun in this unexpected manner.”

  “I see.” Caneris’ tone expressed his dawning insight.

  “My man in the capital is acquainted with several of firm’s personnel. Xela has the contract to run the capital’s telecommunications infrastructure this is how he became aware of the potential compromise. Consulting their ease, it seems they may have opened holes in the defense network to conduct their assigned tasks without leaving the comfort of their offices, trusting to their own measures to maintain security. But I get ahead of myself. The crux is that these people may have direct knowledge, and more importantly, access.”

  “And you suspect some may be susceptible?” the admiral asked.

  “My agent believes so. The separatists are not universally approved of, and Xela’s contracts with the colonial admiration were a source of great profit to them. It is by no means certain they will maintain their monopoly if the separatists retain power. The separatist leadership has a distrust of technical sorts; they generally consider urbanites soft and corrupt. Xela’s people being both, as well as prosperous by Amu Darian standards, they are liable to attract scrutiny and perhaps harassment. It would not be strange if some resented it.”

  Looking intensely satisfied, Caneris took the offered chip and secured it carefully in his wallet. “Thank you, Marcus. I am deeply appreciative.” Picking up the ancient Mauser, he fed it a fresh five-shot clip. “Perhaps you might like to try your hand, just this once?”

  “I’m quite sensible of the compliment, Joaquin,” Danilov answered with an old and familiar smile. “But as you know, I am a man of peace.”

  Chapter 19

  Somewhere, Pohjola

  Karelian Republic, The Perseids

  Oh shit.

  The thought stayed silent, but Kris’ expelled breath exploded in freezing mist about her face. Coming out of the tall, unnaturally straight trees onto this ridge covered with an emerald-green growth ankle-deep, sporting fat circular leaves that gave off a scent like nutmeg when her boots crushed them and dotted here and there with fruiting bodies resembling nothing so much as tiny drops of blood Kris scanned the horizon for a landmark.

  Across the wide basin opening below her, the peaks of the next range rose up in the light of the setting primary, gleaming against the deep blue of the far horizon, while the valleys between flooded with purple shadow. The peak she was looking for, a higher one with a characteristic notch, was not to be seen.

  Just where the fuck am I?

  Somehow, she’d gotten turned around and had been walking north all this time, rather than south to where Rafe, Vasquez and Captain Gomez were supposedly waiting for her. Nothing to do but retrace her steps, but already the wind was beginning to sough through the trees; the stiff, chill wind of a Karelian winter night that would knife right through her light jacket once full dark came on. And no moon until well past local midnight.

  Could she retrace her steps? The forest was depressingly uniform; the trail she’d made on her way up lost in the shifting carpet of long, glossy needles.

  Find your way by the stars? Stupid goddamn asshats.

  Some fucking staff monkey had come up with the brilliant idea of a ‘no-tech exercise’. Next thing she knew, they’d dumped her down on Pohjola, the least developed planet in the Karelian Republic. Scattering the team she belonged to over an area of fifty klicks across, they were supposed to find their way to a rendezvous point using only a silly plaspaper map and a briefing on landmarks with some ‘helpful’ imagery. No xels, no nav packs, not even a magnetic compass. And no weapons. The knife with a blade a bit shorter than her hand didn’t count. This mattered mattered a lot because Pohjola had an environment similar to Europe at the height of the last Ice Age and was home to a bunch of pseudo-mammalian megafauna. Including the larl, a felinoid predator the size of a T-Rex. It hunted herds of triceratops-sized ungulates and was prized for its coat, which ranged from indigo to a pure amethyst. There was another charming critter called the dire cat. They said it was only the size of a rhino. On the other hand, being social, it hunted in packs.

  When they’d briefed her on the flight out, they’d actually had the gall to justify the whole absurd fiasco by saying, “You never know what might happen.”

  Yeah, well, if she ever found the little shit who’d
dreamed this up hanging out in comfy central back on Karelia he’d never know what hit him.

  Turning, she loped back into the trees, and the blue streak she was swearing kept her from hearing the pad of feet on the needles. She heard it at last, felt a warm puff on her neck that could not be the wind and turned just as a colossal paw sent her flying backwards. Landing heavily, the breath rushed out of her as the giant cat, its fur almost the color of the darkening sky, pinned her to the ground and opened a mouth full of ivory teeth, the saber-like canines as long as her forearm. Emitting a subterranean growl, the beast leaned down, its huge head blocking out the sky with its few emerging stars, slit-pupiled amber eyes bigger than her fist but seeming larger still, and as Kris truly felt what they meant by the blood freezing in your veins for the first time, a long, rough tongue extended and licked her face.

  “Licorice! Stop that! Let the nice woman up!”

  The shocking treble pipe restarted Kris’ heart with a painful thump. The cat sat up, releasing Kris, and a tiny figure trotted into view, a round little face peeping from the fur of a sensible parka.

  “It’s alright, ma’am. She does that to everyone. It’s her way of saying hello.”

  Licorice gazed down from at her enormous height sitting, her head must’ve been more than three meters from the ground and made a noise that, had it come from a feline of approximately normal size, might have been a meow. The little girl reached up and affectionately thumped a leg the size of a moderate tree trunk.

  “H–hello?” Kris gurgled.

  “You can get up now,” the child said. “She’s a softie. Just a big fuzzball, really.”

  Remembering the fangs closing in on her throat, Kris could not easily reconcile anything about the creature with soft, except maybe that thick dark, fur into which the girl’s arm was submerged past the elbow as she scratched what she could reach of the flank. Kris also doubted her limbs would allow her to stand.