by Wren, M. K.
The abbreviation “cap” wouldn’t be included in any Confleet listings. The Phoenix didn’t have ships or men enough to expend on capturing enemy vessels in this campaign. Unfortunate. But perhaps next time . . .
The countdown clock read zero +01:00: 11:00 TST.
Predis Ussher made a tour of the scanners and consoles, offering occasional words of encouragement to the techs, but when his eye chanced on the countdown clock, he went immediately to the chair placed for him in the center of the arc of consoles where five intercom screens and a small vidicom had been installed, and his secretary, Alan Isaks, was on duty as his personal communications officer.
He sat down, frowning at the vidicom, at the harried newscaster trying to make sense of a disaster whose dimensions the Concord was only beginning to assimilate.
But he was a regular PubliCom ’caster.
The face Ussher expected on that screen at this time was his own in a pretaped broadcast. This was the only way to reach the Fesh, to make them understand that this wasn’t a disaster for them, this was their day of destiny, the day when they could strike off their chains. They must understand that, and getting that message through to them was vital to the offensive.
He waited, staring at the vidicom, for five more minutes, then said sharply, “Alan, get me Ivor in Communications.”
“Yes, sir.”
Isaks moved smartly about his business, but to Ussher it seemed he was unusually slow and bumbling. Finally, Ivor’s face looked out at him from one of the intercom screens.
“Ivor, the PubliCom Systems operation—what happened?”
“Sir, I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for an all-clear signal to switch in the override. There’s been nothing. I tried to ’com Commander Venturi—”
“Never mind. Alan, get Venturi on line.”
“Yes, sir.”
Something had gone wrong, and his first thought was betrayal. Venturi. And Radek. Ussher glared at the vidicom. Shaky images from the Confleet base at Leda, the on-scene reporter shouting hysterically against the uproar of sirens, spewing firecars, distant explosions. Isaks’s voice seemed to have an edge of the same tense panic.
“What? No. Commander Venturi.” A pause, then to Ussher, “Sir, will you speak to Haral Wills?”
“No! I want Venturi!”
“Yes, sir.”
Apparently someone got the message. Within a minute, Venturi’s face appeared. He was looking off-screen, features set in hard, tight lines.
“. . . pull out now. They’ve got MT fixes. Trans them out. Two minutes, Ced; that’s all they have.”
“Commander Venturi!”
“What do you want, Predis?”
Ussher felt his cheeks go hot. “Damn it, I want to know what happened on the PubliCom System operation.”
“So do I. I’ve got sixty agents on that. They ran into a stone wall, Predis. All the studios were swarming with Conpol men.”
“What? That’s impossible! Venturi, if you purposely—”
“Holy God, what did you expect? Hundred percent success on every operation?”
“But that one’s too important! It’s the key—”
“Predis, I have a Pri-One call. You’ll get more info on the PubliCom op when I get it.” With that, the screen went dark.
Ussher stared at it for a moment, then surged to his feet and again took up his position in the center of the chamber, jaws tight to the point of pain. New figures were appearing on the progress screen. Selasid Mercfleet hangars and ships. First Line freighters; Second Line freighters; tenders. He was thinking that he’d like to see Orin Selasis’s face when he saw those statistics.
Pol Leda FLF 24 SLF 42 TDR 53 fac dam est 85%
Pol Telhamid FLF 1 SLF 18 TDR 27 fac dam est 50%
Cas Helen FLF 18 SLF 33 TDR 47 fac dam est 75%
InP Semele FLF 7 SLF 15 TDR 31 fac dem est 35%
ss dam/des total +01:15:
FLF 50 SLF 108 TDR 158
Well, perhaps Venturi was right. You couldn’t expect one hundred percent success. After the offensive, another attempt could be made on the PubliCom studios. Conpol’s guard would be down then. In fact, the taped speech might be even more effective then, when the Fesh had seen more of what the Phoenix was capable, more of the Concord’s failure.
The countdown clock read zero +02:00: 12:00 TST.
Ussher checked it against his own watch, then stood silent, absorbing the purposeful hum of voices and machines. Any Conflcet commander would give his stars for a comcenter run with such devoted efficiency.
But Garris seemed incapable of staying where he belonged. He kept pacing behind the monitoring crews, peering over their shoulders at the screens and scanners. Fortunately, his duties kept him confined to the GroundComm console most of the time. Ussher heard him in a brief exchange with the flagship interconn officer, Calvet Lane, both looking up at the progress screen. The latest report was on Confleet observational satellite stations.
Pol Polar Obsat fac dem est 70%
Cas Equatorial Obsat fac dem est 80%
InP Dionysus Equatorial Obsat fac dem est 40%
Three out of seven. Ussher nearly laughed aloud. Almost half Confleet’s eyes in the skies blinded. Following that came a report on House facilities engaged in storing or producing war materiel.
Pol Leda Elisr Wrhs—ref met fac dem est 65%
Pol Leda Elisr Smitr—mlydm fac dem est 50%
Pol Leda DeKW Wrhs—com eqmt fac dem est 70%
Pol Petrovna Ivnoi Wrhs—ref met fac dem est 60%
Pol Telhamid Cord Wrhs—petrochem fac dem est 85%
Cas Helen Elisr Wrhs—ref met fac dem est 50%
Cas Tremper Ivnoi Smitr—pltnm fac dem est 45%
That would give those high-nosed Lords something to think about. The screen remained blank, awaiting correlation of new statistics. Ussher looked for Garris; he was wandering from his post again.
“Commander Garris, I’ve seen no recent statistics on Confleet ships damaged or destroyed in combat.”
Garris shot him an impatient look, then with a negligent wave toward one of the comptechs, “Talk to Janie.”
The woman looked around inquiringly, and Ussher said in clipped tones, “Ferra Browning, may I see the latest report on Confleet combat casualties?”
“Just a moment, sir. I’ll see what’s come in.”
And, finally, the figures paraded across the screen.
Conflt ss dam/des in cmbt: F 73 C 11 TCC 1
Total +02:05: F 121 C 27 TCC 1
Add that to the on-base casualties, and already the Phoenix had taken nearly twice its numbers in—
“How the hell did that happen?”
Garris again. He was standing behind Ussher’s empty chair, staring at the PubliCom screen. Ussher approached to see what elicited the resounding outburst.
“A direct strike on the Eliseer Estate!” Garris turned on Ussher, the scar cutting across his eye white against his anger-flushed face. “How did that happen?”
Ussher didn’t deign to respond until he hear
d the stumbling account from the ’caster. The family wing. And it was night in Helen. The Lord and his twin heirs had been sleeping peacefully.
“You’re asking me how it happened, Commander?”
Garris, with a choked expletive, stormed to the GroundComm console.
“Kyser! Put me on line with Cornel Simon. No—it’ll be Major March on that op. The Hopewell.”
Ussher restrained his smile as he sat down in front of the vidicom. The family wing. For that, Major March would have his cornel’s wings. That operation had gone better than he expected, but he was waiting for news of another, news that was overdue.
“Alan, get me Rob Hendrick. He’s in Communications.”
When Hendrick’s face appeared on one of the ’com screens, it offered no encouragement.
“Well, Rob? I expected a report on the Bond operation half an hour ago.”
“Uh . . . yes, Predis, I know, but I’ve been checking with all the field agents I could reach, and—”
“The microspeakers activated as planned?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve got agents in thirty key compounds: twelve on Pollux, eight on Castor, four on Perseus—”
“I know that.” Something was wrong; Rob had never learned to control his eyes when he was nervous.
“Well, the speakers activated on schedule in all compounds, but the . . . uh, results are rather . . . inconclusive.”
“Rob, damn it, stop hedging!”
“I didn’t mean . . . well, I think it’s a little early yet for any overt response, but we know the Bonds heard the ‘voices.’ Naturally, there’s been a lot of confusion in the compounds. When the offensive began, House guards poured in with orders for the Bonds to get to their quarters.”
Ussher’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists. First the PubliCom Systems operation, and now this. It was intolerable!
His first thought, again, was betrayal. Radek and Venturi had been opposed to appealing to the Fesh and Bonds from the beginning. They were willing to throw away a key weapon against the enemy for some esoteric ethic, a meaningless piece of dogma mouthed by Riis.
But, after a moment, his anger ebbed. They couldn’t sabotage this operation. He’d put it in the hands of people he could trust, and the speakers had activated.
“Rob, there must be some reaction somewhere.”
“Well, I have a report—just got it in—from Hamid’s Estate compounds in Leda. His guards have met resistance there, and they seem to have the beginnings of an uprising on their hands.”
Ussher sighed. “Well, perhaps that’s a beginning for us. All right, Rob, keep me up to date on this.” He nodded to Isaks, and the screen went dark.
A beginning. Yet a nagging canker of doubt was festering in his mind. If the Bonds were going to react—and it was inconceivable that they wouldn’t—why the delay? Was it too early, or too late?
3.
Nothing made sense.
Dreaming. Must be still dreaming.
“Father? Can you hear me?”
A face loomed over him. Galen. He recognized his voice before his face came into focus.
At length, with his son’s help, Loren Eliseer managed to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the couch. A small room, full of color. That was all that registered at first. When his eyes finally began to function properly, he stared around him incredulously.
It still didn’t make sense. This lushly extravagant room wasn’t in the Estate. He had never seen it before in his life.
“Just don’t move too fast, Father. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”
Galen, still bending over him. Renay was across the room at a comconsole; harried voices buzzed from a vidicom. Eliseer wondered what Renay found so fascinating, but his mind was clear enough now to realize his first bom’s interest in the screen indicated no lack of concern for his father. That was verified in the anxious glances he sent him.
Eliseer asked of anyone who might venture an answer, “What in the God’s name happened?”
It was Galen who replied, “I don’t know, Father. We’ve only been conscious about fifteen minutes. I don’t know where we are, either, or why we’re here. I can only estimate that we were taken from the Estate two to three hours ago. It’s 20:30 Helen Standard—12:30 TST.”
“At least we’ve been left the time. But why? Who’s behind this? And how—” He stopped, struck by alarm. Galia. And the girls. Then he sagged with relief, remembering they were in Paykeen. They’d be safe there. Or would they?
“I think the answer to who’s behind this,” Renay said quietly, only the slightest edge of tension in his voice, “is here. We’ve been left the PubliCom newscasts, too. Galen, you’d better tell him about the woman.”
Eliseer started to rise to go to the screen, but at that he paused, looking questioningly at Galen.
“What woman?”
“She said she’s a doctor. She came in about the time Renay and I were coming around and checked us—and you—with a biomonitor cuff and offered some pills for our headaches.”
“You didn’t take them, did you?”
“No, of course not. She didn’t argue; said we’d recover soon enough without help.” He winced as he rubbed his forehead. “It is easing up.”
Eliseer was acutely aware of the pounding ache of his own head as he commented sourly, “That’s encouraging. What else did she say? Did you recognize her? I suppose she was face-screened.”
“Yes. She didn’t say much, other than to point out the available comforts here.”
Renay put in with a short laugh, “Three rooms incredibly furnished, an elegant bath, a liquor cabinet like I’ve seen in only the grandest Houses, and a cooler stocked with a few ‘snacks’ that make Master Duvo look like a Bond hall cook.”
Galen nodded. “This is kidnapping in style, anyway.”
“But it’s still kidnapping,” Eliseer said angrily. “This woman, she must’ve given some hint—”
“Nothing. She said she’d be back soon to check on you.”
“Father!” Renay motioned to him, eyes fixed on the screen. “Galen, they’re showing the sequence on the Estate again. Father, hurry.”
Eliseer wasn’t yet capable of hurrying, but he managed the few meters without blacking out. The image on the screen made no sense, either; not at first. A night scene, artificial light fragmenting it, making it harder to read. An aerial view of buildings; immense, billowing clouds of smoke, firecars like airborne fountains dancing among riven ruins.
The Estate. His own Estate.
“Holy God, that’s the family wing!”
Renay only nodded without looking at him. “That was the family wing. They’re searching for us in the rubble, Father. For our bodies.” He paused as the images on the screen changed. “Good. They’re giving us a recap and update.”
For ten minutes, Eliseer stood transfixed, watching the screen, listening to the garbled, incomplete reports read in a consistent tone of bewildered panic. Confleet bases and arsenals, IP ports, Selasid Mercfleet hangars, Robek Trafficon centers and Transystems terminals, Confleet and Conpol com- and compcenters, House warehouses, even three Eliseer smelters—bombed, strafed, crippled. The reports poured out from Castor, Pollux, Perseus, Dionysus, Pan, from every city on every inhabited planet in the Centauri System.
The name of this disaster was war.
And if the ’casters seemed incredulous of almost everything they reported, there was no doubt about the source of this incomprehensible attack.
The Society of the Phoenix.
A fleet estimated at anywhere from a thousand to three thousand ships had been unleashed on the Centauri System, and every vessel bore the name and symbol of the Phoenix.
And he had always regarded the Phoenix as simply another pirate clan, possibly with radical polit
ical leanings. But this was no pirate raid; it was a war, and a stunning revelation.
Apparently this war was limited to the Centauri System. He grasped at that as hungrily as the ’casters. Help was on the way. Confleet was sending a full thousand-ship wing from the Solar System. Again and again, the ’casters insisted that reinforcements would arrive within four hours.
Renay said coolly, “It seems the Concord has underestimated the Phoenix all these years.”
Eliseer was amazed and proud of his son’s calm, and it served as a reminder to put his own thoughts in order.
“So we have, and I assume we’re prisoners of the Phoenix. Or hostages. I wonder what they hope to gain from that. Or any of this, for that matter.”
A warning chime from the door precluded any reply Renay might have made. They all turned, waiting silently as it opened.
The first to enter was a face-screened man carrying a gun with an unusually wide muzzle. He didn’t speak, but stepped aside for the woman, also face-screened, who followed.
Renay said, “Father, this is the doctor. With friend.”
Eliseer studied her. Tall and slender, dressed in a standard slacsuit. The ’screen didn’t hide the silver hair coiled in a thick braid at the crown of her head. She and the guard both bowed respectfully, but apparently she was the spokesman here; the man remained silent.
“My lord, Sers. . . . I’m sorry I can’t give you my name. The gun my ‘friend’ is carrying, by the way, is armed with stun darts. They aren’t lethal, but I must warn you, they’ll stop you in your tracks in five seconds.”
Eliseer moved casually toward the couch, separating himself from the twins. The guard, he noted, shifted position to keep all of them in range.
“I appreciate the warning, Doctor. Now I would appreciate an explanation.”
“Of what, my lord? Your abduction?” There was no antagonism in her tone, rather a hint of sympathetic amusement.
“I see you don’t balk at calling it by its true name.”