Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  They’d been perfectly good ships in their day. The problem was that the Empire was still building them about twenty years after their day had passed.

  correct, Center observed. roughly equivalent to British battleships of the 1880s period.

  Eighteen . . . ah. Center used the Christian calendar, which nobody on Visager did except for religious purposes. For one thing, it was based on Earth’s twelve-month year, nearly thirty days shorter than this planet’s rotation around its sun. For another, the numbers were inconveniently high.

  Jeffrey shivered slightly. The period Center named was two thousand years past. Interstellar civilization had been born, spread, and fallen in the interim, and a new cycle was beginning.

  “You’re loading coal, I see,” he said to the Imperial officer . . . Commodore Bragati, that was his name. “Steam up yet?”

  “No, we expect to be ready in about a week,” Bragati said. “Then we’ll cruise down the Passage, and show those upstarts in the Land who rules those waters.”

  Two weeks to get ready for a show-the-flag cruise? Raj thought with disgust. I’d say these imbeciles deserve what’s probably going to happen to them, if so many civilians weren’t going to be caught in it.

  “The main guns are larger than anything the Land has built,” Bragati said.

  low-velocity weapons with black-powder propellant, Center noted with its usual clinical detachment. the chosen weapons are long-barreled, high-velocity rifles using nitrocellulose powders.

  He thought he detected a trace of interest, though, as well. Jeffrey smiled inwardly; the sentient computer wasn’t all that much different from his grandfather and the cronies who hung around him—military history buffs and weapons fanciers to a man. Center was a hobbyist, in its way.

  “And the main armor belt is twelve inches thick!”

  laminated wrought iron and cast steel plate, Center went on. radically inferior to face-hardened alloy. Which both the Land and the Republic were using for their major warships.

  None of the battleships looked ready for sea. Less excusably, neither did the scout cruisers tied up three-deep at the naval wharves, or the torpedo-boat destroyers. Or even the harbor’s own torpedo boats, turtle-backed little craft.

  On the other hand . . . “Well, the fleet certainly looks in good fettle,” Jeffrey said diplomatically.

  So they were, painted in black and dark blue with cream trim. Sailors were scrubbing coal dust off the latter even as he watched. He shuddered to think of the amount of labor it must take to repair the paintwork after a practice firing. If they did have practice firings; he had a strong suspicion that some Imperial captains might simply throw their quota of practice ammunition overboard to spare the trouble.

  “Thank you for your courtesy,” he said formally to the Imperial commodore.

  At least he’d learned one thing. Bragati wasn’t the sort of man he wanted to recruit into the stay-behind cells he and John were setting up. Too brittle to survive, given his high rank.

  “Damn, I hate dying,” John said as the scene blinked back to normalcy.

  Or Center’s idea of normalcy, which in this scenario was a street in a Chosen city—Copernik, to be specific—during the rainy season. There was no way to tell it from the real thing; every sensation was there, down to the smell of the wet rubberized rain cape over his shoulders and the slight roughness of the checked grip of the pistol he held underneath it. Watery rainy-season light probed through the dull clouds overhead, giving a pearly sheen to the granite paving blocks of the street. Buildings of brick and stone reached to the walkways on either side, shuttered and dark, frames of iron bars over their windows.

  John looked down for a second at his unmarked stomach. There hadn’t been any way to tell the impact of the hollowpoint rifle bullet from the real thing, either—Center’s neural input gave an exact duplicate of the sensation of having your spleen punched out and an exit wound the size of a woman’s fist in your lower back. The machine had let the scenario play through to the final blackout. His mouth still felt sour and dry. . . .

  “Do you have to make it quite that realistic?” he muttered, sidling down the street, eyes scanning.

  “For your own good, lad.” Raj’s voice was “audible” here. “Priceless training, really. You can’t get more rigorous than this; and outside, you won’t be able to get up and start again.”

  “I still—”

  A sound alerted him. He whirled, drawing the pistol from the holster on his right hip and firing under his own left arm, into the planks of the door. His weight crashed into it before the ringing of the shots had died, smashing it back into the room and knocking the collapsing corpse of the Fourth Bureau agent into his companions. That gave John just enough time to snapshoot, and the secret policeman’s weapon flew out of a nerveless hand as the bullet smashed his collarbone. . . . . . blackness.

  The street reformed. “I still really hate dying. One behind me?”

  correct. Center did not bother with amenities like speaking aloud. scanning to your right as you entered the room was the optimum alternative.

  “I hated it, too,” Raj said unexpectedly.

  The street scene faded to the study where they’d first . . . John supposed “met” was as good a word as any. Raj puffed alight a cheroot and poured them both brandies.

  “Hunting accident—broke my neck putting my mount over a fence,” he said. “Quick, at least. I was an old, old man by that time, and the bones get brittle. Still, I had enough time to know I’d screwed the pooch in a major way. The real surprise was waking up—” He indicated the construct. “I was expecting the afterlife, the real afterlife.” He frowned. “Although this isn’t precisely my soul, come to think of it. Maybe I’m in two heavens . . . or hells.”

  “At least you got to see your own funeral,” John said.

  His body-image still carried the revolver. He opened the cylinder and worked the ejector to remove the spent brass, then reloaded and clicked the weapon closed with his thumb. The action was wholly automatic, after thousands of hours of Center’s instruction—and Raj’s, too. The personality of the general gave the training an immediacy that the machine intelligence could never quite match, one that remembered the flesh and the unpleasant realities to which it was subject.

  “My grandchildren were touchingly grief-stricken,” Raj said, his grin white in the dark face. “And now, back to work.”

  “This is play?” John asked.

  His own bedroom in the embassy complex snapped back into view; it was private, with the door locked, and big enough for his body to leap and move in puppet-obedience to what his mind perceived in Center’s training program. Experience had to be ground into the nerves and muscles, as well as the mind and memory. The rest of the staff thought he had an eccentric taste for calisthenics performed in solitude.

  The phone rang, the distinctive two long and three short that meant it was from the ambassador.

  John sighed silently as he picked it up. There were times when it was easier to deal with the Chosen; they were more straightforward.

  Gerta found the embassy of the Land of the Chosen in the Imperial capital of Ciano reassuringly familiar, down to the turtle helmets and gray uniforms and brand-new magazine rifles of the guards at the gate. They snapped to present as her car halted; an officer checked her papers and waved her through, past two outward-bound trucks. In the main courtyard, staff were setting up fuel drums and shoveling in a mixture of file folders and kerosene distillate. The smoke was rank and black, towering up into the sky over the pollarded trees and the slate-roofed buildings. The guards at the entrance gave her a more detailed going-over.

  “Captain Gerta Hosten, Intelligence Section, General Staff Office, geburtsnumero 77-A-II-44221,” she said.

  “Sir,” the embassy clerk said, after a moments check of the tallysheet before him. “Colonel von Kleuron will see you immediately.”

  I should hope so, Gerta thought with perfectly controlled anger as she walked throug
h the basalt-paved lobby of the main embassy building. After dragging me out here for Fate-knows-what when the balloon’s about to go up.

  It was busy enough that several times she had to dodge wheeled carts full of documents being taken down to the incinerators. Not so busy that several passersby in civilian dress didn’t do a slight check and double-take at her Intelligence flashes; probably the Fourth Bureau spooks were about as happy to see her here as they would be to invite Santander Intelligence Bureau operatives in. The air was scented with the smell of paper and cardboard burning, and with fear-sweat.

  She repeated the identification procedure at the Intelligence chief’s office. This time it was a Chosen NCO who checked her against a list.

  “Welcome to Ciano, Captain,” he said. “No problems at the airship port?”

  “Walked straight through, barely looked at my passport,” she said. “The colonel?”

  The NCO hopped up from his desk—it was covered with files being sorted—opened the door and spoke through it, then opened it fully and stepped aside.

  Gerta marched through, tucked her peaked cap precisely under her left arm. Her heels clicked, and her right arm shot out at shoulder-height with fist clenched.

  “Sir!”

  Colonel von Kleuron turned out to be a middle-aged woman with a long face and pouches under her eyes. Her office, with its metal filing cabinets, table with a keyboard-style coding machine, and plain wooden desk, seemed to still be in full operation. All in military gray, nothing personal except a photograph of several teenage children on the desk.

  “At ease, Captain,” She looked at Gerta with a slight raise of her eyebrow. “You seem to be throttling a considerable head of steam, Hosten.”

  “Sir, Operation Overfall is scheduled to commence shortly. My unit is tasked with an important objective, and we’ve been training for nearly a year. Nobody’s indispensable, but I’ll be missed.”

  “We should have you back shortly, Captain,” von Kleuron said. “Not to waste time: give me your appraisal of Johan—John—Hosten, your foster-brother.”

  Gerta blinked in surprise. That she had not expected. Von Kleuron tapped the folder open before her; a picture of John was clipped to the front sheet. Gerta recognized it; it was a duplicate of one she’d gotten from him. She also recognized the correspondence tucked into the inner jacket of the file; of course, she’d submitted all her letters for approval before sending, and turned over copies of all his immediately. Plus, the Fourth Bureau would have their own from the censors in the postal system, but that was another department.

  “As in my reports, Colonel. Intelligent and resourceful, and, as I remember him as a boy, with considerable nerve and determination. Certainly he overcame his handicap well. From what he’s accomplished in the Republic over the last twelve years, he’s become a formidable man.”

  “His attitude towards the Chosen?”

  “I think he had reservations even as a boy. Now?” She shrugged. “Impossible to say. We don’t discuss politics, only family matters.”

  “Weaknesses?”

  “Sentimentality.” The Landisch word she used could also mean “squeamishness.”

  “Are you aware that Johan Hosten has become an operative for the Republic’s Foreign Intelligence Service? As well as a diplomat.” The last was a little pedantic; in Landisch, diplomat and spy were related words.

  Gerta’s eyebrows went up slightly. “No, sir, I wasn’t aware of that. I’m not surprised.”

  “It has been decided at a high level to attempt to enlist the subject as a double agent. We are authorized to waive Testing and offer Chosen status, and appropriate rank.”

  Gerta frowned. It smacked of an improvisation, not a good idea on the eve of a major war. On the other hand, John would be an asset if he could be turned . . . and it would be pleasant to have him on-side. If possible. It was obvious why she’d been brought in; she was the only Chosen intelligence operative with a personal link to John. Heinrich had known him as well, but he was a straight-leg, an infantry officer. And far more conspicuous in Ciano; her height and physical type was far more common in the Empire than his.

  On the other hand, women who could bench-press twice their own weight were not common here, and she hoped very much she wouldn’t have to try looking like an Imperial belle in a low-cut dress. She didn’t even know how to walk in a skirt.

  Behfel ist Behfel. “How am I tasked, sir?”

  John tapped his walking stick against the front of the cab. “Driver, pull up.”

  The horses clattered to a halt, and the driver set the brake and jumped to the cobblestones to open the door.

  “Signore?” he said, looking around.

  They were in a district of upper-middle-class homes, about halfway between the theater district north of the main railway station and the apartment John kept near the Santander embassy.

  “I’ve changed my mind, I’m going to walk home,” he said.

  Shameless self-indulgence, he thought. He should make up for taking an evening off at the opera with Pia by going straight home and reading files. On the other hand, he had his cover as a effete diplomat to maintain. The Santander diplomatic service was supposed to be a harmless dumping ground for well-connected upper-class playboys. Many of them were, and the rest found it useful camouflage.

  He paid the cabbie the full value of his intended trip, and the horses clattered off through the dark.

  Ciano was a pleasant city to walk through, this part at least, on a warm spring night. The sidewalk was brick, with trees at four-meter intervals—oaks, he thought—and cast-iron lampstands rather less frequently. Most of the houses on either side had wrought-iron railings separating them from the street, often overgrown with climbing roses or honeysuckle. The gaslights gave a diffuse glow to the scene, soft yellow light on the undersides of the trees; the street had a melancholy feel, like most of the Imperial capital, a dreamy sense of past glories and a long sleep filled with reverie.

  John twirled the walking stick and strolled, unclasping his opera cloak and throwing it over his left arm. It was very quiet, the air smelling of dew and roses. Quiet enough that he heard the footsteps not long after Center’s warning.

  four following, the computer said. there are two more at the junction ahead.

  John was suddenly, acutely conscious of the feel of the brick beneath his feet, the slight touch of the wind on his face beneath the glossy black topper. Twelve years of Center’s scenarios and Raj’s drill had given him a training nobody on the planet could match, but he’d never had anyone try to kill him before. Odd, I’m not really frightened. More like being extremely alert and irritated at the same time.

  There was a double-edged steel blade inside his walking stick, the gold head made a very effective bludgeon, and a small six-shot revolver nestled under one armpit. It didn’t seem like much, right now, but it would probably be enough if these were street toughs out to roll a toff.

  The wall by his side was brick. John turned casually and set his back against it, like a man pausing to admire the view toward the north and the Imperial Palace.

  Four men came up the sidewalk behind him. They were dressed in double-breasted jackets and bag-hats, peg-leg trousers and ankle-boots; middle-class streetwear for Ciano. Their faces were unremarkably Imperial as well, rather swarthy and blue-stubbled for the most part. There was something about the way they moved, though, the expressions on the faces—or rather the lack of them. Big men, thick-shouldered. With flat bulges under their left armpits; one of them was holding his right hand down by his side, as if something was resting in the loosely curled fingertips. The hilt of a knife, perhaps, or a lead-weighted cosh.

  Protégés, he thought. Tough ones, at that. Operatives. Fourth Bureau, or Military Intelligence.

  correct, Center said. 97%, ±2.

  Well, it was some comfort to know his judgment was good.

  The men halted and spread out, waiting with a tense wariness. One spoke:

  “Excuse, si
r. You will please to come with us.” A guttural accent in the Imperial, one natural to someone who’d grown up speaking Landisch.

  Four of them, and two more waiting close by. Not good odds. And if they’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead. A steamcar and a couple of shotguns, no problem and no fuss. Or someone waiting in his apartment, the Chosen could certainly find a good shooter when they needed one. This was a snatch team, not hitters.

  “All right,” he said, turning and walking ahead of them.

  Two closed in on either side. One quietly relieved him of the walking stick. Another leaned over, put a hand under his jacket and took his revolver, dropping it into his own coat pocket. A few seconds later, fingers plucked the little punch-dagger out of the collar of his dress coat. There was a sound at that, something like a very quiet chuckle smothered before it began. The men closed in on either side of him—nobody in front, of course. This lot had been fairly well-trained.

  They all halted under the streetlight at the T-shaped intersection. The two men waiting there both threw their cigarettes into the center of the road. Seconds later a quiet hum of rubber tires sounded as a steamcar came down the road and halted—a big Santander-made four-door Wilkens in plain blue paint, with wire-spoke wheels and two sofa-style seats facing each other in the rear compartment. The head of the snatch team signaled John to enter.

  There was a woman sitting in the front seat, with her back to the driver’s compartment. The interior of the Wilkens was fairly dark, only the reflected light of the streetlamps. That was enough to show the oily blued sheen of a weapon in her hand; it gestured him back to the rear of the vehicle. He obeyed silently. Two of the Protégé gunmen sat on either side of him, wedging him into position. The front door chunked closed. Just for insurance, the Protégé beside John had a short double-edged blade in his hand, under the limp hat. That put the point not more than a couple of millimeters from his short ribs. John’s lips quirked. They certainly weren’t taking any chances with him; but then, the preferred Chosen method of dealing with ants was to drop an anvil on them.