Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  The woman leaned out the window and spoke to the other members of the team. “Report to the safe house,” she said. Gray uniform tunic, Captain’s rank-tabs, red General Staff flashes, Military Intelligence insignia.

  The motion left the light on her face for a second. She was in her late twenties, not much older than he; a dark brunette, black hair cropped to a plush sable cap, black eyes, high cheekbones, and a rather full mouth. An Imperial face or Sierran, except for the hardness to it, the body beneath close-coupled and muscular but full-bosomed. He blinked, surprise tugging at his mind.

  “Gerta!” he blurted.

  probability subject identity not gerta hosten is too low to be meaningfully calculated, Center noted, overlaying the woman’s face with a series of regressions that took it back to the teenager who’d said good-bye to him on the docks of Oathtaking twelve years ago.

  She sat back and let the pistol rest on her knee; it was a massive, chunky, squared-off thing, not a revolver.

  recoil-operated automatic, magazine in the grip, Center said. 11mm caliber, six to eight rounds.

  “Hi, Johnnie,” she said in Landisch. “Nice to see you again.”

  John took a deep breath. “If you wanted to talk, you could have invited me more politely,” he said in a neutral tone.

  “Behfel ist behfel, Johnnie.”

  “I’m not under Chosen orders.”

  She smiled and waggled the automatic.

  “All right, I grant that. I presume you’re not going to kill me?”

  “I’d really regret having to do that, John,” she said.

  veracity 95% ±3, Center observed. A brief flash showed pupil dilation and heat patterns on Gerta’s face.

  Of course, the way she phrased it implied that she might have to kill him anyway. Looking at her, he didn’t have the least doubt she’d do it—regrets or no.

  “How’re the children?” he asked after a moment.

  “Erika’s just starting school, and Johan’s at the stage where his favorite word is no,” she said. “We’ve adopted two more, as well. Protégé kids, a boy and a girl. The boy’s a byblow, probably one of Heinrich’s.”

  “Two?” John said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Policy.”

  Which was information, of a sort. The Chosen Council must be anticipating casualties . . . and not just in the upcoming war with the Empire, either.

  He didn’t try to look out the windows as the wheels hammered over the cobblestones, then hummed on smoother main street pavement of asphalt or stone blocks. Gerta uncorked a silver flask. John took it and sipped: banana brandy, something he hadn’t tasted in a long time.

  “Danke,” he said. “Anything you can tell me?”

  “The colonel will brief you, Johnnie. Just . . . be reasonable, eh?”

  “Reasonable depends on where you’re sitting,” he said, returning the flask.

  “No it doesn’t. When someone else holds all the cards, reasonable is whatever they say it is.”

  He looked at the pistol. She shook her head.

  “Not just this. The Chosen hold all the cards on Visager; it’d be smart to keep that in mind.”

  He was almost relieved when they pulled into a side entrance to the Chosen embassy compound. The Wilkens was as inconspicuous as a steamcar in Ciano could be—powered vehicles weren’t all that common here, even now—and the rear windows were tinted. The embassy itself was fairly large, a severe block of dark granite from the outside, the only ornamentation a gilded-bronze sunburst above the ironwork gates. The area within was larger than the Santander legation, mainly because all the Land’s diplomatic personnel lived on the delegation’s own extraterritorial ground. It might have been something out of Copernik or Oathtaking inside, boxlike buildings with tall windows and smooth columns, low-relief caryatids beside the doors. Fires were burning in iron drums in the open spaces between, while clerks dumped in more documents and stirred the ashes with pokers and broomsticks.

  Christ, he thought. The sight hit him in the belly like a fist, more than the danger to himself had. War was close if the embassy was torching their classified papers.

  He was hustled through a doorway, down corridors, finally into a windowless room with a single overhead light. It shone into his eyes as he sat in the steel-frame chair beneath it, obscuring the two figures at a table in front of him. One of them spoke in Landisch:

  “Let’s dispose with the tricks, shall we, Colonel?” Gerta said. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

  The overhead light dimmed. He blinked and looked at the two Chosen officers. Both women—nothing unusual with that, in the Land’s forces—in gray Army uniforms. Intelligence Section badges. A middle-aged colonel with gray in her blond brushcut and a face like a starved hound.

  “Johan Hosten,” the senior officer said. “We have arranged to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”

  John nodded. He could guess what was coming.

  “The Land of the Chosen has need of your services, Johan Hosten.”

  “The Land of the Chosen rejected me rather thoroughly when I was twelve,” he pointed out. “I’m a citizen of the Republic of Santander.”

  “The Republic is a democracy with universal suffrage,” the colonel said. “Hence, weak and corrupt, with no real claim on your allegiance.” She spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if commenting on the law of gravity. “Your father is second assistant of the general staff of the Land and a member of the Council. The implications are, I think, plain.”

  They certainly were. “I’m not Chosen and not qualified to be so,” he said. Think, think. If he rolled over too quickly, they’d be suspicious.

  “The regulations governing admittance have been waived or modified before,” the intelligence officer said. “I am authorized to inform you that they will be again, in your case. Full Chosen status, and appropriate rank.”

  “You want me to defect?” he said slowly.

  “Of course not. You will remain as an agent in place within the Santander intelligence apparat—of course, we know that your diplomatic status is a cover—and provide us with information, and your nominal superiors with disinformation which will be furnished. We can feed you genuine data of sufficient importance so that you will rise rapidly in rank. At the appropriate moment, we will bring you in from the cold.”

  She nodded towards Gerta. Ah. They sent Gerta along as an earnest of good faith. The offer probably was genuine. And to the Chosen’s way of looking at it, perfectly natural. Perhaps if he’d never been contacted by Center, it might even have been tempting.

  There were times he woke up at night sweating, from dreams of the man he might have become in the Land.

  “Let me think,” he said.

  “Agreed. But not for long.”

  He dropped his head into his hands. Jeff, you following this?

  You bet, brother. You going to ask them for something in writing?

  Out of character, he answered. A Chosen officer’s word is supposed to be good. I don’t have much time.

  Although surely they knew that he knew he’d never leave the room alive if he refused. The embassy could be relied upon to have a way of disposing of bodies.

  He raised his head again. No problem in showing a little worry, and he could smell his own sweat, heavy with the peculiar rankness of stress.

  “I’m engaged to be married to an Imperial,” he said.

  The colonel shrugged. “Marriage is out of the question, of course, but after the conquest, you can have your pick for pleasure. Take the bitch as you please, or a dozen others.”

  Gerta winced and touched her superior on the sleeve, whispering in her ear.

  John shook his head. “Anything that applies to me, applies to Pia. Or no deal.”

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You have already been offered more than is customary,” she warned.

  “No. Pia, or nothing.”

  Gerta touched the colonel’s sleeve again. “We should discuss this, sir,” she sa
id.

  “Agreed. Hosten, retire to the end of the room, please.”

  He obeyed, facing away from the table. The two Chosen leaned together, speaking in whispers. Far too softly for anyone to overhear . . . anyone without Center’s processing power, that was. The computer was limited to the input of John’s senses, but it could do far more with them than his unaided brain.

  “What do you make of it, captain?” the colonel asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. If he’d agreed without insisting on the woman, I’d have said we should kill him immediately—that would be an obvious fake. The woman . . . that makes it possible he’s sincere . . . but he’d also know that I know him well.”

  Thanks a lot, Gerta.

  “As it is, I still suspect he’s lying. Immediate termination would be the low-risk option here.”

  “I was under the impression that you thought highly of this Johan Hosten.”

  “I do. Heinrich and I named a son after him. I respect his courage and intelligence; which is why he’s too dangerous to live unless he’s on our side.”

  “He seems inclined to agree to the proposition.”

  “He’d have to anyway, wouldn’t he?”

  “What evidence do you have to suppose he lies?”

  “Gestalt. I lived with him until he was twelve and we’ve corresponded since. He’s committed to the Republic, absurd though that may sound. He believes. And John Hosten would never betray a cause in which he believed.”

  A long silence. “As you say, the Republic’s ideology is absurd—and he is, from the records, not a stupid or irrational man. Termination is always an option, but it is irrevocable once exercised. We will test him; his position is potentially a priceless asset. And we are offering him the ultimate reward, after all.”

  “Colonel, please record my objection and recommendation.”

  “Captain, this is noted.” Aloud: “Johan Hosten, attend.”

  When he was standing beside the chair, she continued: “We will concede this woman Probationer-Emeritus status.”

  Second-class citizenship, but if married to one of the Chosen her children would be automatically entitled to take the Test of Life. Although they’d know he could sire no children. He blinked, keeping his face carefully neutral. Pia had wept when he told her that, and he’d been afraid, really afraid.

  “This is . . .” He stopped and began again. “You understand, I’ve been growing more and more frustrated with Santander. You must know that, if your sources inside the Foreign Office are as good as I suspect. I keep telling them the risks, and they ignore them.” He shrugged. “As you said, it makes no sense to fight for those who won’t fight for themselves.” He stood, and gave the Chosen salute. “I agree. Command me, colonel!”

  The colonel returned the gesture. Gerta stared at him with cold appraisal, biting at her lip thoughtfully. Then she shook her head and made a small gesture to the senior officer, a thumb-pull, much the same as one would make to cock a pistol before shooting someone in the back of the head.

  Colonel von Kleuron looked at them both and then shook her head.

  John fought back an impulse to let out a long sigh of relief. They aren’t going to kill me now. Thanks, Gerta, thanks a lot.

  Although he should have expected it. He’d always known his foster-sister was smart, and she did know him well.

  “Johan Hosten.”

  The basset-hound face of the colonel allowed itself a slight smile.

  “You have made a wise decision. You will be dropped at some distance, and contacted when appropriate. May your service to the Chosen be long and successful.”

  “Welcome back, Johnnie,” Gerta said. “I’m sure you’ll make a first-class operative. You’ve got natural talent.”

  Lucky bastard, Jeffrey said silently.

  No, it’s Chosen arrogance, John replied from half a continent away. A faint overlay of the controls of a road steamer came through the link, beyond it a long dusty country road.

  Jeffrey smiled, imagining serious expression and the slight frown on his stepbrother’s face.

  Have they contacted you since? he said/thought.

  No. It’s only been three days, and they’re very busy. The whole Land embassy staff left on the last dirigible.

  Jeffrey lifted his coffee cup. It was morning, but some of the other patrons in the streetside cafe had already made a start on something stronger. Many of them were settling in with piles of newspapers or books, or just enjoying the perennial Imperial sport of people-watching. The coffee was excellent, and the platter of pastries extremely tempting; you had to admit, there were some things the Imperials did very well. His contact should be showing up any minute.

  Give me a look at the activity in the harbor, John requested. Jeffrey turned slightly in his seat and looked downhill; Center would be supplying the visual input to John.

  Awful lot of Chosen shipping still there, his stepbrother commented.

  They’re still delivering cod, Jeffrey replied. To the naval stockpiles, no less.

  My esteemed prospective father-in-law, John thought dryly, assures me that the Imperial armed forces are ready down to the last gaiter button. Quote unquote.

  Is the man a natural-born damned fool?

  No, he just can’t afford to face the truth. I think he wishes he’d died before this . . . and he’s glad Pia will be safe in Santander.

  Speaking of which, we should—Jeffrey began. Then: Wait.

  A dirigible was showing over the horizon, just barely. Jeffrey was in officer’s garrison dress, which included a case for a small pair of binoculars as well as a service revolver. He drew the glasses and stood, looking down the long street leading to the harbor. The airship wasn’t in Land Air Service colors, just a neutral silvery shade with a Landisch Luftanza company logo on the big sharkfin control surfaces at the rear. A large model, two hundred meters in length and a quarter that in maximum diameter. One of the latest types, with the gondola built into the hull and six engines in streamlined pods held out from the sides by struts covered in wing-like farings.

  “That isn’t a scheduled carrier,” he said to himself.

  correct. vessel is land air service heavy military transport design. A brief flash of a report he’d read several months ago. sharkwhale class.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said. “John, I’m going to be busy for a while.”

  I suspect we all are, his brother answered. Better try and make it to the legation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Coming up on Ciano. Airspeed one hundred and four kilometers per hour, altitude one thousand four hundred. Windspeed ten KPH, north-northwest. Fifteen kilometers to target.”

  The bridge of the war dirigible Sieg was a semicircle under the bows, with slanting windows that gave a 180-degree view forward and down. Gerta Hosten was the only one present not in the blue-trimmed gray of the Landisch Air Service; she was in army combat kit, stone-gray tunic and pants, webbing gear and steel helmet. Her boots felt a little insecure on the stamped aluminum panels of the airship’s decking, unlike the rubber-soled shoes the crew wore. The commanding officer, Horst Raske, stood by the crewman who held the tall wheel that controlled the vertical rudders. Another wheel at right-angles turned the horizontal control surfaces. Ballast, gas, and engines all had their own stations, although each engine pod also held two crewmen for repairs or emergencies.

  “Off superheat,” Raske said.

  A muted whump went through the huge but lightly built hull of the airship. Vents on the upper surface of the ship were opening, releasing hot air from the ballonets that hung in the center of the hydrogen cells. The dirigible felt slower and heavier under her feet, and the surface of the water began to grow closer. Land was a thick line of surf ahead, studded with tiny doll-like buildings. The broad estuary of the Pada River lay southward, to the right; just inside it were the deep dredged-out harbors of Corona, swarming with shipping.

  “All engines three-quarter, come about to one-two-five.�
� Ranke’s voice was as calm and crisp as it had been on the practice runs on the mockup. Nobody had ever flown a dirigible into a real combat situation like this before; airships had only existed for about forty years. “Commencing final run.”

  He turned to Gerta. “Thirty minutes to target,” he said. “The observer”—in a bubble on top of the airship—”reports the rest of the air-landing force is following on schedule. Good luck.”

  Gerta returned his salute. “And to you, Major.”

  You’ll need it, she thought. She was getting off this floating bomb; into a firefight, granted, but at least she wouldn’t have a million cubic meters of hydrogen wrapped around her while she did it.

  The catwalk behind the bridge led down through crew quarters, past the radio shack, and into the hold. That was a huge darkened box across the belly of the Sieg, spanned with girders higher up; the only vertical members were several dozen ropes fastened to the roof supports and ending in coils on segments of floor planking. Crouched on the framework floor were her troops, three hundred of the Intelligence Service Commando, special forces, reporting directly to the general staff and tasked with the very first assault. Most of the dirigibles and surface ships following were crowded with line troops, Protégé slave-soldiers under Chosen officers. The Protégé infantrymen were getting four ounces of raw cane spirit each about now. The IS Commando were all-Chosen, only one candidate in ten making the grade.

  The sergeant of the headquarters section handed her a Koegelmann machine-carbine. Half the commando was armed with them or pump-action shotguns rather than rifles, for close-in firepower. She slapped a flat disk drum on top of the weapon and ran the sling through the epaulet strap on her right shoulder so that it would hang with the pistol grip ready to hand.