by David Drake
Rankoo frowned as she squeezed the device off. Change usually brought with it an opportunity for profit. But this Windsor was a radical, and from the sound of it, a competent one at that. The combination could be very bad for business.
She heard a soft footstep behind her. “Yes?”
Coda’s voice was hoarse and gravelly. ‘It is time.” He was a big man, layered with hard muscle, wearing only a genital pouch and a pair of sandals.
Rankoo nodded, swallowed the last of her wine and stood. She towered over Coda. Her body was slimmer than his, but thanks to DNA editing that had been necessary to survival on their planet of origin, equally muscular. She had wide shoulders, firm upthrust breasts, a narrow waist, and long muscular legs. Like Coda she’d been born and raised on the heavy gravity world known as “Lead.” On Lead it takes a lot of strength just to get up and walk around, so Augustine’s lighter gravity made them seem super human, a fact they’d used to good advantage.
Like Coda, Rankoo wore nothing but a G string and sandals. She saw and savored the hunger in his eyes. As usual she’d make him wait. His performance would improve accordingly. “I’m ready.”
He nodded and together they walked down a short flight of stairs, along the side of the villa, and out beyond the barn. As they approached the holding pen she saw there were four Hornheads penned up inside. The beasts weighed close to half a ton, were covered with overlapping plates of green armor, and had mean dispositions.
Each was armed with three horns: a curving affair to each side, plus a lancelike growth which protruded from its forehead. All were razor sharp.
Rankoo’s voice was calm and indifferent. “Four tonight?” In truth, four was a lot.
But Coda liked to test his mate, assure himself of her strength and the status it conferred on him. His eyes were flat brown disks as he handed over the steel mesh gloves. “Yes. We’re running low on meat.”
Rankoo pulled on the gloves and entered the pen without comment. She stalked the largest Hornhead, choosing to ignore the others. It would take the most strength, so she would kill it first. Personal kills were something her mother had insisted on. What your clan eats you must kill. To do otherwise was to avoid responsibility and invite speculation on your fitness.
Some thought it an outdated hunting ethic, but it was one to which Rankoo chose to cling. For her, business was simply a complicated version of the hunt: the strong must kill, the weak must die.
The animal charged. She grabbed its two outside horns and leaned forward, feet skidding in the dirt, powerful legs pushing with all her might. Slowly, reluctantly, the beast came to a stop. Its three-pupiled eye regarded her with limitless hate, and its foul breath filled her nostrils. For a moment they stood motionless, each trying to best the other through sheer brute strength.
This was Coda’s favorite part: Nola’s naked strength against the brute force of the beast. He felt the familiar stirring between his legs and smiled. As usual she’d make him wait, but he agreed: it would be worth it.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she turned the beast’s head. Then, with a mighty contraction of her shoulder muscles, she twisted it a half-rotation to the right. There was a dull cracking sound; the animal fell dead at her feet.
The rest would be easy. As she grabbed the next set of horns and turned them, Rankoo was thinking of Senator Anthony Windsor.
Chapter 4
Things began to happen the moment the cigar-shaped ship dropped into orbit around Augustine. Shuttles came and went, staffs conferred, and all manner of problems were discovered and resolved. Windsor disappeared into a whirl of meetings, receptions and parties.
And of course so did Merikur. As senior officer of Harmony Cluster, he’d be at the center of military politics. Any officer desiring promotion or a new command would need his approval, so at any given moment there were hundreds of people clamoring for his attention. As a result, it was damn hard to do his real job. Inevitable it may have been, but he wasn’t used to it, and he didn’t like it. Some officers love that kind of attention, basking in the warm glow of their own power, handing out decisions like precious gifts. Others, the kind who get things done, dread it.
In between meetings, he managed to learn that at the moment, thirty ships were under his command, along with 3,000 crew and support personnel and another 1,500 marines. With the exception of two new destroyers, the rest of his fleet was pretty old, dating all the way back to the days of expansion.
His single battleship was a good example. The Nike was 256 years old. In spite of her age, his staff assured him she was still quite serviceable. Too large for atmospheric landings, and lucky enough to have escaped major battles, Nike had had her weaponry updated from time to time, and structurally she was in better shape than many ships half her age.
Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Merikur’s 4,500 military personnel. Both his experienced eye and fleet records told him the same thing. Pact Command’s forces in the Harmony Cluster were fat and lazy. The reason was obvious. His predecessor, Rear Admiral George Stender, was a crony of the outgoing governor’s. They were in fact leaving for Earth aboard the same ship.
Like his boss, Stender was unaggressive and quite satisfied with the status quo. Consequently, his term of office had seen a steady and, in Merikur’s eyes, treasonous decline in battle readiness. They would occasionally break orbit for an exercise or to chase a pirate who ventured too close to the main shipping lanes, but otherwise they just sat. By now it was about all they were good for.
To counter this and break up the political groupings which flourished under Stender’s command, Merikur ordered massive rotations. Every officer who’d served in a dirtside staff position for more than one local year was sent to a ship or other combat unit.
That freed up an equal number of officers to join his staff. These were often men and women Stender had banished from headquarters for political reasons, or people who just liked to fight. Either way, they were the kind of advisors Merikur wanted: people who knew the ships, the troops, and how to use them. True, some would be plain incompetents and psychological misfits, but he would weed those out soon enough.
Then he began sifting through his officers for a chief of staff. Someone who could run the administrative end of things while he dealt with external military and political matters. It took some time, but after countless hours of reading personnel files, Merikur came up with the right man. The problem would lay in convincing Captain Wallace Von Oy to take the job. Von Oy demonstrated a pronounced aversion to things administrative.
In typical fashion, Merikur went to Von Oy instead of summoning the captain to his office. He did so for two reasons. First he wanted to pay Von Oy a compliment; second, he wanted to see the man on his own deck.
It would be a small deck, however, since Von Oy’s ship, the M-2022, was modest. In fact, it was a tug, which had been in orbit around Augustine for nine local months—ever since Von Oy had drunk too much at Stender’s military ball and suggested that the purpose of Pact military forces was to fight, rather than fuck.
As a full navy captain, Von Oy rated a heavy cruiser at least, like the one he’d commanded until his unfortunate gaffe—and Stender reassigned him to a line officer’s version of hell.
The M-2022 consisted of huge drives and very little else. Not intended for atmospheric landings, the small ship had heat-release panels, antennas, and tractor beam projectors stuck out in whatever way was most convenient.
As Merikur’s shuttle made lock-to-lock contact, Merikur wondered what he’d find aboard the tug. Just because Von Oy looked good on paper didn’t mean he was. The captain might be floating in a lake of alcohol . . . But even as the locks hissed open, Merikur’s fears were put to rest.
Von Oy was there, along with his entire eight-person crew, rendering full honors to the cluster commander. As the sound of the pipes dwindled away, Von Oy snapped off a perfect salute. “On behalf of the ship and crew, welcome aboard, Sir.”
Von Oy was of medi
um height; he had pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His uniform was perfect and his teeth flashed when he smiled. “If you’ll follow me, we’ve laid on some refreshments.”
As Merikur followed Von Oy to the mess, he saw gleaming electronics, fresh paint, and smiling faces. Whatever Von Oy’s feelings, he hadn’t let his imprisonment affect the ship. There wasn’t a trace of self-pity in his tone or bearing. Merikur liked that. It showed guts and maturity.
“Here we are, Sir . . . small, but cozy.”
The rest of the crew disappeared as the two men took their seats, providing the appearance of privacy. On such a small ship there was no wardroom, and the captain’s cabin would be little more than a closet. Privacy was almost impossible in theory and, if Merikur knew anything about small ships, absolutely impossible in reality. Whatever they said would be heard.
There was a pot of coffee and some cups in the middle of the table. Merikur helped himself. “You run a tight ship, Captain.”
Von Oy smiled at the compliment. “I have an outstanding crew, Sir.” He meant what he said, but he was also aware that his crew was listening. Von Oy knew what many officers never learn: share the credit with your subordinates, and one day maybe they’ll save your ass.
Merikur sipped his coffee. “As you know, Rear Admiral Stender’s returning to Terra a few days from now.”
Von Oy smiled sardonically. “A tremendous loss.”
Merikur nodded, straight-faced. “Yes. And as the new commanding officer for Harmony Cluster, I’m making a few changes. Much as I’d like to place officers of your experience and ability on all of my ships, it’s a luxury I can’t afford. So I came here to offer you a job.”
Von Oy’s eyes lit up. His old cruiser perhaps? Or maybe even the Nike? With Stender out of the picture anything was possible . . .
“I’d like that, Sir. Which ship?”
Merikur said carefully, “I want you for my Chief of Staff.”
There was a long silence while the light faded from Von Oy’s eyes.
Merikur took another sip of coffee and smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, Captain Von Oy. How useless desk jockeys are, and how much you want a ship. And that’s exactly why I want you for my Chief of Staff. I want someone who’s smart, wants to cut through the bullshit instead of making more—someone who knows what the navy’s for: fighting instead of fucking around.”
Von Oy spluttered for a moment and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sure fight dirty, Sir. I like that. One desk jockey reporting for duty, Sir.”
Both men smiled at the sound of distant cheers and curses. Von Oy’s crew had listened to the whole thing via an open intercom. The cheers were for a commander they held in obvious affection; the curses were the result of the natural pessimism with which they awaited his replacement.
###
As Merikur’s shuttle touched down, his hover car swept around to meet him. His marine driver was a sergeant named Molly Knox. On his first day, she’d shown up driving a black limo. “What the hell’s this thing?” he’d asked.
“Your car, Sir. Actually it’s Admiral Stender’s back-up limo, but he assigned it to you.”
Merikur had nodded politely. “Very nice of the admiral. But it might get all dusty on field exercises. How about something a little more utilitarian? Like a command car?”
And she’d found one. It was either new or freshly painted, mounted twin auto repulsors, and a whip antenna which flew his flag. Since it was a beautiful day, Sergeant Knox had retracted the roof. She cut the hover craft’s power and dropped onto the hard surface of the tarmac as he stepped out of the shuttle. As he approached, she slid out of the driver’s seat and snapped to attention.
Merikur returned her salute and smiled. “Good work, Sergeant Knox. I would’ve felt like a pleasure-planet pimp riding around in that other thing.”
Knox was pretty in a slightly chubby way and her green eyes twinkled as she spoke. “Thank you, Sir. Where to?”
Merikur sighed. “HQ I suppose. I’ve got lots of bureaucratic crap to shovel.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As Merikur settled into the back seat, Knox fed power to the fans lifting the car up and off the tarmac. Then she rotated the vehicle 180 degrees and skimmed over the ground towards the gate. The two sentries presented arms as the command car slid through and onto the open road.
Augustine was a beautiful planet. Merikur knew there were some slums southwest of Gloria, the capital city, but Troll Town wasn’t visible at the moment, so everything looked pretty.
Low-lying villas hugged the land to either side of the highway, snuggled down into the cool embrace of formal gardens. Here and there, well-dressed humans relaxed on their verandas as servants brought out the noonday meal. Life was good—for the master class.
While Augustine had its wild and inhospitable latitudes both north and south, there was a wide temperate zone around the planet’s equator and that was very pleasant indeed. Much of it was given over to agriculture, especially Sweetberry vines, and they gave the land an orderly, cultivated look.
Unfortunately, there were other less attractive uses of the land as well. The large areas owned or controlled by the Haiken Maru, for example. While Merikur hadn’t been dirtside long enough to visit them, he’d seen the ugliness via holovids, and the images were still burned into his mind.
Machines the size of small towns inched across the planet’s surface, consuming its flesh for markets light years away. When the strip mines were exhausted, huge ulcerous pits were left to scar the planet for thousands of years to come.
Merikur was a pragmatic man. He knew such mines were necessary, but also knew the resulting pits could be terraformed. But the Haiken Maru refused to do it. Their contract didn’t call for them to do it, so why turn profits into scenery?
There was a buzzing in his ears. It was his AID. “I have a message from your other half.”
“I wish you’d quit calling her that,” Merikur subvocalized. “She’s my wife in the legal sense only, and even if our relationship was deeper than that, she wouldn’t appreciate being referred to as ‘my other half’.”
“All right already. Excuse me for processing.”
Merikur was surprised however. He hadn’t talked to Bethany for days. He’d found it more comfortable to sleep in a room next to his office than to return to their temporary quarters. Somehow he always felt like an invader. “What’s the message?”
“She’d like to meet you for lunch. With your permission, I’ll dump directions and the address into the car’s computer.”
“Go ahead.” Merikur couldn’t imagine why Bethany would suddenly request his presence at lunch, but what the hell. Anything was better than the pile of work waiting at his office.
The mystery grew as Sergeant Knox followed the AID’s directions and steered the car away from the city and towards the suburbs. Gradually, businesses grew almost nonexistent, villas were spaced further and further apart, and the highway narrowed from four lanes to two.
There was a hill ahead of them. Turning onto a side road, they began to climb in ever smaller loops. The views were marvelous. To the west lay Gloria, the spires of the central business district glittering in the sun, while all around suburbs gave way to lush farmland.
Suddenly they rounded a corner and drove into a paved courtyard. There was another vehicle, a civilian roadster, and beyond that a sprawling villa.
As Knox cut power and put the car down, a human servant hurried out to greet them. In spite of his white house coat, Merikur recognized him immediately: Kevin Matsumoto, a member of the Elite Guard. Merikur started to say something, but a tiny shake of Matsumoto’s head stopped him.
Matsumoto had read somewhere that Orientals were once considered inscrutable; he was doing his best to live up to that reputation. Apparently there was more to this than met the eye.
“Right this way, Sir. Sergeant Knox, if you’ll wait here for a moment, someone will be along with refreshments.” Knox looked to
Merikur for instructions.
Merikur shrugged. “Beats me, Sergeant. If I’m not back in an hour, hose the place down with the twin .50s and send for reinforcements. In the meantime, have a good lunch.”
Knox laughed. “Yes, Sir!”
Merikur followed Matsumoto through a well-kept garden and into the villa. Inside, everything was cool stucco and comfortable furniture. Vases of fresh flowers complimented the nicely executed landscapes which decorated the walls.
Stepping out onto the veranda, Merikur was greeted by a Cernian, also a member of the Elite Guard, and Bethany, stunning in slacks and a loose blouse. God, she was beautiful. She smiled, and despite himself his pulse began to quicken. “Welcome home, General. Can you join me for lunch?”
For a moment, he stood there like a foolish schoolboy filled with confusing thoughts and emotions. Finally, he managed to smile and stutter a reply. “Thank you, Bethany. I’d enjoy that.”
Was that relief in her eyes? He thought so but couldn’t be sure. Moments later, he found himself seated at a linen-covered table, sipping cool wine, and enjoying the sound of her voice. Another servant materialized, a Cernian, and after some brief instructions from Bethany disappeared into the kitchen. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come, so lunch won’t be ready for a few minutes.”
Merikur smiled, searching her face for signs of the grief and anger which he’d always seen there before. He thought he detected a reserve, a barrier deep in her eyes, but all other signs of her previous distress had disappeared. “That’s fine. It feels good to get away from the office. This villa is absolutely beautiful. Whose is it?”
Bethany smiled. “Ours if you want it. We’ve got to live somewhere and I thought you might like something a little more elaborate than the room next to your office.”
The room next to his office? How did she know about that? “It’s wonderful,” he said looking around in awe. “Can I, we, afford it?”