Eustus took in a deep breath. “All right, private,” he said to the Marine at the brig controls, “open the door.”
“Are you sure, gunny?” the commodore asked from behind him. “You don’t have to do this.” Eustus turned to the small knot of officers behind him. Without uttering a word, he only nodded his head.
Commodore Marchand nodded to the private at the door controls, who in turn exchanged a glance with the four other Marines who guarded the entrance. Their weapons snapped to the ready. The hum of the force field dropped away, and the force field warning light surrounding the portal went off. Inside, Shera-Khan stood up and turned to watch. The great warrior did not move.
“Okay, gunny,” the private said in a hushed voice.
Eustus stepped into the cell, the force field snapping up behind him just as his feet cleared the doorway. For a long moment, he and Shera-Khan regarded one another in silence. The fact that they had managed to get this far was nothing short of miraculous, Eustus thought. He would have given anything to have seen the look on the faces of the cutter’s crew and surviving Marines back on the planet in the mist when they opened the door, only to be faced with a giant of a Kreelan warrior holding a child in one arm and Eustus slung over her shoulder. According to the crew’s report (Eustus having been unconscious at the time), the warrior had simply leaped into the passenger bay like she belonged there, pushing people out of the way to make a place for herself and the injured child after she carefully set Eustus down on the deck. Everyone had been too shocked to even think of shooting, and the flight back to the Furious was spent in silent awe.
Once aboard the cruiser, little had changed. Commodore Marchand perceived the situation correctly and realized that the warrior wanted them to help save the young one’s life, just as she had saved Eustus. The two prisoners and the injured gunnery sergeant had been spirited to sickbay, where they had saved Shera-Khan. The boy’s recovery, Eustus had noted with little surprise, had taken astonishingly little time. He was on his feet just four hours after surgery, and then he and the warrior were escorted by a platoon of Marines to the brig.
Now, looking at the boy, Eustus could not shake the tingle of excitement that came from the realization that this was the son, the flesh and blood, of Eustus’s best friend. Looking into the boy’s fierce green eyes, Eustus could see the fire that he had known to be in his father’s, and an intellect that Eustus could not even guess at.
“I thought you might like some food,” he said awkwardly. The boy had eaten nothing since his recovery, despite the best efforts of the intel officers and the cooks. Eustus finally convinced the commodore herself to allow him to try. After all, he had explained, he was the only one aboard who had ever known the one real Kreelan expert: Reza. He slowly set a tray of food down on the shelf that protruded from the wall near the head of the warrior’s bed.
The boy’s eyes flicked to the food – two slabs of raw meat (syntho, of course) and two mugs of the alcoholic concoction Reza had taught him to make – then back to Eustus. Then back to the food. Eustus could tell that he was starving, and not just from the last two days. Something told him the boy had probably not eaten for a lot longer than that.
“Go ahead,” he urged as he stepped away. “Try it.”
Shera-Khan made no move to sample what Eustus had brought him until a single whispered word escaped the lips of the warrior lying nearby.
“N’yadeh,” she said. Eat.
The boy turned and bowed his head to her, and Eustus saw that her eyes, sparkling with silver, were open and fixed on Shera-Khan to ensure he obeyed. He saluted her with his left fist over his chest, uttering something that Eustus could not make out. The warrior said nothing, but closed her eyes as the boy turned away to regard the food more closely. Then, his decision made, he reached for one of the chunks of meat.
Eustus watched as he carefully carved it with the claws of his shaking hands, slicing the meat into finger-wide strips. Only when it was completely cut did he begin to eat, his eyes all the while fixed on Eustus.
Slowly, with his hands at his sides, Eustus backed up to the far wall and took a seat on the floor, watching as Shera-Khan inhaled his food. The boy sniffed at one of the mugs. Glancing at Eustus, he hefted it to his lips and swallowed some of the warm, bitter ale that had been Reza’s favorite drink. He made a quiet humph of evident satisfaction before drinking down the rest.
In but a few minutes, both pieces of meat were gone, consumed by the boy’s hunger and the whispered order of the warrior. That done, he turned to her with the other mug, offering her a drink. Drawn to the heady scent of the ale, the warrior tried to lever herself upright, but only managed a few centimeters before her strength gave out. Shera-Khan tried to lift her head, but she was too heavy for him to move.
“Let me help,” Eustus offered, coming slowly over to them, his arms before him, palms up. See, he thought, no weapons.
Shera-Khan narrowed his eyes, but did not try to hinder Eustus as he knelt down beside him. With trembling hands, Eustus cradled the great warrior’s head, lifting her enough that she could swallow some of the ale the boy held to her lips.
As Eustus gently lowered her back onto the bed, the Kreelan warrior’s eyes met his. Her lips seemed to struggle, and then formed two words that Eustus would remember for the rest of his life.
“Thank… you,” she said softly. He stared blankly at her for a moment, too shocked to speak.
“You’re… you’re welcome,” he breathed finally. She motioned almost imperceptibly with her head in acknowledgment before her eyes closed again, a grimace of pain flickering over her blackened face.
“I wish I knew what was wrong with her,” Eustus muttered to himself.
“She mourns,” the boy beside him said softly.
Concealing his shock at the boy’s knowledge of Standard, Eustus asked in a carefully controlled voice, “What do you mean, ‘she mourns?’ Who is she mourning for?” An explanation for how – and why – the boy had learned humanity’s primary language would have to wait.
The boy turned his blazing green eyes to him. “She mourns for the Empress,” he said with a voice far, far older than his years, with a sadness that gripped Eustus’s heart, “who now sleeps in Darkness, Her heart and spirit broken by Her Own hand.” The boy shivered, as if sobbing. “The hour that should have been the greatest in our history, the crowning glory of our people, cast us instead into chaos and ruin. Her voice no longer sings in our blood, Her spirit is silent. Behind a barrier of fire, She lays dying of guilt and grief. And so, too, shall we die.”
“What do you mean?” Eustus asked. “Who’s going to die?”
The boy looked up at him, a stricken expression on his face. “All that has ever been, all that is, all that will ever be, shall be no more the moment Her heart ceases to beat, Her last breath taken. With the First Empress was our Way destined. With Her heart stilled shall it end, and Her Children shall perish from the world.”
Eustus glanced up just in time to see Commodore Marchand disappearing, no doubt for the comms center and a patch through to sector command. She had no more idea of what the boy was talking about than Eustus did, but the significance of those words was apparent enough. Something was seriously wrong in the Empire, and if it could be exploited to the Confederation’s advantage, they might have a hope of winning this war.
Eustus was about to ask more questions, to press the boy for what he meant, when Shera-Khan curled onto the floor, trembling. Without thinking, Eustus reached out to him, taking him into his arms as he might have any bereaved human child. And then, when what he had just done struck home, he realized that this was not an alien enemy, implacable and unstoppable, but the son of his best friend.
“Shera-Khan,” he said, “would you like to meet your father?”
The boy stiffened against him. “The priestess told me of this,” he replied hesitantly, “that you had made signs to her while on the nursery world that my father was alive. But how can it be so? The Emp
ress’s blade cut through his heart.”
“No, no,” Eustus said, holding Shera-Khan so that their eyes met. “He didn’t die in that battle. He was terribly wounded, yes, but he survived. He’s still alive, on Earth.” He paused. “He doesn’t even know he has a son, that he has you.”
Shera-Khan did not know what to believe. He desperately wished his father to be alive, but he could not understand how it could be so. His mother would never have let the humans take him had there been a breath remaining in his body.
The great priestess suddenly spoke, her voice little more than a murmur.
“The priestess bids you to take us to him,” Shera-Khan translated for her. “To Reza. My father.”
***
As he looked out over the apron of the New York flight terminal, Tony Braddock silently wondered how many times he had been at places like this. Dozens, hundreds, perhaps? But he had always been the one about to step onto a waiting shuttle, impatient loadmasters herding their human cargo aboard as if they were ignorant cattle, which perhaps they sometimes were.
But today, as he had on several previous occasions, he was bidding farewell to the woman he loved. They would see one another again as the Armada sailed into enemy space, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was leaving him.
Nicole stood beside him, her mind focused on the anthill of humans and machines that had been working around the clock for the past two days. They were moving millions of tons of materiel and hundreds of thousands of people in support of the great armada that at this very moment was assembling in the skies above the Earth and a hundred other worlds that were home to Humanity. Her fighter, one of dozens that still crowded the ramps at this late hour, was fueled and ready. The crew chief, a man she had never met before, stood impatiently by.
He looked at her, and wondered if he were not a fool for not knocking her to the ground and carrying her away from this madness. She was hardly in shape for a fight, he told himself. The business with Reza – Braddock still refused to believe it – had eaten at her like a cancer since Reza’s escape several days ago. Her bond to him was yet unbroken, he was sure, but where it would lead her, God alone only knew.
And then the new president had announced the formation of the great fleet to carry out Operation Millennium. The call for “every able-bodied flight officer and rating” to serve on the horde of warships and auxiliaries that was about to sail into Kreelan space had drawn her inexorably, like a bee to an intoxicating nectar. They had argued about it, but only once: Tony had learned early on that after Nicole had decided something, there was no appeal. She was a fighter pilot, she had told him firmly, and would not be denied the chance to participate in the Confederation’s finest hour. Tony knew it was more than that: it was an opportunity, no matter how slight, of somehow finding Reza. She stood a better chance of finding him somewhere among the stars than anywhere on Earth.
Braddock, too, would be setting sail with The Armada, as it was now being called. Borge had insisted on going aboard the flagship, and had told the Council in not-so-subtle terms that anyone who did not accompany him was a coward and a traitor. The sycophants, of course, ever ready to seize any opportunity to implant themselves further in Borge’s rectum, had hailed the action as a stroke of patriotic genius. Braddock and his few remaining compatriots were compelled to join the parade, regardless of their own opinions of the foolhardiness of the expedition. While Braddock had not had a chance to speak with Zhukovski directly, he had seen the resigned look on his face when Borge announced in a joint civil-military meeting that he and his entourage were going along. L’Houillier had hung his head. There was little doubt in Braddock’s mind as to who would really be in charge of the operation. Braddock’s greatest surprise was that Borge hadn’t sacked both L’Houillier and Zhukovski, until he realized that the megalomaniac was keeping them as scapegoats in case of failure.
Like a dark cloud temporarily obscuring the sun, Tony found himself hoping the flagship would not return home.
“It is time,” Nicole said quietly, washing away the dark thoughts in Braddock’s mind. Across the apron, the crew chief was holding up his wrist and pointing. Time to go.
Tony kissed her, and they held one another for a brief moment. “Take care of yourself, Nicole. Please. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
She nodded, squeezing him tighter. “I love you,” she said before letting go.
“Je t’aime aussi,” he replied.
She smiled, then turned to go.
He watched as she climbed into her ship. The crew chief made sure she was strapped in before he climbed down the crew ladder, saluted her, then headed off to the next waiting fighter.
Nicole waved one final time to Braddock, then her Corsair lifted off, soaring skyward. It grew smaller, dwindling with distance. Then it was gone.
“Merde,” he whispered after her. Good luck.
Forty-Seven
“Gunnery Sergeant Camden reporting as ordered, ma’am.”
Commodore Marchand acknowledged his crisp salute with a nod. “Please, gunny, sit down and be at ease.”
Eustus glanced uncomfortably at the single empty chair at the end of the conference table. The other chairs were filled with the squadron’s senior officers and the commander of Furious’s Marine detachment.
“Uh… yes, ma’am.” Stiffly, he took his seat, sitting bolt upright as he faced Marchand at the opposite end of the table. He had never been in the flag conference room before, and, under the circumstances, this was not a good time for a first visit. Some hours before, he had been a brevet captain. He had subsequently been reduced to his real rank in the aftermath of the day’s news.
There was a moment of awkward silence as Eustus watched the officers mentally adjust themselves to his presence in the room. After the report of President Nathan’s murder at the hands of Reza Gard, Eustus – guilty by association as a friend of the renegade – had quickly found himself ostracized from the ship’s company. Since then, he had spent nearly all his time with the two Kreelans, for – ironically – they were the only ones aboard who didn’t seem openly hostile to him.
“Gunny,” Marchand began, “no doubt you’ve heard the rumors running through the ship regarding a possible fleet assault into Kreelan space.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eustus replied uncertainly. There had been a lot of rumors through the ship since the Kreelan prisoners had been brought aboard, rumors that had become more fanciful and fierce with every turn of the watch since the news of the president’s death.
Marchand nodded. “Well, as it turns out,” she went on, “such an operation is in progress, and it’s codenamed Operation Millennium. Even as we speak, ships are assembling throughout the Confederation for a sortie into the Empire for what Fleet HQ hopes will be the decisive blow against the enemy’s fleet and their homeworld.” She paused. “We have been given the opportunity to play a leading role in that operation, and that is where I need your help.”
Eustus fought to suppress the trepidation he felt at what he knew must be coming. His fellow Marines, not to mention the squids, had branded him a traitor because he refused to believe the reports of Reza’s involvement with the president’s death and the other murders that had been committed in its wake. The morale on the ship had taken a nosedive after Marchand announced the news. Nathan had been a very popular president, and his death was not taken lightly. And now, Eustus knew with an instinctive certainty, he was going to be offered some way of “redeeming” himself before God, Corps, and Country. “Uh… sure, ma’am,” he said. “What can I do?”
“The plans for Millennium have been underway since shortly before President Nathan’s death,” she told him gravely. “And Reza Gard’s actions and his escape have endangered that operation. If he reaches Kreelan space to warn them, everything we have been preparing for could be lost. We have received orders to stop Reza Gard, by, as quoted in the orders, ‘any and all means necessary, without limitation or exception.’” Marchand fixed Eustus with
a calculated glare. “A plan was devised at Fleet HQ for getting the information we need, gunnery sergeant, but the success of this plan depends entirely upon your loyalty and devotion to the Confederation cause, regardless of the consequences to you personally.”
Marchand’s words were more than shocking. Eustus felt violated, raped. The very foundation of his existence had been loyalty to the Confederation, to humanity, and not least of all to the Corps whose uniform he wore. They were asking – no, telling – him that to be considered worthy, risking death for all these years was not enough. His mere association with Reza and his alleged crimes were enough to strip Eustus of all dignity, reducing his past sufferings and accomplishments to nothing. Offering his life to his nation was not enough. No, he had to do something more.
Ignoring the hot sting of tears that he felt boiling in his eyes, he said through clenched teeth, “What are my orders, ma’am?”
Marchand nodded. “High Command allowed extracts of your initial report on the prisoners, specifically that the boy appears to be Reza Gard’s offspring,” Marchand’s mouth wrapped itself around the word with difficulty, as if it were an enormous, rotten apple, “to be released to the press after President Nathan’s murder. Internal Security apparently was unable to capture Gard and Commander Jodi Mackenzie, who as you know is believed to have aided him. Security believes they escaped together off-world, and the information was broadcast in hopes of luring them to a chosen location: Erlang.”
Enya, Eustus thought instantly. Lord of All, he thought helplessly, what is happening? And what do they want me to do, kill Reza and Jodi? He waited, dreading her next words.
Marchand understood what he was thinking. “You’re the only one who can get close to him, Camden, close enough to either stun him or kill him. Either result will satisfy your orders. The same applies to Commander Mackenzie.”
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