by David Weber
He turned from the window and started preparing for the ceremony. There would be a parade to start, then an invocation of the God of Water by the high priest, followed by any number of other ceremonies. The festivities were to continue through the night, and he'd been invited to over sixty separate parties. He would be attending about five; the rest had been farmed out to O'Casey and various Marines.
He buckled on his pistol belt and had just checked the chamber when there was a knock on the door.
"Enter," he called, holstering the pistol.
PFC Willis stuck her head in the door.
"Sir, Bishop From is out here. He requests a moment of your time."
Roger frowned and tugged at the front of his tunic. It was one of the dianda outfits Matsugae had had made for him in Marshad, and its light, lustrous saffron complemented his golden hair and the intense tan he'd developed.
"Show him in," he said, and turned as the artisan-priest entered and looked around the small and spartan room.
"Pardon my intrusion, Your Highness," Rus said, smiling and gesturing in self-deprecation. "It was but a small matter. I believe that you wish to have conversation with the Creator?"
Roger froze in shock. Of all the people who might have contacted him from the cabal of the "Great Plan," the second or third highest ranking priest in the temple was not who he would have picked as most likely.
"We wish to speak to you, and there is not very much time at all," the cleric continued. "You may bring two guards. Or you can continue in blissful ignorance. `Your choice,' as you would say."
Roger thought very hard for a moment, then nodded.
"We'll go. Let me get the guards and brief them."
He stepped out into the hall, and the two Marines guarding his door looked at him in surprise as he pulled his bead pistol back out to check the charge. Roger wasn't sure if the meaning of his action was plain to Rus From, but he knew it would communicate his own seriousness to the Marines. He looked at the power indicator, then nodded, holstered the weapon once more, and looked at the troopers.
"We're going to a surprise meeting. Just me, you two, and the priest. And we're leaving now."
"Sir," Georgiadas said, "shouldn't we inform Captain Pahner?"
"I don't have time to call him, Spyros," Roger said, with a very slight emphasis on the first-person pronoun. "We have to go now."
"Yes, Sir," the grenadier replied. "Let's do it, then."
"After you, Bishop From," the prince invited, gesturing down the corridor.
"This should be interesting," Willis muttered as they left their post and accompanied the prince on his latest harebrained excursion.
"Yeah," Georgiadas whispered back as he used his toot to key his communicator for a subvocal message. "Like the Chinese curse."
* * *
"Roger just left for an unspecified location with Rus From!" Pahner snapped, as he slammed open the sergeant major's door.
"Shit," Kosutic responded, throwing on her tunic. Unlike the prince, the rest of them had to wear their battle-worn chameleon suits, but they'd finally had the time to really attack the stains and tears. There were also spares available from the wounded and the dead, and they'd been put to good use. The final patchwork suits had clearly seen hard usage, but they were no longer the stained rags they had been.
"Not good, Sir," Julian added from the other side of the camp bed. The intel NCO pulled on his boots and sealed them to his uniform, then picked up his bead rifle and checked the chamber. "Do we go after him?"
"And does he have any guards at all?" Kosutic demanded harshly.
Pahner looked from one to the other and not quite visibly shook himself. It wasn't that seeing two Marines together was unusual, but the Regs were very specific about relationships between two people in the same direct chain of command. There were, in Pahner's opinion, very good reasons for that regulation, given that Marines were still people and that favoritism—or the need to keep one's loved ones out of harm's way—remained an ineradicable part of the human condition. And whether the captain agreed with them or not, the Regs made any such relationship a "crash and burn" offense. If two people in the same chain of command wanted to marry or become lovers, that was just fine with The Book . . . as long as one of them transferred out of that chain of command.
But there was nowhere on Marduk for anyone to transfer to, and Pahner felt a moment of absolute fury at Kosutic for allowing such a thing to happen. The sergeant major was his right hand. It was part of her job to make sure that other people weren't in violation of military law, not to go around violating it herself! Besides, she was forty years older than Julian—not, Pahner had to admit, that she looked it.
And Julian . . . Julian was an experienced troop who'd been around the block a few dozen times. He damned well knew as well as Kosutic did just how far out of line they were and what a dilemma their actions were going to create for one Armand Pahner!
But even as those thoughts flashed through his mind, the captain knew it wasn't that simple or cut and dried. What were people supposed to do with themselves, with their emotions and their sex drives? Turn them off? Pretend they didn't exist? The Regs had never envisioned a situation in which a unit this small would be this isolated for so long, and what were two people to do when there was no place either of them could transfer to? And even if that hadn't been so, what was he supposed to do in this specific case? Oh, sure, Kosutic and Julian were both supposed to be setting examples to their subordinates, which meant holding their conduct to a higher standard, but how could he justify lowering the boom on them when he knew that they knew that he knew there were plenty of other similar relationships cooking away out there. Christ, there was even Despreaux and the prince to think about! God only knew where that mess was headed, and what was Pahner supposed to do if the two of them decided that the solution was to give in and do what they both so obviously wanted to do? Order them to behave—like that would do any good at all? Charge a member of the Imperial Family with violation of the Regs? Court-martial just Despreaux?
Besides, he thought as his initial, shock-born fury faded just a bit, he couldn't think of a single person less likely than Kosutic to let anything that was happening in her bed affect her decisions and actions in the field. Or, for that matter, less likely than Julian, despite the intel NCO's well-earned reputation for bending the rules. So if it wasn't going to have any negative side effects on the way they did their jobs, and if making a point out of jumping all over them was only going to unsettle his command structure and force him to take note of other, potentially even stickier relationships, then shouldn't he just keep his mouth shut and pretend he hadn't seen a thing?
"Derail your train of thought there, Armand?" the sergeant major chuckled.
"He has two guards," Pahner replied somewhat coldly. It was the first time Kosutic had ever addressed him by his given name in front of another member of the company, but the comment had been as effective a way to restart his mental processes as a slap to the face. Which was what the NCO had intended, he was sure. This whole situation was just going to have to wait, he decided firmly. Like maybe for the next ten standard years or so.
"Willis and Georgiadas, Sir?" Julian asked, apparently (and falsely, Pahner felt certain) unaware that there was any particular reason he ought to be sweating bullets. Or maybe he just had his mind totally focused on the job in hand. He was buckled up and ready to go, waiting only to be told where, so maybe that was all he was thinking about.
Yeah. Sure it was.
"Right. Georgiadas called it in," the captain said after only the briefest of cold-eyed pauses. "Rus From was the contact from the cabal," he added.
"Oh, my." Kosutic sat back down on the camp bed with a thump.
"So, no, we're not going in guns blazing," the captain continued. "We need to know what's going on before we make any decisions."
"We need to get Eleanora," the sergeant major said. "This is her area of expertise. And we'll need to crossfeed from Spyros t
o Roger."
"Julian," the NCO said.
"I'm on it, Sir," the intel sergeant replied, keying his helmet communicator. "I'll get her headed for the command post."
"Let's get to it, people," Pahner said, and stepped back out the door. Once it was safely closed against observation, he stopped and shook his head. Julian and Kosutic. He snorted. God. Like he had time to think about that right now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rus From led the prince and his bodyguards to a back corridor of the temple/palace and an inconspicuous door that revealed a long spiral staircase which appeared to have been hammered from the bare rock of the Diaspra outcrop. The dank, Mardukan-sized stone steps were both steep and slippery with condensation, and as the party descended, the temperature dropped precipitously.
The stairs seemed to spiral downward forever, but they finally reached bottom at last and emerged into a dark, soot-streaked room illuminated only by a few sputtering torches. The cleric led them from there down a curving hallway/tunnel that was at least partially natural. There were chisel marks in places, but most of the walls seemed to be natural, water-worn limestone.
Then they turned a curve, and the priest paused as the passageway disappeared ahead of them into a curtain of plunging water.
"I must ask your warriors to leave their helmets at this point," he said.
"May I ask why?" Roger asked, eying the curtain of water dubiously. "And am I to take it that we have to pass through that waterfall?"
"Yes, we do," From said. "There are two reasons to do so. We are about to enter one of the most holy of the Secrets of the God. Beyond that Curtain of the God is His other self: the Dark Mirror of the springs above.
"We chose to use this place as a meeting ground for that reason, but also for the same reason you must first remove your helmets then pass through the curtain. It is believed that this will disable your `transmission devices.' They are, I believe, susceptible to damage from water, yes?"
"Yes," Roger said with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
* * *
"Georgiadas!" Pahner snapped. "Tell the Prince to agree. Then set your helmet on retrans and we'll monitor the feed from your toots."
* * *
"Sir," Georgiadas said with a swallow, "it would probably be best to go with the priest's suggestion. That's what my . . . intuition says, anyway."
Roger looked at the lance corporal, then at his helmet.
"Right. Georgiadas, Willis, off helmets." He looked down at his practically new suit and winced. "Kostas is going to kill me."
* * *
"We can monitor, Sir," Julian said as he manually adjusted the gain on the video, "but we can't send them audio."
Pahner nodded in understanding. The toots pulled video and audio off of the appropriate nerves and rebroadcast them, but while the broadcast could be picked up and boosted by the helmet systems, the Marines' toots were not designed to receive audio and video. Marines were fighters, not intelligence agents. As such, they were supposed to have their helmets on whenever it might be necessary for them to receive anything like that. Roger's toot could both send and receive audio and video, but he couldn't retransmit through the Marine helmets, largely as a consequence of the enormously redundant security features built into the implant hardware of any member of the Imperial Family.
"We can send them text if we need to," the captain told the sergeant. "Bounce it through the helmets, then to the guards' toots, then to Roger. Input isn't that big a deal; I think Roger's going to be walking out of that meeting unmolested, and I've got the rest of your squad armoring up in case he doesn't."
"I hope it doesn't come to that," O'Casey said pensively. "If Rus From is being used as a messenger, we can assume that the group behind this plot is even larger and more powerful than we'd thought. If we have to use force, it will gut Diaspra at exactly the moment it most needs solidarity."
"If we know that, then they know that," the NCO said stolidly. "They have to, and they won't do anything to jeopardize the preparations."
"Let's hope so," Kosutic said, then smiled. "But, take it from me—His Evilness knows partisans aren't always reasonable."
* * *
"Well, that was refreshing."
Roger shook the droplets from his fingers and wrung out his hair, then looked around the torch lit room at the circle of hooded, lantern-carrying figures and fought down a smile.
The room was part-cavern and part-construct. The back wall had been mined out to enlarge a natural grotto, but the far wall was mostly natural, and a small spring welled up at the base of a wall of sculpted limestone. It was surrounded by stalagmites and stalactites, and the light of the lanterns shone through the stone and water with a hollow translucence. Behind the spring was a small, natural ledge, the edge of a dry waterfall. It had been scrubbed immaculately clean, but fine discolorations indicated that something other than water flowed over it from time to time.
The site was probably as secret as they came. And it was still lousy tradecraft.
"This is the Dark Mirror," Rus From said, stepping up to the spring. "It is the brother of the God of the Sky." He nodded at the gathered figures and waved his lower hands in a gesture of deprecating humor. "And this is the dark mirror of the Council."
"Unless I'm much mistaken," Roger said dryly, glancing around the gathered figures in turn, "it is most of the Council."
"Whether it is or not, is beside the question," one of the robes replied.
* * *
"Chal Thai," Julian said. The voice print recognition was almost instantaneous. "Shit."
* * *
"We represent the dark mirror of the surface," the robed figure continued. "On the surface all is agreement, but in the shadows there are questions."
"We seek to change the society of our city," From clarified. "To break it of its dependence on the temple."
Roger blinked.
"But . . . you're a priest," he blurted.
"Yes," the cleric replied with a gesture of resignation. "So I am. But what I am more than anything else is an artisan. An . . . artist. I create things with my hands, things that move and work, and that is my true calling. But to do that?" He made the gesture of resignation again, this time with a negative emphasis. "To be a creator of things in Diaspra, I must be a priest."
* * *
"The Creator," Julian said.
"Nicht scheisse," Pahner responded. "Send a message to Roger. Do not agree to anything, but don't turn them down flat, either."
"Yes, Sir."
* * *
"So why am I here?" Roger asked.
"We feel there is a need for change," another figure said. "The power of the temple has grown too great. It is . . . choking us. We could be a great city, a city as powerful and well-regarded as K'Vaern's Cove, but we have this great choking beast of the temple on our backs."
"We don't hate the God," another voice chimed in. "But we feel that it's time and past time for the power of the temple to be reduced."
* * *
"Gessram Kar and Velaum Gar," Julian read the voice print identifications aloud as he hit the "send" button.
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Kosutic whispered.
"Yes," Eleanora said with a note of desperation. "It's a `quorum of the Senate of Rome.' "
"What?" Pahner asked.
"One of the arguments for Caesar's assassination having been legal was that the conspirators who effectively signed his death warrant constituted `a quorum of the Senate,' " the history professor said.
"Oh," Pahner said. Then, "Oh."
* * *
Roger read the text message received by his toot and tried, again, not to smile. They must be having gibbering fits at the command post.
"To an extent, I agree," Roger said carefully. "And I'm sure—" actually, he was positive "—that my advisor on such things, Ms. O'Casey, also agrees."
"She does," From said. "Eleanora and I have had long discussions about the local political situ
ation and your human political history. Our conversations and the points she raised were what convinced us to arrange this meeting. They gave us hope that you would . . . assist us in this endeavor."
* * *
Pahner's head turned like a tracking tank turret. His eyes nailed the chief of staff, who shrugged and held her hands out, palms up.
"How was I to know?" she asked.
"You didn't happen to give them a copy of Machiavelli or Permuster while you were about it, did you?" the Marine growled.
* * *
"The . . . precautions that we took on the way in were, of course, to defeat your `electronic' transmitters," the priest/technician continued. "Conversations with your Marines indicated that they were susceptible to water damage. I presumed that your helmets were sealed, however, which meant they would have been unaffected by the Curtain."
By now, Roger was familiar enough with Mardukan expressions and body language to easily recognize smugness when he saw it. The question was whether he ought to pop the bubble or permit blissful ignorance, and he decided to go with ignorance for the time being.
"This is all very interesting," he said, "but you still haven't indicated what you want us to do."
"Isn't it obvious?" another voice practically hissed from the shadows. "This `New Model Army' looks up to you. The people see you as saviors sent from the God. If you were to overthrow the temple, it would be over without the slightest bloodshed. Over in an instant."
* * *
"Grath Chain," Julian said in a surprise.
"No way!" Kosutic said, then glanced over his shoulder at the voice print labels and shook her head. "But . . . he couldn't have been in on the plot from the beginning, could he?"
"A recent and ill regarded addition, unless I miss my guess," Eleanora told her. "Note the distance between him and the others, his position in the group, and Rus' body posture. Not well regarded at all, at all."