There's no damage to her drive pods. They just blasted the command deck and then gave whoever was left his options: surrender or see two hundred passengers vaporized. After that, they used the engine room controls to bring her out here so they could loot her at leisure. Not the approved technique, but workable as long as they were in company with someone with intact nay capabilities." "Sounds reasonable." Tomanaga's words were calm; his faco and tone weren't. "But it was sloppy to leave her intact. They should'ye blown her fusion plants or dropped her into the primary to hide the evidence." "No, Bob. This is a lonely spot, and that's a hundred thousand tonnes of ship. Lots of spares and replacoments to be scavenged out of her." "Of course." Tomanaga shook his head. "Shall I send in the examination teams, sir?" "Ys. And call away my cutter. I'm going too." Hah swam down the passage of the dead liner, her powerful lamp filuminating the splendid furnishing of first class--marred in spots by laser burns and occasional sears of pure vandalism. The raiders must have damped the. power before they depressurized the hull, for the blast doors stood open. She'd seen one grisly eorpse--coma crewman dead of explosive decompression--and she was coldly cortain they'd dumped atmosphere intentionally to kill any fugitives.

 

 

She turned a corner and spun gracefully, landing on her magnetized boot soles beside the Marine search party which had summoned her. Two troopers were busy sealing a transparent bubble to the bulkhead around a dosed hatch.

 

 

"Afternoon, Admiral." Major Bryce saluted her, and she returned his salute, then shifted her magsoles to the deck-head, hanging like a weightless bat to watch over the shoulders of the work detail.

 

 

"lhis is the only hatch holding pressure, Major" "Yes, sir. we checked out all the others and came up empty"--he seemed unaware of his own grim double entendre?b there's atmosphere on the other side of this one." "How much longer, Major?" "We've just about got her sealed in, sir." He gestured at the plastic airlock. "Soon's we get a little pressure in there, we'll crack the hatch. Not that it's going to make any difference to whoever sealed it." Han nodded slowly within her helmet. Ater ten months, no one could possibly survive beyond that hatch.

 

 

"Ready, Major," a sergeant said.

 

 

"All right, Admiral," Bryce looked at Han, "would you like to go in?" "Yes, Major. I would." "Very good, sir." Bryce managed things smoothly, and Han found herself sandwiched between the looming combat zoots of a pair of Marine corporals as one of them fed power to the hatclg from her zoot pack. The hatch slid open, and the plastic lock creaked as its over-pressure bled into the cabin. The corporals moved awkwardly to either side to permit Han to enter first, and she pushed off through the hatch.

 

 

It was a tomb.

 

 

The first things she saw in her helmet lamp were the rags and plastiseal packed into a pair of ragged holes; one of the primaries that took out the command deck had passed through this cabin. Someone had kept his wits about him to patch those holes so quickly, and the angle of the punctures might explain why the cabin hadn't been searched they just about paralleled the passage outside, and the single beam had probably pierced at least a dozen suites. Much of first class must have died practically unknowing, and the raiders had probably assumed this cabin's occupants had done the same.

 

 

Her evaluation of the patches took only seconds; then she saw the bodies, and her lips twisted with rage. Children. They were children!

 

 

She counted five of the huddled little shapes, peacefully arranged in the beds as ff merely sleeping, and saw the body of a single adult--coma young woman--comat a desk to one side. A candle stub was glued to the desk with melted wax, and her head was a shattered ruin, wrought by the heavy-caliber needler death-locked in her hand.

 

 

Hah looked away and felt her belly knot.

 

 

There was no nausea--comonly a cold, deadly hatred for the beings who had wreaked this slaughter of the children she would never bear.

 

 

She mastered herself and bent over the stiff corpse of the unknown woman. There was an old fashioned memo pad magsealed to the desk, and Han eased it gently loose. Then she turned back to the lock.

 

 

"Dump the air, Major," she said, and for the first time she hated herself for sounding serene under pressure.

 

 

"And transport the bodies to da Silva." "Yes, sir." Bryce sounded wooden, and she realized he'd been watching his minute eom screen; he'd seen everything his corporals" pickups had seen. "We'll be taking them back to Cimmaron, sir?" "No, Major," Han said quietly. "It won't help their loved ones to see this. We'll try to identify them and then bury them in space." "Yes, sir." "I'm returning to the flagship, Major." "Yes, sir. Shall I assign an escort?" "No, Major. I'd rather be alone, thank you." "Yes, sir." Han looked up as Tomanaga entered her cabin. He'd seen the pictures of that cabin and knew his admiral well enough to sense the fury behind her calm demeanor, and he took the indicated chair silently, feeling his way through the storm front of her rage.

 

 

"You wanted me, sir?" "Yes," she said calmlv. She tapped the memo pad. "I'll want you to drop this ofwith Irene. It may be useful." Tomanaga studied her covertly. Her face was as calm as ever, yet she radiated murderous fury. Only belatedly did he realize what it was. Her dark eyes, usually so tranquil, were deadly.

 

 

"Yes, sir," he said quietly.

 

 

"In the meantime," Han went on carefully.

 

 

"I'd like to tell you what it is. This, Commander, is a record of what that young woman endured." "Is there any ID on the attackers, sir?" "There is," she said coldly. "Allow me to summarize.

 

 

INSUS.CON Her name vJas Ursula Hauser, and she was a second-year student at New Athens--a philosophy major." Despite her hard-held control, Han's mouth twisted before she could smooh it. "A philosophy major," she repeated softly. "According to her notes, her cabin lost integrity almost immediately, but Ms. Hauser was a quick thinker, and she managed to patch the holes.

 

 

'Fhen, over the intercom, she heard the boarders killing the passengers, Commander Tomanaga." She looked up, her black eyes pits of flame.

 

 

"They lined them up, sorted out the ones they wanted to keep--the young, pretty women--comand slaughtered the rest in number three hold.

 

 

"But Ms. Hauser was determined they wouldn't get all the passengers. She knew a little about small cra, so she decided to try to steal a cutter and escape. She was on her way to this boatbay when she came across five terrified children from third class, running for their lives from one of the raiders. She stabbed him to death... with a carving knife from the first class galley." She paused, and Tomanaga felt his pulse in his temples. "She took his weapon, but she knew now that they were between her and the boathay, and while they might let her live, they would certainly kill the children. So she did the only thing she could and looked for a hiding place.

 

 

"She was certain they knew their primaries hd depres-surized her whole cabin block, so she took the children back to her cabin, hoping they would be overlooked and she could get them to the boatbay after the raiders left. But then they dumped the air, and there she was: locked into her cabin with five children, no power, no vac suits, no airlock, and no way out." Han's voice trailed off and she looked away from Tomanaga's pale face, speaking so softly he could barely hear her.

 

 

"So she did what she had to do, Commander. She fed each of those children a lethal overdose of barbiturates from her cabin medical stores. And when she was quite certain they were all dead, she sat down at the desk, recorded all of their names, finished her memo... and shot herself." Han stroked the pad. "She was nineteen, Bob." A long silence fell. Robert Tomanaga had never person- ally hated any enemy in all his years of service, but at that moment he knew exactly what hate was, and he under- stood the old, hackneyed cliches about "killing rages." "But, sir," he sought a professional topic, something to push the sick hatred away, "how did they catch the ship?

 

 

Argosy Polaris was fast--notothing but a fighter could have overhauled her ff she'd had any sort of start.

 

 

Surely her master didn't allow an unidentified ship into weapons range in the middle of a civil war!" "No," Hah said coldly. "He allowed a Republican cruiser patrol to close with him." "Oh my God. No "Tomanaga whispered.

 

 

"Precisely.

 

 

Obviously somewhat modified; they've replaced at least some of the hetlasers with primaries. But that was how he identified them to his passengers when he hove to. I doubt he ever learned his mistake." "Sir, what--his" "What are we going to do, Commander?" Han laid the pad aside almost reverently, and when she looked up, her eyes were carved from the obsidian heart of hell.

 

 

"We're going to find them, Commander Tomanaga.

 

 

We're going to find the vermin who did this, the vermin who used the honor of the Fleet to cover themselves. And when w.e do, Commander, I only hope they live long enough to know who's killing them!" "Admirali We're picking up something on the emergency distress channel!" Han straightened in her command chair. Two weeks had passed with no sign of the pirates, but the possible hiding places had been narrowed methodically. Now there were only a handful of systems it could be, and Siegried, on the far side of the next warp point, was one of them. "Get a bearing, David," she said with the special serenity her staff had learned to expect in moments of stress. "Bob, send the group to quarters." "Aye, aye, sir!" Tomanaga snapped, and the high-pitched shrilling of the alert wailed through the massive ship. Han hardly heard it.

 

 

"Got it, sir! Oh-one-niner level, two-eight-eight vertical. Looks like a standard shuttle transmission."

 

 

"Thank you." Bob, raise Captain Onsbruck. I want one fighter squadron to take a close look; hold the other two back for cover. This could be legitimate or a trap, so tell the pilots to take no chances." "Aye, aye, sir." "Thank you." She punched buttons, and Schwerin's face appeared on her com screen.

 

 

"Captain, until I know exactly what we've got, you will halt the flagship and the battlegroup ten light-seconds short of the signal source." "Aye, aye, sir." "Thank you." She cut the connection and turned back to Tomanaga, and the lean chief of staff shivered at the hunger in her normally tranquil eyes.

 

 

"And now, Commander," she said softly, "we wait." his... know how important it is," Surgeon Commander Lacey told is admiral firmly, "but these are very sick people, sir! Another two days---was He shrugged. "You'll just have to use the statements they've already made." "Very well. Thank you, Doctor." Han switched off the intercom and looked around the briefing room at the taut, angry faces. The battlegroup's CO'S attended via eom links to their command decks and looked, ff possible, even grimmer than her staff.

 

 

"Lieutenant Jorgensen," she said, "you've been correlating the survivors" statements.

 

 

What conclusions have you been able to reach?" "Everything they've said is consistent, Admiral," Irene Jorgensen twisted a lock of hair around an index finger, "and according to them, the pirate commander is an Arthur Ruyard. Our pre-war data base lists him as CO of the Kearsarge, a Frontier Fleet cruiser. Apparently he seized Siegfried by declaring support for the rebellion; once he controlled communications he dropped that pretense, and he's been raiding commercc urs, the Rim's, even the Orions'--comever since." "Oh my God!" Captain Janet MacInnes of the Eisenhower groaned. "Not the bloody tabbies, too!" "I'm afraid so, Captain," Jorgensen said, "but they've said nothing about it. I suspect they've chosen to take their losses and deal with the raiders on their own rather than provoking a possible incident because of the Khan's desire for neutrality." "All right," Hah brought the discussion quietly back to immediate problems. "What's your best force estimate, Lieutenant?" "Sir, they appear to have the heavy cruisers Kearsarge and Thunderer and the light cruisers Leipzig, Agano, and Phaeton. There are also five or six destroyers and a prewar squadron of system defense fighters operating from Siegfried III." "But Leipzig and Agano were destroyed in action against a Rim destroyer flotilla!" Alfred Onsbruck objected. "I saw copies of the Omega drones." "I don't doubt it," Captain Schwerin said.

 

 

"Lieutenant was he turned to the intelligence officer his--comI'll bet none of his ships are listed as current members of the Republican Navy, are they?" 'hey aren't, sir. Leipzig and Agano at one time were Republican units; none of the others were ever listed as having come over." "There you are," Stravos Kollentai said crisply. "Ruyard started with only his ship, then picked off the others from either the Rim or us--probably pretending to belong to the same side until he got close enough to spring the trap." He paused and rubbed his nose. "What bothers me is his crews. I hate to think he found that many potential pirates in uniform!" "He didn't," Jorgensen said. "Two of his first prizes were TFNS Justicar and Hamurabieonvict ships. According to our survivors, that's where the bulk of his personnel come from." "I see. And just who are these 'survivors," Lieutenant?" "There are seventeen, sir: seven men and ten women. The men worked in Siegfried's mining operations before the war, as did two of the women.

 

 

The others were aboard ships Ruyard's men captured. I understand--was Jorgensen's plain face twisted with distaste his--comt Ruyard intends to found a dynasty. He's been collecting women to "entertain" his crews, but the prettiest of them are earmarked for his "nobility."" A savage, inarticulate sound came from Han's officers.

 

 

"How did they escape?" Kollentai z.ked after a moment.

 

 

"I'he 'fleet" was out on a raid and they stole an ore shuttle in for repairs--it had a bad drive, but they preferred to take their chances. They made it through the warp point, but then their drive packed in. They drifted for over a month before activating their beacon." "That," Onsbruck said quietly, "took guts." "Indeed," Han agreed. "And thanks to them, we know one thing Irene hasn't mentioned yet. This Ruyard doesn't trust any of his prisoners aboard ship for any reason." "Now isn't that nice of him," Captain MacInnes said softly.

 

 

"I see your point, Admiral," Onsbruck said, "but even ff we can blast them without worrying about civilian casualties, we have to be in range to do it. And we've got a problem there." "Agreed." Han nodded with a tight smile.

 

 

"Commander Kollentai and Commander Tomanaga have given the mat- ter some thought, owever. Bob?" "Fhank you, sir." Tomanaga faced Onsbruck, even though he was adressing them all. "Essentially, our problem is that although our monitors outgun them by a factor of five, all of their ships are faster than we are." "Exactly, Commander. So how do you propose to make them stand still for us?" Onsbruck could have sounded scornful, but he didn't.

 

 

"Commander Kollentai thought of the answer, sir.

 

 

De- ception mode ECM. We'll come in openly, but what they'll see will be two battle-cruisers--da Silva and Eisenhower--and three destroyers-- Shokaku, Black Widow, and Termite. Even though the 'battle-cruisers" will out-mass anything they have, they won't expect any fighters and their total firepower will be far superior to what they believe we have." "And ff they send scouts out to check from dose range?" Schwerin asked.

 

 

"According to the escapees, this Ruyard sticks with what works. He closes with his entire force before he drops his mask because his victims are less likely to balk ff he gets in close, and, if they do, he's got the dose-range firepower to deal with them. The chance to add two "battle-cruisers" to his force should suck him right in where we want him." "But ff it doesn't?" Schwerin pressed.

 

 

"Then we'll just have to do our best, sir. Their fighters can't run; they're restricted to Siegfried III. As for the mobile units, long-range strikes from Shokaku should nail at least both heavies before they can warp out. That's better than nothing, sir." "But not enough." Han's voice drew all eyes back to her, and her face was as cold as her voice.

 

 

"We don't talk about it, ladies and gentlemen," she said, "but each of us--even those who only joined up after the mutinies--comis here because we believe it is our duty to protect our worlds and our people. That is the only acceptable reason for wearing the uniform we wear, and it is also something which, I hope and believe, we continue to share with the TFN." She looked at them. One or two looked a bit embarrassed--comespecially David Reznick but no one disagreed.

 

 

"The commanders of these ships have violated that purpose. They are mass murderers and rapists, but they are also outlaws against us. Against this." She touched the collar of her uniform. "Against our honor." She paused once more, and her eyes burned.

 

 

"No one no one.t--is entitled to do that. The law sets only one penalty for their actions, just'as there is only one penalty which can wipe away the dishonor they have brought to our uniform." She looked at her subordinates once more, seeing her own anger in their faces. Only Tomanaga seemed to fully understand the shame she felt, but all of them shared her "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the penalty we will enforce upon them," she finished grimly. She leaned back, her face once more calm, her voice once more serene. "It is my intention to enter Siegfried and attack within the next six hours.

 

 

Carry on, ladies and gentlemen." "There, sir," Tomanaga murmured as the enemy light codes crept onto the plot. "Still at extreme range, but they're closing.... his Han nodded, watching the light dots of the piratical cruisers drift slowly closer, the red bands of hostile ships flashing around them. She picked out both heavies and all three of the lights, accompanied by the white dots of four destroyers.

 

 

"Data base can't identify the heavies, sir," David Reznick reported. "They've been altered and refitted too much--looks like the missile armament must have been downgraded in favor of primaries, wherever they got them. But I've got good ID'S on the lights: Phaeton, Agano, and Leipzig. Two of the tincans are Pike and Bengal, but we don't know the others. Range is fifty light-seconds and closing." "Thank you, David. Try to raise them, please." "Aye, aye, sir." There was a brief silence in response to da Silva's hail, then the screen lit with the image of a thin-faced, scholarly-looking man who matched the data base pictures of Arthur Ruyard.

 

 

"I am Rear Admiral Li Ian, Terran Republican Navy, commanding Battlegroup Nineteen," Han told him. "And you are?" "Commodore Dennis Khulman, commanding the Twen- tieth Cruiser Squadron," the thin-faced man replied after the inevitable transmission lag, and Han's eyes did not even a flicker at the lie.

 

 

"What brings you out here, Commodore?" she asked with just the right trace of curiosity.

 

 

"I was about to ask you that, sir." Ruyard-Khulman smiled. "We're on a standing patrol out of Klatzenberger by way of Tomaline, Admiral. And you?" "Out of Novaya Rodina via Jansen, Schulman, and Kariphos," Hah lied equally smoothly.

 

 

"We didn't expect to see Republican units out this way." "No, sir. We didn't either," Ruyard-Khulman agreed. "Well, I suppose we'd better rendezvous and exchange news, Commodore," Han said, watching the other ships creep closer on her plot.

 

 

"Of course, sir. But you'll pardon me ff I keep my shields up until we do?" Ruyard-Khulman allowed himself a deprecating shrug. "Can't be too careful out here, sir." "I certainly agree, Commodore," Han smiled, black mur- der in her heart.

 

 

"Thank you, sir. I make our rendezvous in approximately eighteen minutes at our present speeds. Is that acceptable?" "It is," Hah nodded. "I'll expect you for dinner, Commodore." "hank you, sir. I'm looking forward to it." Li Han cut the communication and smfied savagely at the blank screen.

 

 

"Fifteen light-seconds, sir," Reznick reported. "Very well. When we drop to twelve light-seconds, cut the ECM." "Cut the ECM, sir?" Reznick was startled into asking the question.

 

 

'hat's correct, Lieutenant," Han said calmly. She wanted Ruyard to know what he faced. She punched up Shokaku.

 

 

"Captain Onsbruck?" "Sir?" "Prepare to launch fighters when our ECM goes down." "Aye, aye, sir!" 'rhank you." Hah leaned back and watched the outlaw ships inch closer at their reduced speed. Even now Ruyard/khulman's pre-planned surrender demand would be ready, but her message would go out first.

 

 

The last message he would ever have, she thought coldly: the dropping of her deception the instant before she fired.

 

 

She remembered her cold-blooded destruction of the Swiftsure at Aklumar and recognized the similarity, yet the resemblance was only superficial. Swiftsure's people had been enemies, but they had been honorable foes, worthy of a far better end. These enemies were scum.

 

 

'lhirteen light-seconds, sir," Reznick reported softly. "Standing wasto disengage ECM.

 

 

Disengaging... now!" The battlegroup's ECM died, and the monitors and carrier stood revealed. Han watched the fighters spitting from Shokaku's catapults, but only with a corner of her eye. Her attention was on the dots of the enemy.

 

 

"Sir! Message from Kearsarge!" Reznick sounded star-tied. "They want to surrender, sir!" Ruyard was fast on his mental feet, Han thought grimly. He knew he couldn't outrun her missiles, so he wasn't even trying. He was banking on the fact that the Terran Navy--Federation or Republican--always gave quarter ff it was asked pounds rather. It might he another trap or simply other example o pounds his using the Navy's honor against itself. She watched the last of the fighters launch, and her face was bleak and cold.

 

 

"Captain Schwerin." "Yes, sir?" Schwerin responded, his voice neutral.

 

 

"Open fire, Captain," Rear Admiral Li Hah said softly.

 

 

WAR WARNING Leornak'zilshisdrow, Lord Sofald, Sixteenth Great Fang of the Khan, and District Governor of the Rehfrak Sector by proclamation of hirilolus, appeared on the Orion passenger liner's eom screen, and lan Trevayne looked for the first time at the being who had held his life in his hands thirty-one standard months before. Studying the tawny-furred, felinoid face, he noted admiringly that Leornak's whiskers were spectacular even by the standards of well-endowed Orion males. Rumor had it that the Orions approved of the current Terran fashion of growing beards; they felt it lent human faces a certain much-needed character.

 

 

Leornak smiled a fang-hidden carnivore's welcome and spoke, producing a seriedds of sounds suggesting cats copulating to bagpipe music, then paused. Like many high-rank-+ Orions, the governor understood Standard English well, btt the Orion vocal apparatus was poorly suited to produce human-like sounds. The problem was mutual, of course, which was one reason humans persisted in calling Orions "Orions." The thoroughly inaccurate label--assigned by ONI when Terrans first learned of the three-star-system, fourteen-warp-point nexus near the Great Nebula in Orion which was the heart of the Khanate was far easier to pronounce than Zheeerlilzou'vallhannaieee @u@u@uand even that was but a crude approximation of what the Orions called themselves.

 

 

Trevayne shook the inconsequential thoughts aside as 262 INSUPEAECTION the translator on Leornak's jeweled harness used his ship's sophisticated computers to produce pedantically exact English, complete to properly interpreting Leornak's formal tone and nuance.

 

 

"Welcome to Rehfrak, Admiral Trevayne. I am glad for the opportunity to meet you in person--although you will understand that the welcome must be entirely unofficial, l trust you are not in quite so much of a hurry as you were on your last visit?" Trevayne smiled back, careful to hide his own teeth as good manners demanded. As an Englishman, he could appreciate studied understatement.

 

 

"No, Governor, this time I'm not trying to make good an escape-wh I managed only as a result of your good offices. But, as you so rightly point out, these proceedings are unofficial--and, in my case at, least, clandestine. The sooner I can meet with my govement's representative, the better for all concerned." "Of course, Admiral. He has already arrived and is here aboard my flagship, Szolkir." With further exchanges of courtesies, arrangements were made for Trevayne to be picked up by one of Szolkir's cutters.

 

 

Trevayne watched Leornak's flagship gleam in the reflected orange light of the gas giant she orbited as the cutter approached her.

 

 

Like all Khanate officers with sufficient pull, Leornak flew his lights aboard one of the Itzarin- class assault carriers. The Orions and the Terran rebels were as one in the prestige they accorded strikefighters and the starships which carried them, he thought dryly. In fact, for all their noisy anti-amalgamation invective, the Fringe Worlders were a lot like the whisker-twisters in many ways. Some twentieth-century wit had observed that the really great hatreds are between peoples that are alike and can't stand to admit it. Apparently that held as true between species as between human groups.

 

 

Trevayne gazed at the lovely killing machine and smiled faintly. After the next battle, the Khanate, as well as the "Terran Republic," would have some reassessing to do. He watched the cutter dock, and his mind slid back in time to the day, almost exactly a standard month before, when his journey had truly begun....

 

 

Trevayne sat in a familiar conference room in Prescott City and looked around the table at the Grand Council of the Rim Provisional Government, which people were beginning to call the Rim Federation--though not in Trevayne's presence!

 

 

His Councilors were chosen by the Legislative ssem-bly from among its own members. Their function, in theory, was to advise the Governor-General; in practice, they governed the Rim when Trevayne was in deep space, which was often.

 

 

It was ali very novel to these Outworlders, but Trevayne had read enough history to know he'd set in motion a reenactment of the birth of parliamentary government in his native England seven centuries before. In fact, this was what cabinet government was supposed to be like, for there were no structured parties in the Rim. That, he thought glumly, would come later, along with organized voting blocs, mass-media electioneering, and the rest. And would the people of the Rim, having tasted home rule, be willing to give it up when (the word "if" did not even cross his mind) the Federation won the war?

 

 

He looked at each Councilor, and at one in particular. To some extent Miriam Ortega owed her rise to the memory of her father, but that was only a part of it--and, after the early days, a small part, overshadowed by her own intelligence and force of personality.

 

 

Her eyes met Trevayne's. They'll been lovers for over a year.

 

 

He looked away, sweeping the other Councilors with his gaze once more.

 

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I've called this meeting to confirm the rumor: we've received, through the Orions, a reply to our message to the Federation!" He waited for the inevitable hubbub to die down.

 

 

The Rim's only warp connection with the Innerwodds (other than those in rebel-held space) was the very. circuitous one through the Khanate by which Trevayne's command had reached Zephrain.

 

 

Afterwards, the Khan had dosed his frontiers to ahuman entrv. Even the raw materials purchased by the Innerworld traveled only in Orion hulls, and only after a long and frustrating period of indirect negotiation had the Orions agreed to carry one message for Trevayne and to bring back one reply.

 

 

"All the Orions will say," he resumed, "is that the Federation is sending a representative to Rehfrak, which is as far as they'll let him come, in one standard month. They'll allow me to go to him-- alone, secretly, in one of their own unarmed civilian craft. I'm frankly amazed that they're willing to violate their self-imposed neutrality even to that extent." "Do I understand, sir, that you intend to accept this, uh, invitation?" Barry, de Parma, chairman pro tern of the Grand Council, looked shocked at Trevayne's nod. "But the risk! You're indispensable.... his "The Orions," Miriam Ortega cut in, "favor the Federation. They're neutral only because they know overt help from them would give our side an "alstien" taint." She smiled wryly, knowing that much of the resentment felt by the rebelling Fringe Worlds was shared by the people of the Rim, including some in this room. The Corporate Worlds had been wrong to accuse the Fringers of "xenophobia," but there was no doubting the Outworlders' grim determination to remain independent of the Orions. She hid a sigh of impatience with her fellow Councilors, saying only, "Fhy have no motive for treachery." "Precisely," Trevayne agreed, "and as for my o.. classified knowledge," he added, knowing they all took his meaning, "I'm not a technician, and no hard information could be got out of me. Besides, we have no reason to think they know there's any to get." He changed the subject before any cautious souls like de Parma could spot the gaping holes in his rationalization.

 

 

"Now, about security. Obviously, this jaunt can't be a matter of public knowledge." They all nodded, knowing how their people would react to the news that the Provisional Government was having any dealings whatsoever with the tabbies. "Officially, I'll be on exercises with the Fleet, and all transfer operations will be in the hands of people I can trust." "What if you're gone an unusually long time?" De Parma looked glum. "What ff questions come up for debate in the Assembly?" "Don't let them," Trevayne replied cheerfully. "You're here because together you can control the Assembly. As a countryman of mine named Disraeli, who had some small experience in these matters, once said, 'A majority is the best repartee."" Miriam gave him a glare beneath which a smile flick- ered. "You and your quotes! No one out here can ever be sure you're not making them up!" He smiled at her. "Would that I were so creative!" Trevayne came back to the present as the cutter's hatch opened. A proudly overconscientious young Cub of the Khan, whiskers almost visibly atwstteh with curiosity, to ed him to what would have been called the wardroom in a human capital ship, but no military courtesies were exchanged. The wardroom was under heavy guard, but when Trevayne entered only two individuals rose to greet him. He recognized Leornak at once, and the human beside him looked vaguely familiar. Trevayne felt he ought to recognize the man, but he couldn't quite place him.

 

 

"Welcome to Szolkir, Admiral," Leornak greeted him. "Thank you, Governor." Treva.vne watched Leornak's tufted ear twstteh as his computer translated the Standard English into Orion. It was an impressive performance, but the Orions had always been exceptionally good with eom-puters and eyberneties--not that they had all the answers. Like the Federation, they'd been persistently thwarted in their efforts to create an artificial intelligence which didn't go promptly insane on them. Still, they made much more use of voice-coded software, even aboard warships, than Terrans did.

 

 

Of course, their language and vocal apparatus gave them a considerable advantage there. There were no Orion homonyms, and Orion voice patterns were even more readily identifiable than human patterns, whieh made computer authentication much simpler. More importantly, perhaps, Orions tended to express strong emotions--like excitement and fear--with visual cues, not voice cues.

 

 

To date, the Federation had been unable to devise a voice-coded software paekage which could eope with human stress patterns without requiring a prohibitive amount of storage space.

 

 

Trevayne himself had been a gunnery officer aboard the superdreadnought Ranier the last time BuShips had tried to introduce voice-cuirig into Fleet use, and he still shuddered at the memory of that fiasco.

 

 

Leornak reclaimed his attention with a graceful gesture at his human guest. "Allow me to present an old colleague and sometime opponent, Mister Kevin Sanders, re. pre- senting the Prime Minister of the Terran Federation.

 

 

Of coursel Trevayne shook hands with the tallish, slen- der man, whose sharp features and gray Vandyke gave him a foxy look. He was well over 120, Trevayne remem- bered; in an age before longevity treatments, he might have been a sprightly and well-preserved sixty.

 

 

Like Trevayne, he wore conservative civilian clothing.

 

 

"Good to see you back on the active list, Admiral Sand- ers," Trevayne said after the initial greetings.

 

 

"Last I heard, you were still engaged in ruining the image of disllii retired officers." Sanders' merry blue eyes twl6kled upward into Trevayne's somber dark-brown ones, and he chuckled.

 

 

"Strictly speaking, I'm no longer an "admiral." True,1 was dusted off and brought back to ONI after the insurrection --comfor some reason, there were quite a lot of early retire- ments about then. But I resigned my commission last year to become a minister without portfolio in the Dieter Government--coma liaison of sorts between the cabinet and the intelligence community." He noted Trevayne's raised eyebrows at the words the Dieter Government, but he said nothing.

 

 

Privately, he was impressed by how well Trevayne had controlled the sur- prise he must have felt. "But," he concluded, "that's more than enough about me. It's a privilege to meet you, Admi- ral, and also a pleasure. For one thing, we're both mem- bers of a rare breed out here: I'm also from Old Terra." "Yes," Trevayne said. "I know." "Oh?" Sanders' gaze grew a trifle sharper.

 

 

"HowThat' Trevayne indulged himself. "I've always been fascinated by the variations with which we native English-speakers still manage to enliven what's become a universal trade language," he said with a professorial air Miriam would instantly have recognized. "You, sir, are a North American--- from either the old Canadian Maritime Provinces or the Tidewater area of the old American states of Virginia and

 

 

Maryland, I'd say. The two dialects are almost identical, you know." Sanders managed to keep his aplomb, saying only, "The latter is correct." He wasn't at his best dealing with people as clever as himself, a deficiency he ascribed to lack of opportunity for practice.

 

 

Leornak's grin grew and his whiskers quivered slightly as he regarded the two humans.

 

 

"Kevin," he said to Sanders, "I had a feeling this meeting would be a salutary experience for you.

 

 

Unfortunately, I have duties to attend to and I must leave, as much as I am enjoying this. And you gentlemen doubtless need a degree of privacybbut I shall expect you for dinner afterwards." Trevayne felt a momentary uneasiness at the invitation. Terran and Orion biochemistries were close enough to make such shared social events practical, but humans found some Orion culinary practices... disturbing. His queasiness died quickly as Leornak's slit-pupilled eyes laughed at him. Of course -coma confirmed old cosmopolite like Leornak could be expected to defer to his quests" sensibilities by avoiding such customs as munching live specimens of that species which had always reminded Trevayne of hairless mice.

 

 

After the door closed behind Leornak, the Terrans sat at a low table on the cushions which served Orions in lieu of chairs, and Sanders poured from the bottle he and Leornak had been sampling. Bourbon, Trevayne thought dourly, had become so popular among upper crust Orions that it was one of the Federation's major export items.

 

 

Why the bloody hell hadn't the tabbies had the common decency to take a liking to fine, malt Scotch?

 

 

He raised the glass, returning Sanders' brief salute, and drank. Then, somewhat fortified, he asked the question he had not cared to ask in Leornak's presence.

 

 

"Ah... correct me if I'm wrong, but did I understand you to refer to the Dieter government?" Why, yes," Sanders answered with a look of bland innocence. "I noticed you seemed surprised," he added. Damn the man!

 

 

"Well," Trevayne said carefully, "my last news from the Innerworlds was just before the mutinies. You must admit, at that time Mister Dieter's political star wasn't exactly in the ascendant. "Tle single time he'd met Dieter, the man had struck him as a typical, blindly avaricious Corporate World political hack. "It's just seems a trifle @u.. odd, from my perspective out here." "Admiral, never underestimate Oskar Dieter," Sanders said. "Simon Taliaferro did, and it cost him." Trevayne blinked at the other's sudden seriousness.

 

 

Clearly there had been some changes in the Innerworlds!

 

 

"But," Sanders went on more lightly, "the Admiralty's briefing chips will bring you up to date on background events and time is short, so allow me to discharge myself of my instructions and deal with the present and future." He set his glass aside to open an old-fashionod briefcase with an extremely modern security system.

 

 

"And so to business, Admiral... all of it pleasant business for you. You're now a Fleet Admiral, and all the field promotions you've lade are retroactively confirmed. As is your assumption of the title 'Governor-General." In fact, I should have greeted you as "Your Excellency," which is how the protocol experts have decided a governor-general should be addressed." Trevayne gave the older man what he hoped was a quelling glare, but it was difficult to tune up the full voltage against a man more than twice his age. And he suspected that even at full bore, his expression would have had little effect on Sanders, who only grinned and continued as flippantly as before.

 

 

"There was a little more trouble about this Rim Legisla- tive Assembly of yours. No provision for it in the Constitu- tion, after all..." "rhere's also nothing in the Constitution about an in- surreetion that isolates part of the Federation from Old Terra," Trevayne cut in. 'rhese people remained loyal when all the rest of the Fringe revoltedd, I might add, despite their systematic abuse by the Corporate Worlds. Their loyalty is a priceless resourcewe'd be wasting it ffwe hadn't involved them in their own defense?" "Pace, Admiral]" Sanders raised a hand.

 

 

"All was rati- fied. Oh, a few politicos are afraid you're setting up as aa autonomous warlord out here, but of course they keep quiet about it. They want to stay in office!" He ehueided, then paused at Trevayne's puzzled look, but understand-lng dawned quieldy.

 

 

"Of course! How could you know? The fact is, you've become something of a legend, Admiral. The original ports of your flight from Osterman's Star into Orion space captured the public imagination, especially since no one even knew if you'd survived. Then when the news broke that you were not only alive but had rallied the Rim and given the Rebels a bloody nose, to boot--well, I can hardly overstate the reaction. The Federation has produced precious few victories and even fewer victorious commanders. When an authentic hero turned up, there was no shortage of Corporate World money to publicize him." Sanders' eyes danced. He'd watched happily as Trevayne's embarrassment grew visibly, ilow he gently administered the coup de grace.

 

 

"You'll be pleased to know, Admiral, that you're the subject of a lavishly financed, hugely successful holodrama mini-series entitled Escape to Zephrain. You were played by Lance Manly, only slightly aged for the role." He sat back and listened with pure pleasure while Trevayne swore in six languages for a full minute without repeating himself. He waited until the new fleet admiral had run out of breath, if not obscenities, before he continued with a toothy grin.

 

 

"I've brought chips of the entire series, Admiral. The government feels it will enhance civilian morale in the But Trevayne's habitual self-control had reasserted self. "I'll take personal custody of those chips, ff you don't mind." And cycle them throagh an airlock at the first opportunity! "But don't keep me in suspense any longer, damn you! How is the war going?" Sanders was suddenly serious. "Not well. The rebels have gained control of all the choke points connecting their systems to the Innerworlds--without, I'm sorry to say, very much hindrance. Yu may not realize how extraordinary Admiral Ortega's nd your success in holding your forces together really was, Admiral. The government put the Navy in an incredibly vulnerable position, and when the shooting started, the Fleet simply disintegrated before our eyes. Before we got the news about Zephrain, we'd estimated that our ninety percent of Frontier Fleet ISUR.CTO had gone 0ve now we've revised that to just over eighty percent@u But what really hurt was losing over fifty percent of Battle Fleet's active units." "Fifty percent.?" Even this man could be rocked by some revelations, Sanders noted. "Sweet mother of God, man!" "Fifty percent," Sanders confirmed grimly, "but that doesn't mean the rebels got all we lost." His face suddenly looked every day of its age, and Trevayne leaned back against his cushions. @u Of course. It had to have been like that, or those Battle Fleet monitors already would have taken Zephrain away from him. He closed his eyes in brief pain as he contemplated the grim scenes that must have occurred within the Federation as scattered, mutinous battle-line units went down under the fire of their own service--comand took their share of loyal ships and crews with them.

 

 

"So theyad both the time and strength to grab their choke points," Sanders went on after a moment. "Not only that, but by now they've had time to set up a few yards of their own. So far we haven't seen any heavy capital ships among their new construction.

 

 

.. but give them time. They'll get to it. They got too much breathing space, and crushing them is going to be long and bloody. And, of course, there's always someone waiting to step in as soon as there's an opening. Like the Tangri. I noticed in your report that you've had a few brushes with them out along the Rim?" "One or two," Trevayne agreed calmly.

 

 

"Not very many, though. I adopted an argument they understood, and they've left us alone since." "Really? I've had some experience of the Tangri myself, Admiral. I'm afraid I'm not amiliar with an 'argument" they pay any attention to." "Oh, but you are, Mister Sanders." Trevayne chuckled dryly. "As a matter of fact, I believe you were present in the Lyonesse System when the same argument was propounded once before." His better nature triumphed just before he added, "That was before my time," and he ended with a simple, "I estimate three percent of their raiding force got home." "Ah!" Sanders nodded. "It's a pity the Federation has always been too easygoing to use that argument more often. Still, I suppose the plutocrats have been more concerned with squeezing the Fringers. And they have other worries now. There was even some wild talk about bringing Battle Fleet home to "stand shoulder-to-shoulder in defense of the homeworld!" But, of course, that was before they really understood the Fringe's objectives. The rebels want to secede, and for that they only have to hold what they've already got, not add more stars to it. Except "he looked sharply at Trevayne" for the Rim. They want that. And now they feel they can take it." He patted the briefcase. "I've brought ONI'S analysis for your perusal. The prognosis is: you can expect a really massive attack on Zephrain within sixty standard days. The question is: can you hold?" Their eyes locked as Sanders sfiently asked the question that could not be asked aloud aboard an Orion warship. Have your people managed to transmute the theoretical data at Zephrain RDS into the kind of hardware that will even the odds you'll face?

 

 

Trevayne understood. And he knew that ff Leornak had any conception of what was truly at stake, all the possible "diplomatic repercussions" in the Galaxy would not assure his own safety. Leornak would have to try, even though torture was notoriously unreliable, even though all TFN officers were immunized to truth-extracting drugs, and even though the limitations of hypnosis were still essen- tially what they had been in Franz Mesmer's day. So he answered simply, "Yes." They settled back on their cushions and sipped their bourbon, two men who understood one another perfectly, and Sanders smiled his impish smile again.

 

 

"Well, Admiral, I'm confirmed in my view that the government acted wisely in ratifying your actions. That's the one advantage of a plutocracy: it can sometimes be frightened into doing the sensible thing." He caught Trevayne's disapproving look and deliberately misinterpreted it. "Oh, yes, of course the good Leornak is bugging us... but only for his private amusement and the edification of his own superiors. And while those superiors would rather do business with us, they don't have much emotional investment in this war. Not like those of us who're out to avenge the blood of kith and kin, as it were." He able.St[*oslashgg'pped suddengg'ity, looking uncharacteristically uncomfort- "Apologies, Admiral. That was an inappropriate thing to say. Of course I know about your family." But Trevayne hardly heard him, for in the corridors of his memory, a long-shut door swung open.

 

 

It had been sixteen years before, with his younger daughter Ludmilla newly born. He'd taken.his family to Old Terra for the first time.

 

 

They'd visited England, of course, and Moscow.

 

 

And like all human visitors to the birthworld, they'd journeyed to Africa where the Temple of Man exploded up over Olduvai Gorge in arches and spires that soared towards infinity while homo erectus, captured forever in the masterpiece of the twenty-second century sculp-tot Xentos, gazed at the lights in the night sky and wondered.

 

 

But the image that haunted him still was from the Mediterranean island of Corfu, whose mountains meet the sea to subdivide beaches into ancient coves where squinting, sun-dazzled eyes can sometimes momentarily glimpse Odysseus" galley rounding a headland. Until the day of his death, he would never be able to think of his older daughter Courtenay without seeing a four-year-old girl on the beach at Corfu, the brilliant sun conjuring reddish glints in her chestnut hair.., followed swiftly by the dissipating radioactive dust which, for a little while after the missiles struck, must have colored the dawns and sunsets of Galloway's World.

 

 

He allowed himself five twenty-nine hour Xandy days in Prescott City after his return from Rehfrak. On the sixth day, he awoke and walked to the open window to gaze out into the high summer of Xanadu's northern hemisphere. Imported elms mingled with native feathedeaf and falsepine across a well-tended lawn crystalline with dew, and creatures that weren't quite furry birds flew overhead in the early-morning light of a sun just too yellow to be Sol. He sniffed the cool air, already sensing the heat the day would bring, and there was a strange stillness in his heart.

 

 

He heard a stirring behind him as Miriam reached for him in her sleep and, finding his side of the bed empty, awoke. She smiled sleepily.

 

 

"For God's sake, Ian," she murmured.

 

 

"Put some clothes on if you're going to stand at the window. At least spare what little's left of my reputation." He smiled. Their affair was the worst-kept secret in the Zephrain System, if not the entire Rim. In fact, he'd been considerably relieved when he viewed the mischievous Sanders' wildly overdone HV chips (which had since mysteriously vanished) and found no mention of Miriam. He sat down on the bed and kissed her forehead gently.

 

 

"Go back to sleep," he whispered. "No need for you to get up yet. But I have to leave." She was fully awake now, and her smile departed. "I suppose it's useless to tell you again that any of your new-minted admirals--Desai, Remko, any of the rest--are competent to act as your in-space commander? Or to remind you of your importance to the Rim?" She caught herself before saying "the Rim Federation." He thought ruefully of his last conversation with her father. "My "importance" ends the day the rebels break through," he answered grimly. "The Rim lives or dies with the Fleet. I may as well do the same." "Ian," she smiled again, "you're full of shit, as usual. I'm a Navy brat, remember? I know the real reason you're going." Of course they both knew the unwritten (and therefore unbreakable) rule that required any TFN commander who could manage it to be in space with his personnel in battle. Howard Anderson had been aboard one of those twenty-third century battlewagons, now so quaint-seeming, at Aklumar. Ivan Antonov and Raymond Prescott had ridden their flagships into the meat-grinders of Lorelei and Home Hive III. And Sergei Ortega had flown his lights to the end in Krait at the Battle of the Gateway.

 

 

Miriam looked up at the swarthy, invulnerable face and ran her fingers through the close-trimmed, slightly graying beard. Few who knew him saw any reason to dispute the common judgment that he was hiscomplex" and "inscrutable" -comsome might even add "sinister." She alone had come to know his face lied, that his complexity, seen whole, re* ISURRECO solved xs61f inffcccentric rings of defense around the dull hurt at the center of him.

 

 

Miriam's lovemaking was no more passive than anything else about her, and she pulled him down to her, kissing him. "You don't have to leave just yet," she said softly, "and God knows how long you'll be gone.... "And, for a time, nothing existed for either of them except the other.

 

 

Afterwards, she sat on the bed among the tangled sheets, hugging her knees and smoking as she watched him dress and groom himself meticulously. Yes, she thought, even the surprising personal vanity fits the pattern. It was a part of the fortifications.

 

 

What she did not know, what she would never know, was that without her he was alone with his hurt.

 

 

Then he turned back to her, totally familiar and yet almost a stranger in his uniform. They kissed once more, lingeringly, And it was time for him to go.

 

 

"You realize, of course," she said with mock severity, "that while you're gone, in addition to being miserably horny, I'm going to have the Devil of a time keeping the Grand Council in harness." He paused at the door and grinned innocently.

 

 

"Well," he began, "in the words of a noted pre-space Chinese philosopher..." He managed to beat the hurled pillow through the door.

 

 

CONDUIT Kevin Sanders hardly noticed the Marines guarding the prime minister's residence. He hadn't been on Old Terra many hours, and he was far more concerned with smelling unreeyeled air and seeing more than a handful of faces in one place.

 

 

He glanced at his watch as the elevator whisked him to the penthouse. He was running slightly late, but political meetings, he'd learned long ago, were very like social gatherings; it was better to arrive latc cven by a large margin--than early by the smallest.

 

 

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out to be met by a tall, fair-haired young man.

 

 

"Evening, Heinz. I take it they're awaiting me with bated breath?" "More or less, Admiral Sanders." Sanders sighed. Heinz yon Rathenau, Dieter's personal security head, was the only member of the New Zurich Delegation to follow him -comofficially, anyway--cominffthe prime minister's residence, and he seemed incapable of forgetting the titles people had once acquired--comor "earned," as he put it. Sanders suspected him of incurable romanticism. "Shall I go on in, Heinz?" "Of course, sir. Conference Room Two." ""thank you." Four people sat around the polished crystal conference table. Sanders nodded pleasantly to Sky, Marshal Witeinski and Chief of Naval Operations Rutgers and bestowed a special srhil@. on Susan Krupskaya, his successor at ONI, then half-bowed to the prime minister.

 

 

Dieter was the least impressive of them all, physically speaking, but his was unquestionably the dominant presence. Which was no small trick, given the wealth of experience his military subordinates represented. Either Sanders' first impression of Dieter had been sadly mistaken, or else the man had somehow grown to meet his moment. He suspected the latter, but he was none too sure his suspicion didn't stem from his own disrike of admitting mistakes.

 

 

"Mister Sanders." Dieter did not rise, but his courteous greeting gave the impression he had.

 

 

"I'm glad you were finally able to join us." "Thank you, sir." Sanders hid a smile@u "I'm sorry--I am running a bit late@u" He didn't mention that he'd walked rather than take a ground car.

 

 

"Quite all right," Dieter said@u "Man must walk before he can run, I suppose." He smiled pleasantly@u "But you're the man of the hour, after all--comor, at least, the man who's met him." He leaned back and waved at a chair@u "Let us hear your report, Mister Sanders. Please@u" "Yes, sir." Sanders laid his briefcase on the table and snapped its security locks. Reinforced titanium sheathing gleamed dully on its inner surfaces as he extracted a folder of holo chips and laid them on the table.

 

 

""This is the off'al report, sir. But I gather you want an @u.. ah, off the cuff summation?" "Precisely, Mister Sanders. Your summations are always so enlivening@u" "Thank you, sir. I strive to please." "I'm sure@u" Dieter opened an inlaid cigar box and waited while Sanders selected and lit one. Then he cleared his throat gently@u "Your summation?" "Yes, sir. Frankly--was Sanders eyes swept the group, his customary levity absent" we're damned lucky@u I was prepared for a determined man, but not for the one I met. In my considered opinion, the Governor-General will hold the Rim Systems if any living man can do it." "A strong endorsement, Kevin," Susan Krupskaya said quietly.

 

 

"Is it?" Sanders suddenly grinned impishly.

 

 

"Let's just put it this way, Susan--he puts Lance Manly to shame@u"

 

 

"So you're confident he can hold Zephrain?" Witcinski asked somberly.

 

 

"I am. More importantly, he is. Mind you, we couldn't talk openly on board an Orion carrier, but when I asked him ff he could, he answered with one word: 'allyes."" "That sounds like Ian," Rutgers said.

 

 

"Yes. The Governor-General does seem rather, ah, formidable,"" Sanders agreed. "And he clearly feels he has the firepower he needs.

 

 

.. plus the locals" full-blooded support.

 

 

At least," he chuckled dryly, "he defended them most vehemently against a few carefully dropped aspersions." "That sounds like him, too," Rutgers said.

 

 

"And it brings up another point," Witcinski pressed. "Forgive me, Bill--I certainly don't wish to impugn the honor of an officer who's accomplished what he has--but there has to be some temptation towards empire-building in his position." "I suppose so--comfor some," Sanders broke in before Rutgers' anger could find expression. "Sky Marshal, you no doubt know that Admiral Trevayne lost his wife and daughters on Galloway's World?" "Yes," Witcinski agreed guardedly.

 

 

"Well, sir," Sanders said quietly, "he's lost his son now, too." He watched the sudden pain in Rutgers' broad, face, then eyed Witcinski.

 

 

"I'm sorry to hear it, Mister Sanders," the Sky Marshal said gruffly, "but how does that answer my question?" "His son," Sanders said very softly, "was aboard one of the ships BG 32 destroyed in the Batfie of Zephrain." He kept his eyes on Witcinski as Rutgers gasped in dismay. "I submit, sir, that neither you, nor I, nor anyone else has the right to question his loyalty after that." "No," Witcinski said slowly, "I don't suppose so." There was no apology in his voice, only understanding, but Sanders was content. Witcinski was very like Trevayne- -coma little harder, perhaps, a little narrower.., certainly less imaginative. But in one respect they were identical: neither ever apologized for doing what he felt was necessary.

 

 

"And your estimate of the mfiitary situation, Kevin?" Rut-gers" voice was fiat, its impersonality covering his own pain.

 

 

"The Governor-General provided a force summary, but it's not exhaustive. We were both aware that Fang Leornak I NSU RP, I.Can-"TION was certain tost'cad his report--one way or another." Sanders shrugged and grinned again, dispelling much of the lingering solemnity. "Leornak and I are old friends, so I made his job a little easier by leaving the report on my desk when we went to supper." "You did what?" Witcinski stared at him.

 

 

"Of course I did, Sky Marshal," Sanders said cheerfully. "It was only courteous." "Courteous?!" Witcinski glared at him, and Sanders smiled. "Please, Sky MarshallI' He wa*ed an airy hand. "Ye Orions certainly know as much about Zephrain RDS as Admiral Krupskaya and I do about Valkha III. Which is to say each side knows the other has a facility where all that nasty weapons research has carefully not been carried out for the last sixty years. Leornak is a civilized old cat, by his lights, but ff he thought he had any chance to discover the contents of conephrain RDS, he'd have no option but to try--a point, by the way, of which the Governor-General seems well aware. As long as Leoruak can tell the Khan there's no evidence of such data's being transmitted, he can avoid the unpleasant and diplomatically catastrophic necessity of... acquiring it." He shrugged. "So I made it easier by giving him access to the recorded data, since I felt confident Admiral Trevayne was too wise to record anything incriminating. Now Leornak can assure the Khan that no sensitive data was transmitted... which meant, incidentally, that the Governor-General and I could leave his flagship." "My God!" Witcinski shook his head. "I think you actually enjoyed it!" "My dear Sky Marshal! Why else would anyone become a 'spook"?" Sanders permitted himself another chuckle.

 

 

"But you do have a strength estimate?" Rutgers pressed. "Certainly. The full data is in the report. Fortunately, few capital ships were actually lost at Zephrain. His damaged units have been repaired, and apparently he's undertaken a program of new construction, as well.

 

 

"Sanders' voice trailed off in deliberately tantalizing fashion.

 

 

"New construction?" Rutgers frowned at him.

 

 

"What sort?" "A new group of monitors--he says." Sanders' voice was quite neutral.

 

 

"Says?" Krupskaya asked sharply. Trust Susan to be the first to pounce, he thought wryly.

 

 

"Let's just say I think he finessed some clues past the Orions--which takes some doing with a wily old whisker[*oslash] twister like Leornak." "Clues, Mister Sanders? What sort of clues?" "Just this, Sky Marshal he's building onlt monitors, each of which is tying up the full capacity of a Terra-class space dock, and he's named the first of them Horatio Nelson." "What? What sort of name is that for a monitor?" "Precisely, Sky Marshal.

 

 

Monitors are named for TFN heroes, yet this ship isn't. The Orions probably won't give it a thoughter all, our nomenclature is as confusing to them as theirs is to us--but a non-standard name suggests a non-standard class, no? Coupled with the building capacity devoted to each of them and the fact that he doesn't seem to feel the need for carriers-- was Sanders raised one hand, palm up.

 

 

"I see." Witcinski scratched his chin. "I believe you have a point, Mister Sanders." "So Admiral Trevayne has a sizable conventional force, plus whatever unorthodox vessels and weapons he may be building," Dieter mused. "And on that basis, he feels confident of defeating anything the rebels can throw at him." He nodded slowly. "My friends, I think that may be the best news since this whole sorry, disaster began. If he's right--if he can hold it may be time for us to consider Operation Yellowbrick." He glanced at his two senior milio ta. commanders.

 

 

"Comments, gentlemen?" "Really, Kevin," Susan Krupskaya chided as she poured scotch into his glass, "you should watch the way you talk to the Sky Marshal." "Why?" Sanders yawned and stretched,- looking briefly more cat-like than an Orion. "Has he noticed something?" "Kevin, you're a clever man, not to mention devious and underhanded, but the Sky Marshal is cleverer than you think. He may not waste time on decadent things like social amenities, but he's quite well aware you enjoy twitting him." "Nonsehs left-brace That man's not 'well aware" of anything that doesn't mount shields, armor, and energy, weapons left-brace was "Oh, no? That's not what his war diary says.

 

 

"War diary?" Sanders sat up and rowned at her.

 

 

"You've been tapping the confidential war diary of the military commander-in-chief, Susan?" "But, Kevin," she batted her eyelids demurely, "you always said that anything someone considers worth keeping a secret is probably worth knowing. Besides, he's a Fringer; it seemed like a good idea to check him." "But if he catches you at it," Sanders said warning left-brace y, "not even Dieter's going to be able to save your shapely ass." "No?" Krupskaya grinned a trifle crookedly. "Why do you think I warned you he's cleverer than you think? "Here's my last intercept from his diary." She tossed him a sheet of facsimile.

 

 

"Ah?" Sanders glanced at the transcript and began to chuckle. After a moment, it became full-throated laughter, and he raised his glass ungrudging left-brace y to the absent sky marshal. Al left-brace it said was: "My Dear Vice Admiral. I trust you and Mister Sanders have enjoyed being on the 'inside." L. Witcinaki." "And he accused me of enjoying it!" "And he was right, you old reprobate left-brace was Krupskaya shook her head wryly. "I'm still not certain how he caught me, but he thinks you put me up to it." "Well, I suppose I did, in a sense," Sanders agreed lazily. "After all, I taught you everything you know." "Not quite everything," she said dryly. "And before you start blowing your ego out your ears, I have something for you. Here." She handed him a sheaf of pages.

 

 

"Ah left-brace An excellent job, Susan. Excellent left-brace his "Sure." She shook her head at him.

 

 

"Kevin, what are you up to? Here's proof that Captain M'tana and Alistair Nomoruba are feeding information to the rebels, and you won't right-brace et me do a thing about it left-brace Damn it, they've been doing it for over two left-brace lears now left-brace his "So they have." Sanders finished the first sheet, nodded to himself and crumpled the paper, breaking the security coating, then tossed it into the ice-bucket at his elbow.

 

 

The sheet touched melted ice-water and vanished as he turned to the second page.

 

 

"I've done a lot for you, Kevin," Admiral Krupskaya said sternly, "and I'll probably go right on doing it, but you owe me an explanation. I don't mind putting my career on the line, but sitting on this may violate my sworn oath as an officer." "Sweet Susan," Sanders said soothingly, "the skill has not yet deserted these palsied old fingers. This old eye has not yet lost its keenness. This old ear has not yet--was "Spare me a full catalog of decrepit organs that are still more or to ess functional," she interrupted rudely. "What you're saying--in your thankfully inimitable style--is that tou know what you're doing?" "Precisely." "Kevin," she said with unaccustomed severity, "Tm no longer a wet-nosed snotty in your operation on New Valkha. I have my own duties --comand I've run about as far with this as I intend to without an explanation." "Ah, but your baby fat made you such a charming ensign,"" he said gently. "Still---was he weighed the angry fondness flashing in her eyes and shrugged his-comperh it sts time for the wily old master to enlighten his round-eyed, admiring disciple." "Pace, my dear!" His eyes still gleamed, but his voice was serious, and she settled back to listen.

 

 

"Consider: I first tapped into th conduit less than a month after the POW letter exchanges began, correct?" "Yes." "Fine. And at the time, the information passing through it, while undoubtedly useful, wasn't precisely Galaxy-shaking. Correct again?" "Yes." "Weffful, as I taught you in the dim mists of your youth, my love, one never tampers with a conduit unless the information passing through it is of deadly importance. Instead, one monitors it, traces it, and, above all, makes certain it carries information in apparent security, thus preventing the ungodly from tinkering up something one doesn't know about to replace it. This is spook basic train-lng manual stuff, is it not?"

 

 

"Yes, Kevtn," she sighed. "But why not tell an left-brace lone about it?" "My sweet, a secret is a secret when only one person knows it; anything else is simply more or less compromised information. Dear, toothsome Susan! I wouldn't have told you if you hadn't been moving into the worry seat at ONI!" "And ff you hadn't needed my help to stay tapped in!" "That, too, of course," he admitted graciously.

 

 

"All right. I can accept that. Bu left-brace look at some of this stuff, Kevin! Details of the communications with the Orions to set up your trip.

 

 

Or here "she pointed at another sheet his--- details of cabinet meetings, for God's sake!

 

 

We're talking heavy duty data, Kevin. This is no longer Assembly gossip!" "And quite interesting it is, too," Sanders agreed brightly. "Damn you.eaou, Kevin! Don't evade me! Why can't I even tell Heinz tallyhat someone inside the cabinet is passing priceless data to the enemy?" "Priceless?" Sanders finished the last page of the intercepts and watched it curl into nothingness in the ice-bucket. "Perhaps, and perhaps not." He stirred the clear water and clinking ice with an idle forefinger.

 

 

"No 'perh" about it!" Krupskaya snorted.

 

 

"Actually, you know, there is," he corrected gently. "Consider this, my dear--everything you've picked up from the cabinet is purely political.

 

 

There hasn't been one scrap of military intelligence." "That's true," she agreed slowly, her tone suddenly thoughtful.

 

 

"Now," Sanders purred, "who has access to all this---was he tapped the bland water in the ice-bucket" but not to military data? The same cabinet meeting which discussed sending me to the Orions also discussed our entire naval strategy, yet there's not a word of that in here. Surely that would be worth more to the rebels than, for example, Prime Minister Dieter's requests for opinions on granting the "Republic" limited belligerent status?" "Selective information," she said softly, nodding her head. "But why? You're right; it's valuable, but less valuable than military intelligence," "Ah, but is it?"

 

 

"Damn you," she said without rancor. "Don't start your damned double-think on me now!" "I'm not. But who does it have value for? The recipient @u.. or the sender?" "I don't pretend to understand that one--yet. But I will, I promise you!" @u "I'm sure you will," he soothed, his smile taking the offense from his words@u "You were always my best student, or you wouldn't be sitting where you are now. But unlike you, my love, I already know our mole's identity." "And you don't intend to share it with me?" she said resignedly.

 

 

"No, Susan, I don't," he said, his suddenly fiat tone contrasting sharply with his normal urbanity. Then he smiled ag@u "But it's a lovely game, my dear! I know--but does he know that I know? And if he does, does he know that I know that he knows that I know? Ad infinitum, of course." "Kevin Sanders," she said acidly, "if I didn't trust you more than my own mirror, I'd have you in irons under babble juice therapy this second!" "And, my dear," he purred, "if I didn't trust yotr--and know that you trust mc I would never have recommended you to run ONI, now would I?" Susan Krupskaya laughed and shook her held. "Hold out your glass, you rotten old bastard," she said affectionately.

 

 

"Here. The latest information for Captain M'tana." The tall man took the record chip and tucked it inside his tunic beside his holstered needler. He frowned.

 

 

"You seem displeased." The observation was made gently, but there was a chuckle in the voice@u "No, sir. It's just.., just..." "Just that it goes against the grain to pass things to rebels.;?" "Well, yes, sir," the courier said unhappily.

 

 

"But we don't give them any military data, now do we? Just political information to let them know what's happen- ing in the Cabinet and Assembly@u" "Yes, sir, but--was "But me no buts@u" The voice hardened slightly. "The "rebels" are Terrans, too, you know. Possibly better Terrans than we are. It can't hurt to give them this information -comand someday it may do a great deal of good pounds r them to know precisely what the government ea left-brace stthinks." "Yes, sir," the tall young man said, and turned away with the pricegg'ess--i non-military-- intelligence tucked into his tunic. He would see to it Nomoruba got the in pounds rma- ion without a clue as to its source. Heinz von Rethenau might not understand the motives o pounds the Terran Republic's most highly-placed spy, but he knew he could never question them.

 

 

Ater all, Oskar Dieter was the prime minister.

 

 

FORTRESS Ian Trevayne stood on the flag bridge of his new flagship, in orbit around Xanadu, and watched the great curve of the planet on the big screen. That blue, cloud-swirling loveliness woke the home-calling of his blood, and his eyes swung toward the constellation Xandies called the Hexagon. There, the astronomers asserted, to ay Sol.

 

 

How far was Sol from Zephrain? The question was a fascinating one for the theoretical astronomers (whose current best guess was seven hundred light-years), but of no significance whatsoever to the working spacers who traveled the mad ingeodesics of the warp lines. Yet Trevayne contemplated the sheer distances involved more often of late, deliberately dwelling on the immensity of space and time as a sort of tonic when his spirits flagged. For huge though the universe might be, Man's very presence here, in this system, was the best measure of his own stature. Seven centuries from Earth Trevayne had come, as the lonely radiation of light rode the vacuum. Surely after such a voyage as that he could accomplish what duty demanded.

 

 

He shook himself and dismissed that thought to consider the ship he rode. Shortly before the war, the Zephrain Fleet base had laid down a prototype fortress, larger even than a monitor and with far more mobility than the usual OWP'S station-keeping capaoilities. As far as Trevayne was concerned, anything mobile, however slow and clumsy, was a ship, and after completing it with major modifications, he'd "given it a name. It was now TFNS Sergei Ortega, and it was the largest self-propelled structure ever wrought by homo sapiens but not for long. The militant energy of the Rim had come together with the scientific wizardry slumbering at Zephrain RDS and birthed the five mammoth constructions that orbited alongside Ortega in various stages of incompletion, overshadowing even her bulk. Destroyer-sized construction ships slid between their massive ribs; tractored barges piled high with steel and beryllium and titanium from Zeptstrain's mammoth smelters shuttled back and forth among them; and fierce, tiny constellations of robotic welders lit their bones. Only one was even partially operational, but he'd at least decided on a name for that one: TFNS Horatio Nelson. When Miriam had asked who that was, he'd told her she could bloody well look it up.

 

 

He thought of those gargantuan monsters--he would, he suppoled, probably call them supermonitors--and of the wholesale refitting of the other Fleet units, and, not for the first time, he was awed and even a little frightened by the Faustian dynamism of the Rim society. He never realized (no one did, except Miriam Ortega, and she only dimly) that it was he who had tempered that unique human metal into the terrible weapon now poised to strike.

 

 

It struck on the twenty-third standard day after Trevayne had been piped aboard Ortega.

 

 

Genii Yoshinaka (a captain, now, and Trevayne's chief of staff) scanned the reports of SBM carrier packs coming in from the closed warp point near the photosphere of Zephrain A--the "Back Door," as it had come to be called--then looked up to meet Trevayne's eyes as they realized they'd won their first gamble.

 

 

They'd counted on the rebels rejecting another pincer after their earlier disaster and made their own deployment accordingly. Their mobile units--notow officially listed by the TFN as Fourth Fleet-- covered the Gateway, but the orbital forts which once had protected it did not. They'd been repaired, refitted, and towed across the system to join the handful of new forts protecting the Back Door.

 

 

There was a reason for that redeployment, and the rebels were about to discover it.

 

 

Trevayne spoke a few quiet words, and the orders went out, setting in motion long-prepared contingency plans, both in space and on Xanadu. The fleet uncoiled itself from the Gateway in response, reaching out on the flag plot like gleaming tendrils of light. And on the planet, sirens screamed and civil defense teams sprang into orderly action. Kevin Sanders" briefing might stress the rebels' promise to avoid further strikes on populated worlds so long as the Federation did likewise, but Ian Trevayne would take no chances. There would be no mass murder on Xanadu.

 

 

He watched his secondary plot--the one tied directly into the Back Door fortresses--and his hard smfie tightened as a crazy quilt of explosions erupted about the warp point. The hordes of tiny robotic spacecraft with their loads of homing missiles were taking a beating, he thought coldly. SBMHAWK carriers had always been largely immune to minefields, for it was hard for the hunter-killer satellites to target something so small, and harder still for them to catch the agile, wildly evading packs before they stabilized their launchers and fired. That was what made them so deadly against fixed defenses like OWP'S... until Zephrain RDS had supplied an answer: a new mine with vastly improved tracking systems and a far higher attack speed. Their attack radius was shorter than for conyen-tional mines, and their lighter warheads were largely ineffectual against shielded and armored warships, but they were deadly against the unprotected SBMHAWK'S.

 

 

Their shorter range required denser patterns and there had been insufficient time to build enough for both warp points. But Trevayne and his staff had reasoned that the rebels would prefer the Back Door to the long-established Gateway defenses, and placed their limited supply accordingly.

 

 

"Skywatch says the new mines took out ninety-plus percent of the missile packs before launch, Admiral," Yoshinaka reported crisply. "Operational orders transmitted to mobile units and acknowledged.

 

 

All ships closed up at action stations and redeploying towards the Back Door. All civil defense procedures implemented on Xanadu." "Thank you, Commodore," Trevayne acknowledged formally, his eyes on the main battle display. Any moment now, he thought.

 

 

The rebels received the first of several surprises as their lead units emerged to find their attack warp point still covered by heavy OWP'S. Vice Admiral Josef Matucek, commanding the Republican van, watched in horror as his superdreadnoughts warped into a holocaust of close-range beam fire. Shields flared like paper in a furnace as the heavy batteries of energy weapons--energy weapons which should have been blasted to rubble by the torrent of SBMHAWK'S-- ripped his ships apart.

 

 

It was incredible! How had they survived? And having survived, where was that hurricane of force beams coming from? Every Terran fortress designer was imbued with the necessity of balancing force beam and primary beam armaments--the former to batter down shields and armor at close range when the capital ships came through; the latter to eerate the hangar bays of the carriers in the follow-up Xvaves--but those forts couldn't possibly mount anything but force beams! There was no room for anything else, and their heavy fire gutted the leading Republican ships. Fragile datalink systems collapsed in electronic hysteria under the pounding, and the superdreadnoughts had to fight as individuals, surrounded by those demonic fortresses like mastodons besieged by tigers.

 

 

But superdreachmughts were tough. Eight were destroyed outright, and a dozen more were crippled, half-demolished, hulls glowing with the energy bleeding into them from the defenders' force beams, but they struck back hard. Their crews were every bit as courageous, every bit as determined, as the defenders, and they blew a gap in the in-system edge of the defensive ring.

 

 

Neither Matucek nor many of his people lived to see it, but the follow-on wave of carriers found a hole wide enough to offer escape from the full fury of the distance-attenuated force beams.

 

 

They charged through it--only to reel in shock as every surviving fortress cut loose with the same incredible number of primaries and taught the Republican Navy the power of the "variable focus" improved force beam refined from the theoretical data at ZephraJn [[DS. Stressed field lenses allowed the same projector to operate in primary mode, projecting a beam which was tiny in aperture and brief in duration compared to a regular force beam. And while, like all primaries, it lacked the wide area effect of the force beam, it was a weapon to which electromagnetic shields, metal armor, and human flesh all offered equal resistance that is to say, none at all.

 

 

The vicious beams stabbed through the carriers, crippling electromagnetic catapults and, all too often, the readied fighters, as well, and the first carrier wave staggered aside, toothless, their riddled fighter bays useless.

 

 

But even the improved force beam required a cooling period between primary-mode shots, and the rebel commander turned the full fury of his fleet upon the remaining fortresses. The Book called for intact forts to be bypassed, for the follow-up waves to flood through the holes opened by SBMHAWK'S and the assault waves to draw out of range of the surviving energy weapons, but that was impossible here. Admiral Anton Kellerman threw the surviving ships of the first wave into the teeth of the big forts, and the primaries' slow rate of fire proved decisive. They died hard, but they died.

 

 

.. and took half a dozen more superdreadnoughts (and six assault carriers which had no business--by The Book--in such an engagement) with them into death.

 

 

Trevayne watched grimly as the relayed scanner images recorded the destruction of Zephrain Skywatch. He'd known from the first that this was the probable outcome of a truly determined assault--and so had the Skywatch crews. He wondered how many of his personnel had died with their fortresses. Not so many as would normally have been the case, but far more than he would find it easy to live with. He'd done his best to reduce the death toll by employing as much automation as possible, but there had to be some human brains behind the robotics. There had been, and most of them had been volunteers. He only hoped the specially-designed escape pods built into the fortresses had saved more than a tithe of those extraordinary people.

 

 

It might have been different if he'd dared to marshal Fourth Fleet behind Sk.vwatch. The firepower of his mobile units, coupled with that of the forts, would have smashed the rebel attack into dust--but someone had had to cover the Gateway in case he and Yoshinaka had guessed wrong.

 

 

He studiel lis display narrowly, wishing for the thousandth time that even one of his supermonitors was operational, but only the immobile, half-finished Nelson was even partly so. Another thirty standard days might have changed that, but he had to fight with what he had, and, as he watched Anton Kefflerman gather his shaken units back into some sort of formation amid the drifting rubble of Skeavwatch, he wondered grimly if it was enough. He'd been confident when he told Sanders he could hold Zephrain, but ONI had underestimated the rebel attack strength by at least a Factor of three.

 

 

Too many of those ships out there weren't listed in his flagship's data base. New ships, the fruit of the shipyards Sanders had warned him about.

 

 

But Skywatch had done bloody well, and that had to be a very shaken rebel commander. Virtually all of his super-dreadnoughts'had been crippled or destroyed outright, and his carriers had suffered heavily. He had to be wondering what fresh disaster awaited him from Zephrain's Pandora's Box, and ff he could just be convinced that what awaited him was even worse than it actually was.

 

 

He watched a small rebel force line out for Gehenna while a second, larger one headed directly for Xanadu and his own forces, and wondered what the rebel commander would do with his surviving strikefighters? The Book called for a close-in launch to avoid as much AFHAWK attrition as possible, but he might be shaken enough to launch at extreme range. Trevayne hoped not, for that was the one thing he truly feared.

 

 

He encouraged the enemy's adherence to The Book by holding back his own fleet--including the monitors of BG 32, commanded now by Sonja Desai and very different from anv other monitors in space. There were a few monitors in the rebel fleet. They must have been the rear guard, protected from the first crushing embrace of action because their long building time made them so hard to replace. But his primary interest lay with the surviving carriers as Ortega shivered, moving into a slightly wider orbit in company with BG 32. Ortega and Desafs monitors were datalinked to the immobile Nelson; they couldn't leave Xanadu without dropping the partially-operational supermonitor out of the net, and he needed Nelson. He needed her badly, and he had to suck those carriers into range of her weapons before they launched.

 

 

Anton Kefflerman watched the plot aboard his CVA flagship Unicorn and wondered just what Trevayne was playing at. He'd once served under the Rim commander, and the one thing Trevayne had never seemed was hesitant. Yet he wasn't moving forward to engage. True, he was badly outnumbered- -comby at least three-to-one in fighters, Kellerman judged but still...

 

 

It was possible he wanted to engage close to Xanadu for a very simple reason: he could have based hundreds of strikefighters on the planet. Yet those stupendous, half-completed hulls drifting in orbit above the Fleet base seemed to argue that he couldn't have built too many fighters. Could it be they'd caught him with his pants down? Was it possible that, despite the long delay, he wasn't ready for them?

 

 

Kellerman hoped so. His own people were badly shaken. Few of them had ever imagined an opening phase such as they'd just endured; none had ever actually witnessed its like. He settled deeper into his command chair, watching his plot, wondering, and the gleaming diamonds of his battlegroups crept across it toward the waiting wall of. Trevayne's warships.

 

 

The fleets were still beyond the range at which combat could even be thought of when the rebels received their next surprise.

 

 

As a lieutenant, Ian Trevayne had commanded the corvette Yang'tze. That starship had been only a little larger than any one of the launchers which now awoke on Ortega, Nelson, and Sonja Desai's monitors. Ortega and Nelson each mounted five of them; Zoroffand her sisters mounted only three each, and they'd sacrificed ninety percent of their normal armament to squeeze them in.

 

 

It was a desperate expedient which deprived Fourth Fleet of the solid, close-in punch monitors normally provided, and Trevayne had hoped to reconvert the standard monitors as the supermonitors came on line. But now those launchers spoke in anger for the first time and hurled missiles forth at velocities heretofore unthinkable.

 

 

Those missiles wer to ess physical objects than energy states as they lunged at the rebel ships. Given the relatively innocuous name "heavy bombardment missiles," or HBM'S, they were twice the size of any missile ever before used in space combat. And the monstrous housings which launched them weren't mass drivers like other missile launchers; they were something else--something technicians feeling their way through an entirely new technology with no ready-made jargon had dubbed "gray drivers." Nor did those missiles rely upon eonventiohal drives; their initial velocities actually increased as their new gravitie drive fields cut in.

 

 

Even at their speed, the HBM'S' range was such that Kellerman's scanners had time to record their novel drive patterns before the first salvo came elose enough for cybernetic brains to decree the moment of self-immolation. Foreefields within thbled warheads collapsed, and matter met antimatter.

 

 

If the target was a small ship, the small ship died. A capital ship might absorb more than one hit but not even the most heavily shielded and armored ship could survive more than a very few.

 

 

Admiral Kellerman was not a man to panic, and he did not panic now. At such ranges, a high degree of accuracy was impossible, and nine of the first salvo were clean misses. His point defense ignored them, concentrating on the other thirteen, and his seasoned crews stopped ten of them short of his ships' shields. But three got throogh, and the assault carrier Hector vanished in a brilliant flare of light. He winced inwardly at the prodigious power of the new weapons and ordered his fighters launched to clear the suddenly threatened "safety" of their bays. And then Anton Kellerman got his final surprise.

 

 

"Admiral!" A scanner rating stiffened at his console as the second wave of HBM'S came in.

 

 

He was a veteran, but his voice wavered on the edge of hysteria. "Admiral! Those misses from the first salvo are coming back!" Kellerman was still turning towards him in disbelief when he, the rating, and the rest of Unicorn's 180,000-tonne hull ceased to be.

 

 

A ripple of shock ran through the rebel fleet as it realized what had happened. Unlike normal missiles, these new monsters didn't simply self-destruct when they overran their targets and lost their vectors. Instead, they turned, and on-board seeking systems of unheard of power quested with insensate malevolence to reacquire the targets they'd missed and bring the HBM'S slashing back around in repeated attack runs.

 

 

The Republican Navy's appetite for surprise died with its commander. Too many links in the chain of command had already been ground to powder by Skywatch's savage defiance. No one above the rank of rear admiral survived, and the terror of the Rim's new weapons was upon them. The attack force began shedding battlegroups as carriers and battle-cruisers, destroyers and heavy cruisers -comthe ships with the speed to run--turned and fled. It didn't happen instanfiy, but the first desertion was like a tiny hole in a straining dike, and the ugly stench of fear was contagious. It swept the Republican command bridges like pestilence, proving that even the most courageous could be panicked by the unexpected.

 

 

The Gehenrm-bound flotilla had already turned back, and would make it through the Back Door. So would the fastest ships of the main force--those with skippers ruthless enough to abandon their fellows. But for the battleships and the handful of monitors and surviving super-dreadnoughts there was no escape.

 

 

Trevayne's force accelerated outwards from Xanadu, and something resembling an orthodox space battle began. Ortega moved ponderously with BG 32's monitors, advancing beyond Nelson's datalink range; but it no longer mattered. The one thing Trevayne had feared most-- sustained stand-off fighter strikes from beyond even HBM range--had evaporated with the flight of the carriers.

 

 

Only two of them stood to die with the rebel battle line, and their fighters were hideously outnumbered by the fighter strength Trevayne could bring to bear.

 

 

Stripped of their supporting elements, the rebel capital ships stood no chance against the firepower he commanded--especially since his every ship had been refitted with an improved force beam armament.

 

 

More salvos of HBM'S were launched, targeted with cold to logic on the lighter battleships and superdreadnoughts. If any ship was to be retaken for the Federation, it would be those monitorson that Trevayne was savagely determined. The range fell, and space was ugly with the butchery of ships and humans as whoever was in command over there fought to close to SBM range, matching futile gallantry against the deadly technical superiority slaughtering his ships with machinelike precision.

 

 

But Fourth Fleet smelled victory in the blood, and Trevayne slewed his ships away, holding the range five light-seconds beyond SBM range while his deadly salvos went out again and again.

 

 

Yet another was readying when the surrender signal finally arrived, Yoshinaka's face lit and he turned to Trevayne... who sat in the admiral's chair and said nothing.

 

 

In default of a cease-fire order, the gray drivers flung the waiting sal@.o outward.

 

 

The surrender signal was repeated frantically.

 

 

The rebels launched deep-space flares which dazzled visual observers and stabbed the com links with screeching static from radioactive components; there could be no mistake.

 

 

His staff officers stared at Trevayne. His face was a mask of dark iron set in an indescribable expression none of them had ever seen as he sat absorbed by the tale his battle plot told, saying nothing.

 

 

The HBM'S continued to home on the monitor da Silva, now the rebel flagship. What, Yoshinaka wondered, must those poor bastards be feeling?

 

 

Trevayne continued to stare fixedly at the impending final carnage. And on the other side of his eyes, a little girl with chestnut hair played on a beach beside a sunlit sea, and the world was young.

 

 

Yoshinaka felt the almost physical force with which everyone else on the bridge pled silently with him to intercede.

 

 

He sighed and reached out towards his admiral, turning over in his mind the appeal he wanted to make.. disIan, right now you're the hero of the age.

 

 

Don't ruin it. And don't ruin the Rim Federation, which will always be your lengthened shadow.

 

 

But, of course, that wasn't the thing to say.

 

 

Instead, he touched his friend's shoulder and said, very firmly: "Admiral, they have surrendered." Trevayne looked up, and his eyes were suddenly clear. "Quite," he said conversationally. "Cease firing.

 

 

Reassume control of the missiles and maneuver them to cover the surviving rebel ships. And have communications raise the rebel commander." So vast was the range at which the engagement had been fought that there was almost a full minute's delay before the big corn screen lit. The face upon it belonged to an officer he had known a lifetime ago, in another era.

 

 

"qhis is Fleet Admiral Ian Trevaeavne, Provisional Governor-General of the Rim Systems. Am I addressing the rebel commander?" Fifty long, endless seconds trickled past between question and reply.

 

 

"As the senior surviving officer of this force, I can nego--was The face of the small woman in the screen was shocked, her voice dull, but she paused suddenly, realizing exactly how he had addressed her, and a flicker of pride reignited in the olive-dark, almond eyes. "I am Rear Admiral Li Hah, of the Terran Republican Navy, sir!" she said sharply.

 

 

Trevayne's voice did not rise appreciably in volume, but it left no room for any other sound. "Spare me your comic-opera political pretensions, Captain. There will be no negotiations. Your ships will lower their shields and heave to for boarding by officers who will take command of them in the name of the legitimate Federation government.

 

 

Any resistance to our boarding parties on any ship will be construed as a hostile act, terminating the present cease-fire. Is that understood?" He stood rigidly, watching the screen, waiting as his words winged across to that other bridge, and when they reached it, it was as ff he had slapped the rebel commander across the face. Fury flashed in her eyes as she remembered another time and another commander who had faced her with the same option. Yet far more than a single battle-cruiser's fate hung on her decision this day, and the factors she'd gambled on then weren't present now. Thousands of Republican personnel had died already; the death of her remaining ships would achieve nothing. 'Btt Trevayne read her rage and leaned forward with a tight, merciless smile.

 

 

"I wish you would, Captain," he said, and his voice was a soft, hungry whisper.

 

 

It is not pleasant to see the beaten face of a human who accepts defeat neither easily nor often. Most on Ortega's bridge looked away in something akin to embarrassment as his words burned across the light-seconds. They stared at their consoles, waiting, as Li Han faced their admiral and saved the lives of her crews by forcing herself to say: "Understood." Trevayne broke the connection and spoke in a drained, almost inaudible voice. "Commodore Yoshinaka, please take charge of the surrender arrangements. I'll be in my quarters." He turned on his heel and strode away.

 

 

He had barely stepped off the flag bridge when the cheering Ifegan, and spread, and grew until the mobile fortress rang with its echoes. He never heard it.

 

 

De facto wasn't mu the larg have trtti best effor It mig right-brace Governm city's pop and more chaos as signals cl der. To t! approaehi in the jigs GovelTI been the, most iml traffic of were' air when ings surrc Fourth In adu. Con nated by t bronze eo for centre to be. Fo BOND capital of the Rim Worlds or no, Prescott City child of a city by Innerworld standards.

 

 

But it was bement one on Xanadu, and it was large enough to c problems. Ground traffic was bad enough, but traffic patterns were even worse, despite the conness of overtaxed controllers, human and robotic. it not have been so bad had the Provisional ,nt not established itself here. Not only had the ulation risen by almost fifty percent, but more military skimmers reduced its traffic patterns to they cut across them, their shrill transponder raring a path through the carefully-nurtured ore air traffic authorities, the Peaceforce skimmer ng Government House was only one more flaw beaw puzzle of their job. ment House, loated on a hilltop in what had outskirts of town two years earlier, was the city's sing edifice. Silhouetted against the bustling kbu'sd Field, it took on an even more imposing the Fleet was in port. Unlike the newer buildeaunding it, Government House dated back to the terstellar War and the initial settlement of Xan- structed of natural materials, its facade domi-he addition of Commodore Prescott's monumental ,lumn, Government House had been built to last 'ies--and on a far larger scale than it had needed it had been more than a mere headquarters for a new planetary government. It had been a grand gesture of defiance, thrown in the faces of the Arachnids, one warp transit away.

 

 

Ian Trevayne had once told Miriam Ortega that Govern- ment House reminded him of a certain Peter the Great, who'd constructed a new capital city on the territory of a country he was then fighting for possession of that very land. Miriam, to his delight, had responded with a pithy phrase from her late mother's lexicon: Government House, she'd said, had chutzpah.

 

 

The Peaceforcer skimmer slid down onto the Govern- ment House roof just at sunset. (at least, Zephrain A was setting. Zephrain B remained high in the sky, glowing as a very tiny sun or a very bright star, depending on how one chose to view it.) A Marine major in undress dark-green trousers and black tunic stepped onto the roof to meet the brown-uniformed Peaceforcers who emerged from the skimmer. With punctilious formality--the two services wasted little love on one another he took custody of their prisoner, addressing her with a noncommittal "ma'am." Whether Li Han was a captain or an admiral--comor, in fact, whether an admitted rebel and mutineer was entitled to a military rank at all--cominvolved political questions the major preferred to leave to older, wiser, and better-paid heads.

 

 

Li Hah looked even smaller than usual between her to guards. They towered above her, and their combined body weight outmassed her by a factor of almost five. Her cheeks were slightly sunken (the food at the prison compound was adequate, but not always appetizing), emphasizing her clean facial structure, and she moved with her habitual grace, thanks to a rigidly self-imposed exercise schedule, but she looked like a child in an adult's pajamas in her standard-sized gray prison garb.

 

 

The major eyed the unprepossessing little figure with a measure of curiosity mingled with contempt-- anything less like a Navy flag officer was hard to imagine.

 

 

Until she opened her mouth.

 

 

"Good evening, Major" she said crisply. "You may escort me to the Governor-General." The major's hand was halfway into a salute before he caught himself. He managed to maintain his military bearing, but there was a brief pause before he mumbled, "This way, ma'am." comle turned on his heel and led the small, ramrod-straight figure to the elevator, glaring at any of his subordinates who looked like they might even be thinking of smiling.

 

 

Prisoners were rare in warfare against alien species--comthe only sort of war the TFN had ever fought.. Not only did ship-to-ship combat generally result in the annihilation of the loser's crew, but what prisonerdds were taken were usually turned over to the xenologists (or their alien equivalents) rather than becoming a charge of the military authorities.

 

 

Hence, the Federation's Navy's codes, both for treatment of prisoners and conduct when captured, were badly underdeveloped. As senior prisoner, Han had been forced virtually to reinvent the whole concept of a POW doctrine.

 

 

She'd beer-offered parole and freedom of the planet, as befitted her rank, but she'd refused, electing to stay with her fellow prisoners.

 

 

The shock of defeat and--far worse--the desertion of their fellows had come hard for them, Morale had deteriorated as their sense of betrayal became resentment, directed almost as much at their own officers for surrendering as at those others who had deserted them. For Hah, even less accustomed than her crews to the notion of defeat and supremely incapable of dishonoring herself by abandoning her comrades, surrender had held a particularly painful poignancy. And the situation was made still worse because her battlegroup's late transfer to Kellerman's command had left her a virtual unknown to most of her fellow POW'S--- an unknown who'd surrendered them all to the Rim.

 

 

But she'd attacked her problems and theirs with all the compassion and ruthlessness which made her what she was.

 

 

Now, nine months later, the captured Republican personnel were warriors once more.

 

 

But once the immediate personnel problems were resolved, Han found herself with nothing to do. The camp was like a well-run ship or squadron, fully capable of humming smoothly along under the direction of her exec as long as she stood aloofly behind him as the distant yet instantly available balance wheel. She'd found that being a hiscommander-in-chief," even of a prison camp, was even more lonely than battlegroup command.

 

 

As fall gave way to the short, mild winter of Xanadu's temperate zones, Han realized the irony of her success. She'd given her subordinates purpose and unity while she herself fretted like a captive bird against the maddening inertia and monotony of her captivity. Only once had there been any excitement to vary the soul-crushing boredom of her life.

 

 

Han's experience with governments in general, and particularly with those serving the purposes of the Corporate Worlds, had not been happy. So when she was summoned to meet a Ms. Miriam Ortega, Provisional Grand Councilor for Internal SecuriWill of the Rim Systems, she was prepared to confront yet another bored, insensitive bureaucrat.

 

 

But Ms. Ortega had begun by gracefully dismissing the camp commandant, effectively placing the entire interview off the record, which was not typical of the red tape-worshiping automatons Han associated with "government" outside the Terran Republic.

 

 

It was both a shrewd and a generous gesture, Han had thought, and felt herself warm towards the other woman. She thawed further as they discussed camp conditions and the needs of the prisoners, and it was heaven to talk to someone new after months of the same faces!

 

 

Especially to someone like this irreverently intelligent woman wRh her earthy sense of humor. Han had worked hard for the serene devotion to duty which was hers, yet she'd paid a price of loneliness along the way. Now, as she talked with Miriam Ortega, she felt the attraction that opposites often exert, and it was hard to remember they were enemies.

 

 

When it was time for her to go, she'd risen with regret. Yet before she left, she'd fumbled to frame an awkward question, despite her fear that it might shatter the precarious rapport she'd found with her "enemy." "Ms. Ortega,; I couldn't help wondering.

 

 

.. with your last name.

 

 

Miriam Ortega, had stopped her, answering the question before she could complete it.

 

 

"Admiral Ortega was my father," she'd said simply. Han had regretted the painful question, under the circumstances, but the woman with the marvelously expressive face had continued.

 

 

"He was a man of strong principles and he died acting On theresa pretty good way to go, I think." Then, with another smile, "I hear you've very nearly done so several times!" and the thawing process was complete, the rapport no longer forced.

 

 

Han was stunned, later, to learn through the carefully-cultivated guards" grapevine that Miriam Ortega was Ian Trevayne's lover.

 

 

To be sure, he had been out of contact with his wife for over three standard years. But.

 

 

Han had never met Natalya Nikolayevna Trevayne, but the woman's flawless beauty had been the subject of frequent comment by envious male officers and ostentatiously indifferent female ones, and there had never been a whisper of a hint of infidelity in all the Fleet gossip. Surely Miriam Ortega, however striking in her own dark, very individual way, couldn't possibly be Trevayne's type! And yet.., was it her imagination, or had a certain humorous warmth ept into the other's voice whenever she spoke of "the Governor-General'?

 

 

Then, with the onset of spring, came the summons which had taken her from the compound for the first time in half a year. Now, walking under guard through the corridors of Government House, she concentrated on looking unconcerned as she wondered why Trevayne had sent for her.

 

 

They came to the suite of offices from which Ian Trevayne ruled the Rim Systems. Han and her intelligence officers had spent considerable effort piecing together a schematic of the Provisional Government, and she sometimes thought it might have been designed by the legendary pre-space engineer Goldberg. Most of the day-to-day administration devolved on the departments headed by the members of the Grand Council, who were members of the Rim Legislative Assembly and so responsible to it.

 

 

But they worked forand in the name of Governor-General Trevayne, who, even though he was the sole member of the executive branch, wasn't even a member of the Assembly, much less responsible to it. He was responsible directly to the Federation Legislative Assembly on Old Terra--with which he was only infrequently and circuitously in touch by some means Han had yet to uncover. It was one of those legal tangles which homo sapiens secretly and guiltily loves, she'd decided, but it worked.., as her present captivity demonstrated all too well.

 

 

The major ushered her through the bustling outer offices and knocked at the Governor-General's private office doors. A voice from within called admittance, and the major pushed the old-fashioned doors open and stepped back, coming to a sort of half-attention as she passed him. He closed the doors quietly, not without a sigh of regret.

 

 

Normally he had no strong interest in the meetings of his superiors, but this time he couldn't quite suppress his curiosity. Somehow, he felt, any discussion between those personalities was bound to produce some very interesting by-products.

 

 

Trevayne sat behind his desk, wearing the carefully-tailored civilian dress he permitted his Governor-General persona. A broad window behind him overlooked Prescott City, and a cabinet below it held two holo cubes. One showed three women--noto, Han decided, a woman and two teen-aged girls. In the other, a dark young man in the black-and-silver of a TFN ensign tried not to look too pleased with himself. She looked away and came to attention before the desk, and a brief silence ensued as she and Trevayne regarded one another and both recalled another meeting in another office.

 

 

Trevayne spoke first. "Please be seated," he invited. "I prefer to stand, sir." "Just as you like," he nodded, sounding unsurprised.

 

 

"But please stand easy, Admiral Li." What he'd said registered as she went into a stiff "at ease," and Trevayne smiled briefly at the minute widening of her eyes--her equivalent, he suspected, of openmouthed astonishment.

 

 

"Yes," he continued, "we've received one of our infrequent messages from the Innerworlds. It seems the government has, for legalistic reasons with which I'll not bore you, has chosen to accord limited belligerent status to those worlds styling themselves "the Terran Republic."" He sounded as ff he'd bitten into something sour. "lis entails, among other things, recognition of all commissions bestowed by that. entity. I have, of course, no alternative but to conform to this policy." He allowed himself a wry smile. "I console myself with the 'thought that its purpose is 'n to confer a compliment but to secure a convenience," in the words of Winston Churchill, with whom you may not be familiar --was "On the contrary,, Admiral," Han interrupted. "Winston Churchill was a politician on Old Terra during the Age of Mao Tse-Tungwa very eloquent spokesman for an imperial system which was already doomed." Trevayne was momentarily speechless, but he recovered quickly and resumed. "We're also in receipt of one other bit of news which I think you'll find pertinent. The Federation has agreed to a general prisoner exchange to reclaim the loyalist personnel incarcerated by the various Fringe Worlds.

 

 

You'll be leaving Xanadu within the week." It was Han's turn to find herself completely at a loss. Trevayne awaited her response with curiosity.

 

 

"Admiral," she said finally, "I believe I will sit down." He motioned' her to a chair. "You will, I trust, be able to inform your superiors that you've been well treated?" "Yes," she admitted, still grappling with the stunning news. Then she shook herself. "In particular, I'd like to commend the compound medical staff for their skill and, even more, for their humanity." She thought of Daffyd Llewellyn on another planet, and smiled. "That quality seems to transcend political alignments-at least in the best doctors." Trevayne nodded, declining to mention the consderable care he and Doctor Yuan had given to selecting the prison camp medical staff.

 

 

"And," she continued, "please convey my respects and gratitude to Grand Councilor Ortega for the interest she has taken in our welfare." She watched curiously for his reaction, but he only nodded again.

 

 

"I will. And in return, I'll ask you to convey a message for me." He gazed at her over steepled fingers. "Certain medical personnel from Zephrain, whom we'd thought lost to Tangri corsairs, were repatriated by your government before the negotiations for the present exchange had been formally begun. From them, we've learned that they were in fact captured by humans, of a sort--former TFN personnel indulging in a bit of free-lance piracy." His words could have been light.

 

 

They weren't.

 

 

"Historically--was his eyes grew very hard his-combrigandage by renegades purporting to represent one side or another is one of the inevitable consequences of civil wars -comone of the many nasty consequences which the initiators of the breakups always seem to overlook, and for which they never accept the slightest responsibility. But I disgress." His expression softened a trifle.

 

 

"Please express to your superiors my thanks for repatriating our people. And," he added, leaning forward and smiling very slightly, "please accept my personal thanks for ridding the Galaxy of a partstcularly loathsome excrescence on the human race." Hah nodded, taken slightly aback, for she hadn't even known the doctors and nurses had been returned, though she'd urged the Admiralty to do so. On the other hand, her recommendations might have had more weight ff a certain portion of the Republican Navy hadn't disapproved of her handling of the situation. If Ruyard's surrender had been accepted, they pointed out, the Fleet would have gained five cruisers, plus his destroyers.

 

 

She and Tomanaga had argued that her actions had been good and prudent tactics, precluding any possibility of further treachery on Ruyard's part and so terrifying the pirates still on the planet as to prevent any last minute atrocities.

 

 

Nevertheless, Han had been officially censured, though the First Space Lord had told her privately that he approved her handling of the battle.

 

 

Personally, Han had never considered the episode "battle" at all, though it was now officially called the Battle of Siegfried. From her perspective, it had been a case of vermin extermination.

 

 

Silence stretched out across the desk as Trevayne toyed with a stylus, and Han sensed an unaccustomed hesitance, even an awkwardness, on his part.

 

 

"Admiral," she asked tentatively at last, "may I go?" "Eh?" He looked up quickly, as if caught off balance while trying to formulate a statement or question. "You may," he said gruffly.

 

 

Han stood and walked toward the doors. Then she stopped and turned back to face him.

 

 

"Admiral, if I may ask... why did you bring me here to tell me this, instead of simply sending word through Commandant Chanet?" Trevayne glanced back down at his desk for a moment, seeming to gather himself. Then he looked back up at her.

 

 

"Admiral Li,"" hb almost blurted, "were you, by any chance, involved in the raid on Galloway's World?" Han eyed him sharply. Now why, she'wondered, did he want to know that? There'd been some ugly repercussions over the strike, she recalled, despite the fact that every strategist had always known the Jamieson Archipelago was a primary strategic target. Still, both sides had been horrified by the heavy civilian casualties, and the raid had led to the de facto agreement banning nuclear strikes on inhabited planets. But why... his Understanding struck. Her glance switched quickly to the holos as she remembered a conversation in Admiral Rutgers" office, and her eyes widened in horrified understanding.

 

 

And then her gaze met Trevayne's.

 

 

His eyes were almost beseeching, and he read the shocked compassion in hers. For an insbled'ant, there was an intangible bond between them.

 

 

Han needed to say something--she knew not what-- to reach out to this man who'd lost so much. She opened her mouth to speak.

 

 

... and remembered the Second Battle of Zephrain, when Fourth Fleet hung beyond weapon range and the deadly HBM'S kept coming in spite of her desperately repeated surrender signals. As the missiles which had already been fired looped impossibly back, closing through the storm of counter missiles and point defense lasers, joined by fresh salvos from the enemy fleet, Han had sat in her command chair, giving her orders calmly, holding her people together even as she waited to die with them.