Dark Foundations (74 page)

Inside the room five men, all dressed in the new armor, but with their helmets off, stood around new tables. On one wall hung a full-length screen with a hazy aerial image of Langerstrand. All the desks bore smaller screens. Wires and fiber-optic cables were taped or patched to the floor and walls. Merral felt the whole setup showed signs of being put together in extreme haste.

There were welcomes, introductions, and offers of coffee. Two of the men, Captain Tremutar and Colonel Leopold Lanier, Merral already knew; the other three were aides.

Colonel Lanier was in his late fifties. His silver hair, tanned, leathery face, and thin, rather stylish mustache made him look more like an elegant uncle than a soldier.

He gestured at the screens. “Well now, where shall I begin?” he said in a gentle and leisured voice. “We get all the sensor images here. We have a satellite overhead, some remote cameras mounted on the ridge tops, and we get some images from our soldiers on the peninsula. Everything possible's linked with fiber-optical cabling so it can't be intercepted or interfered with. And Mr. V. feeds us information from his irregs and the intelligence team. So I guess we know what's happening.” He stroked his mustache thoughtfully and turned dark brown eyes at Merral. “And, so far . . . well . . . nothing
is
happening.”

Merral found the colonel's unflustered manner reassuring. “Tell me about our troop deployment.”

The wallscreen changed to show a detailed map of the gorge overlain with various color squares and dots forming a horseshoe shape facing west.

“Well, we've put defenses at several levels along both sides of the gorge. The sniper team—that's under Captain Karita Hatiran—takes the top levels. Then we have a level with mortars, and then finally, the lowest level of soldiers with guns and these new swords.”

The colonel's face wrinkled in thought and Merral saw him glance at Vero.
He's not sure about the swords.
I sympathize
.

“But, Commander, it's not easy. No, it truly ain't.” Colonel Lanier gave his mustache another stroke. “We're outnumbered and we don't know how these things fight. I saw them briefly at Fallambet and I didn't care for them there. Not one bit. And there's a lot more here. A lot more.”

Over the next ten minutes, as they looked at the defensive plans, Merral became increasingly uncomfortable. It was not just that the odds were bad, but that there were too many unknowns. Despite the polite words the men made about the new armor and the blades, they were clearly unsure of their value.

Colonel Lanier seemed to sum up the mood with his slow words. “Commander, we know we are effectively the last line of defense. We'll do our best and you can be sure the Assembly will be proud of us. But, frankly . . .” He looked thoughtful and fingered his mustache. “Well, I guess it doesn't look good.”

“Colonel, I find it hard to disagree with you. But we are going to fight and fight hard. And let's hang on to faith and hope.”

Vero led Merral and Lloyd across the road into a long house with closed shutters.

An armed guard sitting on a chair inside the door motioned them in.

Vero gestured to a door from behind which could be heard the sound of urgent discussions. “That's the irregular control room. Similar, but more informal, and we have better coffee. But there's no the time for that. Follow me.”

At the far end of a corridor, Vero pointed to another door. “Anya's in here,” he whispered. “I'll leave you for a few minutes.” And with that, Lloyd and he walked away.

Inside Merral found Anya, wearing trousers and a faded T-shirt, sitting staring at a large screen on which was an image of the Langerstrand compound. She seemed tired and older and her eyes looked puffy. She turned, saw Merral, and rose to her feet.

They hugged but her embrace was cold and rigid.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied, looking past him as if he didn't exist.

“I don't know what to say,” he said. “It's . . . an appalling loss. But it was heroic.”

“I don't care about the heroic. My sister is dead. And it hurts!”

Anya sat down, glared at the screen, and switched it off in a single sharp, angry move. “It's all falling apart, Merral,” she said without looking at him, and he saw that her eyes were damp again. “I get hurt by you; I lose my sister; my world becomes a war zone. I never knew that life
could
hurt so much.”

Merral sat down on the edge of a table. “We have all had losses,” he said, and realized that it sounded pathetic.

“But why me?” Anya asked. “Why, after generations of people living happy, untroubled, and worthwhile lives, does it all have to happen to
me
?”

“You know I can't answer that, Anya.” Merral leaned forward and stared at the floor. “Life's like playing in a concert: you get given your music, and you have to play it as best you can. I wish, as well as you, that the Almighty had given me an easier part to play, but I can't change it. I have to do what I can. Can I tell you what your sister said?”

“Go on,” she said but the expression on her face seem to say, “If you must.”

“She wrote something I now know by heart. ‘It has come to me recently that our lives are like stories. As much as we can, we must drive them to the right endings.' That's what I mean.”

“How typical of my sister! How wonderfully, poetically, noble. Well, I want a rewrite of
my
story.” Anya's tone was defiant and bitter.

I am unprepared for this
.
I expected grief, but not this withering resentment.

“Who are you angry with?” Merral asked, as softly as he could.

There was a taut silence.

“With me, with God, or with Perena?”

When Anya shrugged her shoulders, he suddenly wanted to hug her.

There was silence.

Then she turned to him. “Do you really care about her? Or was that all it was, a heroic gesture?”

Her words stung him. “I do care.”

“You are a commander. Do commanders have hearts? Or do you let them harden inside those uniforms? You give orders and men and women die and if they do it well, you say, ‘How heroic.'”

“That's hardly fair! I was quite unaware of Perena's action. And while it was heroic, it is a loss, a personal one. I feel it.”

Anya scowled, then turned the screen back on. “Commander, I have a job to do. That job is to understand the Krallen and give advice on how to deal with them. I'm the expert on them. I have worked with them since the beginning of the FDU. Be assured that I will do my job.”

Merral stared at her, then, in near despair, left the room in search of Vero. He found his friend talking with someone at the end of the corridor, but when Vero saw Merral he slipped away and came over. “Bad, eh?” he asked with sympathy in his voice.

“Yes. She's very bitter. Very angry. I think she needs help. Vero, do we need her here? I think she'd be better off elsewhere.”

Vero bit his lip. “We need her here. She
is
good on the Krallen. She has to fight her way out of her mental state.”

“Very well.”

“Look, time's running out. Come and see Betafor.”

Merral followed Vero to a basement, past another guard into a small, windowless room.

Betafor sat crouched on the floor in a corner, a string of wires running inside her jacket, a set of headphones on her head. On either side of her tunic, a Lamb and Stars emblem gleamed.

As he entered, she turned her large, dark gray eyes to him. “Commander, how nice to see you. May I express my . . . condolences? Although I am programmed to express sympathy, I can say that, with Captain Lewitz, my feelings ran deeper. She was a remarkable person with an . . . affinity for the Allenix.”

“It was a real loss to us all. It has been a long time since we met.”
And when we did you had just attempted to murder Azeras. But we need all the help we can get.
“How are you?”

“That is not a question that has much relevance. Allenix units do not undergo the inevitable and unfortunate metabolic fluctuations and degradations that biological organisms do.”

“No, of course.” In another corner stood a large white rectangular case, like an oversized piece of luggage, with a handle and wheels.
Yes, with her legs folded under her, she could fit in that
.

“My travel case,” Betafor said in her cold, lifeless voice as she caught his gaze.

“So I gather. Do you mind traveling inside a box?”

“I can adapt. Allenix units do not suffer from . . . claustrophobia.”

“No, I suppose not. And the prospect of battle here doesn't perturb you?”

Here Merral felt there was a definite hesitation and he saw that her irises had contracted.

“I would prefer to be elsewhere. But I am bound to you. I think you will find that I am of use.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting your monitoring of the enemy.”

Betafor gave her strange pseudosmile. “You forget Commander, that I can multitask. Your failure to handle more than one sensory input at any one time is a major limitation to your species. As I speak to you, I am listening to the Dominion on three wavebands. It is just the spillover of their communications.”

“And what do you hear?”

“Yesterday, they were in total confusion. Today, things are different. I think they are preparing to move. There are . . . firm orders being given. I will let you know when I hear anything more definite.”

“Betafor, can we win?”

Betafor hesitated. “That is a hard question, Commander. It all comes down to . . . attrition.”

“Attrition?”

“Yes. With the irregulars, you have a total of two and a half thousand men here. They have ten times that number. So you have to kill ten Krallen for every one soldier you lose. Those are . . . challenging odds.”

Merral tried—and failed—to read any expression in her eyes. “You make it sound very simple.”

“It is. We are less swayed by emotion than you. Allenix units see facts. We do not have what you call ‘wishful thinking.'”

“It's hard to differentiate between wishful thinking and hope.”

“True. That is why we have neither.”

Five minutes later, as Vero watched, Merral fitted himself with armor. Merral lifted the green jacket out of a holdall that bore his name and held it up, marveling at its lightness. The chest piece, barely a few millimeters thick, was rigid. He tapped it and heard it ring. The sleeves, in contrast, were a softer, more flexible version of the same material. Gloves in the same material as the sleeves, but with roughened palms, protected the hands and wrists. Merral pulled the jacket on and then twisted within it until it was comfortable. Finally, he closed the flexible collar so that his neck was protected.

“Impressive,” he said. “Very different to the primitive protection we had at Fallambet. You barely feel you are wearing anything.”

“Most of the soldiers have to make adjustments to the jackets,” Vero said. “But they fit well enough.”

Merral decided against wearing the gloves immediately and tucked them into his belt. He looked at the helmet, struck by the way the brow tapered into a noseguard and how the sides projected out to protect the cheekbones. He lowered the helmet onto his head, letting the fine mesh flaps hang over his ears, and adjusted the strap. “Does it work?”

“Yes. Against the standard slashing action. But there's a weakness with the helmet that's unavoidable. The Krallen can put their claws together to form a point—like a chisel.” Vero clustered the fingers of his right hand tightly. “Like this. They extend their nails and then punch.” He jabbed his hand forward. “If they get the eye sockets . . .” He shrugged. “You're dead.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Merral said, trying not to think of what had been described.