Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (44 page)

“Perhaps, human,” the Gastan said. “And we have yet to deal with you. In fact, it is not my daughter towards whom the Fire Priests bend their malice, but one 'Baron Chang.' Would that be you, human?”

“It would,” Roger replied. “And you won't be handing me over like a lamb to the slaughter, either.”

“Baron,” the Gastan mused. “That is a noble of your human lands, yes?”

“Yes,” Roger agreed.

“You are responsible for the good of others, 'Baron'? You hold their lives in your hand and feel the weight of that?”

“Yes,” Roger replied soberly.

“I have lost over four hundred Shin warriors since this war started, 'Baron.' Including Thertik, my son and heir.” Roger heard Pedi inhale sharply, but the Gastan's attention never wavered from the human. “That is the price my people and I have already paid. And you think that I would quail at the thought of turning you over to the Krath if it ends this slaughter?”

“I don't know,” Roger said. “I would ask you this one thing, though. If they came up to you and pointed to one of your warriors and said 'Give him to me. We will sacrifice him to the God and devour him, and that will end this war,' would you?”

The Gastan regarded him levelly for a long moment, then made a gesture of ambiguity.

“Would you?” he responded.

“No,” Roger said. “That was the choice put to us, and I rejected it. Pointedly.”

“Hmmm. But just who are you responsible for, 'Baron'? This group? These ragged mercenaries? Humans seem to have such in plenitude. Why not give one, if it saves others?”

“Because humans, and Mardukans, aren't pawns,” Roger said, then sighed. “I can stand here debating this all day if you like, I suppose, but it's really not my forte. So are you going to try to kill us, or not?”

“So quick to the battle,” the Gastan said with a gesture of humor. “Do you think you would win?”

“That depends on your definition of 'win,' ” Roger said. “We'll make it out of this citadel alive, some of us, and we'll collect our group and leave. You'll get overrun by the Krath while you're trying—and failing—to kill us, and while that happens, we'll keep right on heading for the spaceport. It's nothing that we haven't done before. It will, however, tick off my asi's benan. I have to consider that.”

“Hmmm,” the Gastan said again. “You're just going to walk to the spaceport, 'Baron'?”

“Of course,” Roger said. “We're humans, after all. They'll accept us.”

“I see that you've fallen into evil company,” Pedi's father said. One of Roger's eyebrows arched at the apparent non sequitur, and the Gastan gestured at the IAS journalist who had been quietly recording the entire meeting. “We have warning from the Office of the Governor that this man is a wanted criminal, a dangerous traitor and thief who should be returned to the port for trial,” he said.

“I'm what?” Mansul lowered the Zuiko and glared at the Gastan.

“I have other such messages, as well,” the Shin continued as if the journalist had never spoken. “One of them mentions a group of humans, ragged mercenaries who may attempt to pass themselves off as Imperial Marines. They are to be considered very dangerous and should be killed on sight and without warning. There is a reward—a very attractive one, in fact—for their heads. What do you think of that, 'Baron'?”

“Gastan, you know that's a lie about me, at least!” Mansul protested. “So you must realize the rest of it is lies, as well!”

“Must I?” the Gastan asked easily. “Softly, Harvard Mansul. I want to hear the answer of this human noble. This 'Baron Chang.' ”

Roger regarded the Gastan for a long slow moment, then nodded.

“My name,” he said, clearly and distinctly, “is Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock. And I am going to wipe the floor with the governor. And with anyone else who gets in my way.”

“Roger,” Pahner growled, and his hand dropped to the butt of his bead pistol.

“Softly, protector,” the Gastan said, raising his own hands in placation of both the Marine commander and of his own chieftains, who had shifted at the human's movement. “Softly, Armand Pahner. Softly, humans, Shin. Friends. Friends I think, oh yes.”

He hefted the head of the High Priest. The climate of Marduk had not been kind to it, and he regarded the loathsome object coldly for a moment, then looked over his shoulder at one of his guardsmen.

“Bring me my sigil.”

He waited until the trophy staff was brought forward, then strode to the outer door. The humans followed at his gesture, and as they stepped onto the walls, the bull-throated roar of the Shin and the howling of the Krath forces arrayed against them pressed against their faces like the overpressure waves of distant explosions.

A large horn, longer than Roger was tall, had been laid upon the walls, obviously in preparation for this moment, and the Gastan first blew into a side valve. A mournful hum cut through the sound of the battle noise, and faces turned towards him from below. He gave them a few moments, then opened a speaking tube built into it.

“Krath!” he bellowed, and the megaphone effect sent his voice echoing across the valley like thunder. “Here is the head of your High Priest! We have the humans who took it within our walls! And here is the answer of the Vale of Mudh Hemh to your demands!”

He raised the head high in both true-hands and spat upon it, his motions broad enough to the observable across the entire battlefield. Then he attached it to the highest point of the staff, raising it for all to see, and set the iron shod foot of the staff into a socket atop the battlements.

He left it there and strode back into the conference room without so much as another backward glance, his shoulders set, while the ear-splitting shouts of the Shin on the walls bayed jubilant defiance at the Krath. Roger and his companions followed, and the Gastan turned to them grimly.

“And so my daughter's allies are mine, as well, it seems,” he said. “But, Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock and Captain Armand Pahner of the Bronze Battalion, if you think you are scurrying off to Marduk Port without helping us out of this mess my daughter has gotten us into, you are sorely mistaken.”

* * *

“There is a human group, the Imperial Bureau of Investigation,” the Gastan said as he passed over a flagon of wine. “You know it, yes?”

“Yes,” Roger agreed, pouring a glass of the wine. The meeting had been narrowed down to the main staff and a few of the tribal leaders. The IAS photographer had managed to shoehorn himself into the group and was discreetly recording in the background, and Roger was—inevitably—accompanied by Dogzard. But for once, the size of Roger's entourage wasn't completely out of hand.

As their commanders settled down to talk things over, both groups of subordinates were weighing each other and wondering who was bringing the most to the table.

There were certainly more of the Shin. At the first sign of the Krath attack, the Gastan had gathered the tribes, and every segment of the Shin Mountains was represented. There were at least three distinctly separate groups, distinguishable by their armor and weapons, as well as their features.

The most numerous group seemed to be the one associated closely with Pedi's father. They were of about normal height for Mardukans, armed with a motley of weapons—mostly swords and battle axes—and wearing armor that ranged from light boiled leather to heavy plate. Their horns, like Cord's, were high and rounded, with prominent ridges along the sides. Many of them had elaborate decorations on their horns, and helmets designed to display them to best advantage.

The second group appeared to be displaced Krath officers. They were equipped almost exactly like Flail commanders, armored in heavy plate with mail undershirts, and armed with long swords and square shields. They also had the haughty bearing that Roger had come to expect from the Krath.

As it turned out, they were clan leaders from “lowland” vales, where the influence—and money—of the Krath was strongest. They were heavily raided, so they tended to be unflinching in battle, but they were also ready to negotiate if battle could be avoided.

The last group seemed to be the poorest, and was armed with spears and not much else. Physically, they were shorter than the average Mardukan, and their horns were strange—very dark in color, and curving sharply back along the skull. Their senior clan leader wore light chain armor over boiled leather and bore a huge and obviously ancient battle ax. From a combination of Pedi's previous briefings and overheard comments, Roger knew that these were clans from the very back of the high country; Shin that were seen only once in a generation—so seldom that many of the Shin considered them to be little more than a legend.

“There is an agent of the IBI in the port,” the Gastan continued. “He is presently out of communication with his superiors, but he has been acting against the governor, waiting for one of his contacts to turn up. It was he who contacted me and began sneaking humans he believed to be at risk out of the port. He was asking for some rather extraordinary help in your regard, so I forced him to tell me why. He told me much—not all, I'm sure, but much—and gave me this.” The Gastan handed over a data chip. “Your 'Empire' is in sore straits, Prince. I fear I have very bad news.”

“What?” Roger asked. He shrugged and took a sip of wine. “As bad as it's been on this planet, how much worse can it be at home?”

“The port is closed to you. The governor has sold his soul to your enemies, the 'Saints.' They aren't always in the system, but they often are, and no Imperial spaceship has come to here in nearly a year. As far as anyone can tell, everyone here has been forgotten by the Empire. Without a ship, even after taking the port, there is no way off the planet, and if the Saints detect that their bought governor has been overthrown, your lives will be worth nothing.”

“We've gotten that far in our own assessments,” Roger told him. “On the other hand, your analysis of just exactly how piss-poor our chances are brings a question rather forcefully to mind. If our odds are so bad, and if the Saints are going to rain down so much grief when they swat us, why should you risk helping us?”

“The governor has allied himself with the Krath. He has not yet used your human weapons against us, but if the Krath do not overwhelm us with this attack, it will be only a matter of time until he does. He has already done so in support of the Son of the Fire closer to your port. Sooner or later he will do so here, as well, and when he does, we will be unable to resist. The IBI agent promised me that if we aided him, he would ensure that we were supported when the planet was retaken. It is a slim hope to cling to, but better than none.”

“Well, in that case, let me fatten it up for you,” Roger said. “We don't begin to have time for me to explain to you exactly how many of our laws the governor and his cronies have broken here on Marduk. Let's just say that the conditions he's created, alone, would force the Empire to step in to repair the damage. But in addition to that, I personally guarantee that the gratitude of House MacClintock will follow, as well. If it's the last thing I do, the Krath and their depredations will be stopped.”

“But for that to happen, one must assume that Her Majesty can be bothered to find Marduk on a map,” the Gastan sighed. Roger stiffened slightly, and the Mardukan made a quick gesture of negation. “I question neither your laws, your word, nor your honor, Prince Roger, but at times even the most honorable of leaders must look first to problems closer to home, and there is worse news than I have already given you.”

Roger sat very upright on his cushion, gazing at the Mardukan war leader narrowly, and the Gastan raised both false-hands in a complex gesture of sympathy.

“There was an attempt to overthrow your mother, the Empress,” he said levelly. “Units of your Marine Raiders attacked the palace. They were repulsed, but not without heavy loss of life and much damage to the palace.”

“Mother?” Roger was stone-faced, all expression locked down in almost instant reaction, but the cold of interstellar space swirled suddenly through his heart and belly, and for all his formidable self-control he knew his voice was flat with shock . . . and fear. He felt the sudden, frigid silence of the other humans behind him, but he never looked away from the Gastan. “My mother is alive?” he asked in that same, flat, level voice.

“She is,” the Gastan said, “although she was injured in the fighting. But there is worse, Prince. Much worse. I grieve to tell you that your brother and sister are dead. So also are your brother's children. He and they were killed in the attack upon the palace; your sister's ship was destroyed in an ambush in space.”

“Bloody hell,” Julian whispered into the stunned stillness. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I think not,” the Gastan said. “Not, if you mean what I believe you do, at any rate. Because the word of the Empress is that the plotter who was central to the attempt is none other than her youngest son, Prince Roger MacClintock. And for his crimes, he and all with him have been outlawed for treason.”

* * *

“The general outline is the same as the one the Gastan gave us,” Julian said as he transferred the data from his pad to the others' systems. The Marine meeting had really been narrowed down for this one; everyone but the core command staff had been excluded. Decisions had to be made based on the information on the chip, and the nature of those decisions would determine the actions of what remained of Bravo Company for the foreseeable future.

“If anything,” the intelligence sergeant continued, "the details are worse.

“The coup appears to have been an attempt by the Fleet to take control. That's the official analysis, anyway, but the reasoning is really nebulous, and no one has actively taken responsibility for any of the actions. All of the Raiders were killed, either in the assault, or in a response drop by Line Marines. As nearly as I can tell, virtually the entire Empress' Own was wiped out holding the attackers until the line beasts could take them from behind.” He looked up from his pad, grim eyes meeting those of the other Marines. “It looks like we're effectively all that's left of the Regiment, Skipper,” he told Pahner.