Authors: John Ringo
Honor of the Clan
Table of Contents
HONOR OF THE CLAN-ARC
John Ringo and Julie Cochrane
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by John Ringo & Julie Cochrane
A Baen Book Original (
Advance Copy
)
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN 10: 1-4165-5591-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-5591-9
Cover art by Kurt Miller
First Baen printing, January 2009
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: t/k
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication:
Master Corporal Erin Melvin Doyle
KIA in the Panjwayi District, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, 11/8/2008.
http://www.ppcli.com/files/Last%20Post%20Inserts/Serving%20Patricias/MCpl%20Doyle.pdf
And
SPC Ray Joseph Hutchinson (Hutch)
KIA on patrol with Alpha Co 2/502 101st Airborne in Mosul, Iraq, 12/7/2003.
http://www.rjhfoundation.org/bio.html
They do not grow old as we who are left grow old.
And
As always:
For Captain Tamara Long, USAF
Born: May 12, 1979
Died: March 23, 2003, Afghanistan
You fly with the angels now.
Baen Books by John Ringo
The Legacy of Aldenata Series
A Hymn Before Battle
Gust Front
When the Devil Dances
Hell's Faire
The Hero
Cally's War
Watch on the Rhine
with Tom Kratman
Yellow Eyes
with Tom Kratman
Sister Time
with Julie Cochrane
Honor of the Clan
with Julie Cochrane
Eye of the Storm
(forthcoming)
The Last Centurion
There Will Be Dragons
Emerald Sea
Against the Tide
East of the Sun, West of the Moon
Ghost
Kildar
Choosers of the Slain
Unto the Breach
A Deeper Blue
Princess of Wands
Into the Looking Glass
The Vorpal Blade
with Travis S. Taylor
Manxome Foe
with Travis S. Taylor
Claws that Catch
with Travis S. Taylor
Von Neumann's War
with Travis S. Taylor
The Road to Damascus
with Linda Evans
with David Weber:
March Upcountry
March to the Sea
March to the Stars
We Few
Prologue
Saturday, December 19, 2054
The room was ornate in a way that put rococo to shame. On the walls, many of the sub-details in the gilded reliefs incorporated fractals, so that one could have examined the gilded scenes and abstract curlicues with a microscope and not run out of exquisite detail. The base for the gilding was a white substance similar to ivory, but with an opalescent sheen that no elephant tusk could ever boast.
All in all, the effect would have given a Himmit a heart attack, had one of those worthies tried to rest on that surface, and had it had a heart. The other surfaces were similarly ornate, reducing the Himmit on the carpet to a body surface of merely gothic levels of detail that shifted quiveringly. Every hour or so, the Himmit placed a forelimb against its head, as if it was in pain.
In the center of the room was a large table of stone. In the stone was a sword. From the sword emanated a voice that was heavily modulated to prevent identification.
"This situation disrupts the entire plan. It is grossly unacceptable. Curse the Epetar group for clag food! What were the rest of you thinking? Progress be damned, I'll be hard pressed to salvage something other than outright war over this," he fumed.
"Abject apologies, Master." The Indowy got no further.
"Don't bother. You, yourself, didn't do it, so your apologies are hardly sincere for all that you speak for others. Shut up and let me think."
The Indowy decided that it was more likely than not to be in the interests of his clan to volunteer some information. "Master, I have news that the O'Neal is traveling to Barwhon to approach the Tchpth on a diplomatic mission," it said.
The leader of the Bane Sidhe, whoever it was, was not known for its sense of humor. Indeed, so seldom was its humor triggered that its existence was largely regarded as mythical. The Indowy before it and the Himmit in the corner were, therefore, shocked senseless when a strange sound emanated from the blade of the sword.
"Stop . . . stop . . ." it rasped. "I'm not . . . it's just . . . O'Neal . . . diplo . . . too funny." The rasping crept into its voice. For just a moment it became normal enough to make out what sounded strangely like the melfluous tones of a Darhel.
"The greater problem still exists," the sword hummed with a last chuckle. "Whether this drives the plan backwards or advances it must be considered. I will give you orders in time. You are dismissed."
If the Himmit was affronted, neither of the other species had the experience with its expressions to discern it. The crack at the edge where the ceiling met the wall widened around the body of the Himmit as it exited, sealing back to invisibility behind it.
"O'Neal. A diplomatic mission," the sword hummed once more. "Too funny. Oooo.
I
have an idea. . . ."
Then it vanished.
Chapter One
Covered in sweat and blood
Yet still our heads held high
Actions have consequences
When you live for foolish pride
—Atreyu, "Honor"
Sunday, December 20, 2054
Major General Mike O'Neal rolled his AID, then slapped it onto his wrist forming a band. Slapped it on hard.
"Hey," Shelly said. "Don't take this out on
me
!"
"Sorry," Mike said grumpily.
He was intensely bored. Bored of gaming, bored of reading newsfeeds, bored of reading, period. Bored of watching movies, TV and every other form of video broadcast. Porn just wasn't his style but he'd even watched some of that. And found it very boring indeed.
In part it was his own fault. When he'd been recalled to Earth and boarded his first Fleet vessel he had treated the Fleet officers with even more disdain than usual. Fleet had, year by year, sunk lower and lower in his opinion. The officers were slovenly and corrupt, the sailors were abysmal and the only reason the ships operated at all was that they were Indowy made and damned hard to break. He'd never been the diplomatic type and his dislike of Fleet was displayed by saying he'd be in his cabin. An orderly, or whatever you called it in the Fleet, brought his meals, he made trips to the tiny gym and that was that. For the last five months the only time he'd spoken to a living soul was at starports.
The rest of it wasn't on him. First of all there was the fact of
five months
on board ships. That was just
insane
. These weren't even the bulk transports they'd used in the first part of the war. These were
Fleet
vessels, the fastest in the
universe
. But between having to hunt from star system to star system and tween-jump transits, not to mention jump transits, it just took forever to get to Earth from out on the edge of the Blight.
Then there was the recall. It read damned near as relief. Just a simple order to turn over command of the First Division to his assistant division commander and return to Earth. No clue as to why, no incoming division commander. Nada.
So five months of not speaking to a living soul and worrying, any time he let it get past his iron self-control, about what the orders meant.
Probably
it meant a staff job on Earth. He'd done them. It wasn't his favorite job by a long shot but he could do the deal. But that begged the question why there wasn't an incoming division commander. And if it was just a staff job they'd probably have said that in the orders along with "and General So-And-So will be along at some point to take over the Division."
It
could
be forcible retirement. But Fleet Strike didn't have an "up or out" policy. To avoid the cronyism that was destroying Fleet, positions were purely merit based. To get his division, some younger brigadier would have to show that he was better at running the division than Mike. They rotated potential commanders in from time to time, shuffling the commander off to a staff position or sideways. But most of the time the new commanders, after a reasonable time to learn the job, went back to a lower rank or wherever they hell they'd come from. Mike and Major General Adam Lee Michie had been running divisions of the ACS corps for nigh on thirty years. Some time in and out but mostly in command. Mongo Radabaugh was the junior, having beaten out Bob Tasswell about five years ago to take over one of the division commander's slots.
Mike probably could have taken Corps at some point if he wanted it. George Driver was an excellent corps commander, no question. But Mike figured he had the edge. Thing was, Corps wasn't his style. It was a thankless job since the divisions were spread across a sizeable chunk of the galaxy clearing Posleen worlds. Corps Command was based on Avauglin, a marginally habitable "recovered" world about sixty light-years, and a month transit, from Earth.
The divisions, though, moved as a unit, lived as a unit, dropped as a unit. Mike knew every guy in the division, more or less. Hell, with the way that the ACS hadn't been restocking, First Division wasn't much larger than a brigade.
One
of the things he planned on bringing up whatever the reason that he'd been brought back to Earth. Surely they could get
some
ACS restock. It was getting as bad as back in the Siege . . .
And here he was stuck in the loop. Again!
"Shelly, time to Titan orbit?"
"One hour and twenty-three minutes, General," the AID said liltingly. "You did well, this time. Six minutes and seventeen seconds from the last time you asked. That's up from your mean of three."
"Iron self-control, Shelly," Mike said. "Iron self-control."
"Message from General Wesley's AID," Shelly said. "You're on another shuttle from Titan to Fredericksburg immediately after landing. Quote: Get some sleep on the shuttle; briefings immediately on landing so you can quit asking Shelly what's going on. The answer is good news and bad. Close quote."
"My iron self-control is clearly well known," Mike said.
To human eyes, the Ghin was an average-looking Darhel. To human eyes, Darhel fur looked metallic gold or metallic silver, with black traces threading through it, and the Galactic's eyes a vivid green in a white sclera, laced with purple veining.
There were no humans in the office. The Tchpth who was present saw the Ghin in a rather different light. The eyes, so vivid to humans, were rather dull; but the fur glinted brightly, like the color play across anodized titanium.
"I greet you, Phxtkl. Thank you for granting me the favor of a game," the Ghin said.
"It is always a pleasure to instruct, O merely expert student of aethal."
The Tchpth bounced rapidly upon its ten legs, tapping in a sequence that was either arhythmic or too complicated for the Darhel to decode. No one knew if the Tchpth meant to give offense or not when they used blunt descriptors in speaking to others. Since they were similarly descriptive with their own, more often than not, and still seemed to interact in a functional way, the other Galactics had decided that tact was absent from the Tchpth makeup.