Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline (34 page)

“It isn’t going fine at all. Not from your viewpoint. The fighting is over in the Shadowline. You lost. Because Hawksblood wasn’t in charge. Because some nitwit Dee set it up that way. Now, tell me why the force that hit us Darkside? I thought that was outside the rules.”

Meacham frowned. He was old, but obviously rugged. He was making a fast physical comeback. “What are you talking about?”

“About the convoy that’s besieging Edgeward and the Whitlandsund. Somebody sent six armed crawlers with twenty-one mining units in support. Half of which are no longer with us, by the way.”

Meacham stiffened. “Colonel Storm . . . I assume you’re Storm? Yes? I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I specifically forbade any action Darkside.” The old man’s spirits were rising fast. “Establishing a tradition of Darkside warfare would be insane, Colonel. It would be bad for business.”

“And what’s become of Hawksblood, Meacham? Why is Dee fighting me, leading Sangaree troops?”

The old man glared. “That’s not possible.” Then his spirits collapsed again. He dropped into a chair so suddenly Storm was afraid that he had had a stroke.

“Sangaree?” he whispered. “Sangaree? No. That’s just not possible.”

There was a stir among the prisoners. The offworlders were getting nervous. They knew, whether or not they were Sangaree themselves.

“You don’t have to take my word, Meacham. Call Walter Carrington at The City of Night. We sent him some of the corpses we took in after fighting near Edgeward. He had his people perform the autopsies. The word’s out to all the domes now. Twilight is using Sangaree troops.”

“My nephew,” Meacham said in a barely audible voice. “Talk to him. He was in charge of military affairs. A little too anxious for the old man to die, I thought. Responsibility would settle him down, I thought. That’s why I put him in charge. He was too weak, I suppose. The devils. The bloody devils.”

How pleased Dee must have been, finding such an ideally usable man, Storm reflected. “Divide and conquer. The Dee way, Meacham. Get them by the greed. No doubt there was a plan to wrestle stock away from your directors. But their plans went sour. We attacked when they were overextended. Their bomb crawler got caught in heat erosion. Where is your nephew now?”

No one there would admit to being Charles Meacham. Storm glanced at Korando. Korando shrugged. The elder Meacham surveyed his fellow prisoners, shook his head. Then he rose and slowly walked to the tumble of bodies near the door’Thurston guarded.

“Yes. Here he is. Caught up by his own sins.” He shook his head wearily. “Children. They never quite turn out the way you want.”

Storm sighed. It figured. The one prisoner who knew anything had been killed. Probably by Seth-Infinite’s hand. He did not check to see if the nephew’s wounds were in front or back. It was too late to matter.

What now? “Mr. Meacham, I’m going to draw up surrender terms. They’ll be simple. You’ll abandon your claim to the Shadowline. You’ll agree to cooperate fully in bringing to justice members of the conspiracy to use nuclear weapons. You’ll agree to help ferret out any Sangaree on Blackworld. You’ll aid in the rescue and evacuation of personnel now trapped in the Shadowline. You’ll free Richard Hawksblood and any of his men who might be imprisoned here. I expect Richard will have terms of his own to discuss . . . ”

“Gneaus?”

Storm turned. Someone was at the door guarded by Pollyanna and Lucifer. “Helmut?”

The old warrior came to him slowly, wearily, his helmet open, his face as pale and strained as it had become when he had learned of his brother’s death.

“What is it, Helmut? You look awful.”

“Won’t be any more wars with Richard Hawksblood,” Darksword muttered. He laughed. It was a soft cackle of madness. “We didn’t get to him in time. They had him down in the service levels. Gneaus, it was the work of the Beast. It was like something from the Second Dark Age. Like the camps at Wladimir-Wolynsk.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes. And all his staff. Beyond-the-resurrection. And death was a gift for them.”

Storm stared into eternity, lost among disjointed memories of what Richard had been to him, of what Richard had meant. All their conflicts and hatreds . . . which had had their own formality and inflexible honor . . . “We’ll take care of them,” Storm said. “An honorable funeral. Send them home for burial. I owe Richard that much.”

One of the foundation stones of his universe had vanished. What would he do without his enemy? Who, or what, could replace a Richard Hawksblood?

He shook it off. Richard did not matter anymore. He had his own plans . . . He drew his ancient .45, slowly turned its cylinder.

“Father?” Mouse said softly. “Are you all right?”

“In a minute. I’ll be okay, Mouse.” Storm looked into his son’s eyes. Today and tomorrow . . . What seemed to be a depthless sadness stole into his soul. “I’ll be okay.”

“I evened scores a little,” Helmut said. “Dee’s wife. One shot. Through the brain. May the Lord have mercy on her soul.”

“Gallant, chivalrous Helmut,” Storm mused. “What happened to you?” The Helmut he had always known could not have slain a woman.

“I learned to hate, Gneaus.”

There was no way of resurrecting a brain-destroyed corpse.

“Seth-Infinite’s here in the city,” Storm said. “We saw him.”

“Fearchild, too. He did Richard in. He was there when we arrived. We’re hunting him now. The citizens aren’t giving us any trouble, by the bye.”

“Good. Be kind to them. And watch all the exits from town. Dees always have a bolthole.”

“We’ve accounted for most of their hired guns. We get an estimate of fifty on hand. What I didn’t see anywhere else seem to be here, except for maybe five or ten and the Dees.”

“Helmut, be careful. They’ll be worse than any cornered rats if they think the game is completely up.”

Worse than cornered rats. The Dees were intelligent, terrified, conscienceless rats who went straight for the throats of those who threatened them.

They attacked through the door where Thurston stood guard, coming hard behind a barrage of rockets that slaughtered the prisoners without harming Storm’s people. They came in screened by a handful of Sangaree gunmen.

Thurston killed one attacker by smashing his skull with a rocket launcher. Seth-Infinite shot Thurston point-blank, through the faceplate.

Beams stabbed around the room. People scrambled for cover. A rocket killed Albin Korando. Frog’s orphan had returned home only to die.

Storm’s old .45 spoke. A Sangaree died. Beside Gneaus, Helmut gasped and collapsed. Storm fired again, dropped another Sangaree. He got down and tried to drag Helmut to cover.

He was too late. Beams had punched fatal holes through Darksword’s helmet and chest.

Storm crouched and, unable to do anything, watched Pollyanna try to pull Lucifer out her door. Beams found them both. Hers was a minor wound. She got off a killing shot herself before fainting from pain.

Me and Mouse
, Storm thought.
So it’s finally here. The last battle. It’s almost laughable. It’s so much smaller than I thought it would be. Two of us against . . . How many?

He peeped cautiously around the end of the console that concealed him. Seth-Infinite, casually, was killing the last of Storm’s prisoners. Getting rid of witnesses, Storm supposed. Leaving no one who could repeat the name Dee. Startled, he realized they might nuke the city if they escaped.

“Mouse . . . ” he moaned softly. His favorite son lay on the floor before his door, his suit badly discolored along one side. He looked dead.

“Uhn . . . ” Storm gasped. Mouse’s head was turning slowly, toward Seth-Infinite. Mouse’s suit had withstood the bolt. He was playing possum.

“I should’ve left him behind,” Storm muttered. He smiled grimly.

Where was Fearchild? Storm assumed the men who had come in with the Dees were dead, killed by their employers if not during the attack. None were in evidence, and no Sangaree would have stood by while Seth-Infinite slaughtered his captured comrades.

An explosion slammed the console against him, tumbled him backward.

He had seen the grenade arcing through the air, could judge whence it had come. He seized Helmut’s fallen weapon, rolled, bounced up, fired with both hands. He narrowly missed ending Fearchild’s tale. Dee scrambled for better cover.

Storm’s .45 roared at Seth-Infinite. He plunged back behind the console. The cabinet crackled as a lasebolt spent its energy inside.

Storm moved to his left, to get near a wall that would make flanking him difficult, and to make them turn their backs on Mouse. He fired as he went, to hold their attention.

The .45 stopped thundering, cylinder spent.

Storm reached the last cover available. He paused to catch, his breath.

Now what? They would be crafty-aggressive. They would be sure they had him. He would have to do more than stall . . . Was this the time for it?

He had decided there was a thing that had to be done before Michael’s game could be beaten. The act would ruin all Michael’s calculations, and blacken his heart with terror.

Now was the time to do it.

He was afraid.

Faceplate open, laughing at Michael’s spawn, he rose and hosed lasegun fire over the area where they were hidden.

A bolt pierced his lung two centimeters from his heart. It did not hurt as much as he had anticipated. His weapon tumbled from his hand.

Fearchild and Seth-Infinite rose slowly, their faces alive with malicious pleasure.

Storm smiled at them. He croaked, “You lose, you fools!”

Mouse shot with preternatural accuracy, a single bolt stabbing through the back of each Dee skull. They did not have time to look surprised.

Storm smiled as they fell. And smiled. And smiled.

“Father?” Mouse had come to his side. The boy’s hands were on his arm, urging him to sit.

“A time for reaping and a time for sowing,” Storm whispered. “My season had fled, Mouse. The season of the Legion is gone. But the rivers still run to the seas . . . ”

He coughed. Funny. It still did not hurt. “It’s time for the young.” He forced a broader smile.

“I’ll take you to the ship, Father. I’ll get you into a cradle.” Mouse’s cheeks were wet.

“No. Don’t. This is something I have to do, Son. In my quarters in Edgeward. A letter. You’ll understand. Go on now. Take command. You’re the last Storm. I give you Cassius and the Legion. Complete the cycle. Close the circle.”

“But . . . ”

“Don’t argue with orders, Mouse. You know better. Go help Pollyanna.” Storm leaned against the console, turned his back on his son. “Don’t rob me of this victory. Go on.” Then, to himself, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What does a man profit? . . . ”

Death descended on quiet, silken wings and enfolded him in gentle, peaceful arms.

Fifty-One: 3023-3032 AD

One of the Osirian commtechs called out, “Lord Rhafu, I’ve got a red light on something from Todesangst.”

The old man limped across the huge communcfations center whence the Norbon empire was directed. “Get me a printout.”

A machine whirled and rattled. Paper spewed forth. Rhafu caught the end and read as it appeared. “Uhm!” he grunted. He balled the whole thing up and carried it into a seldom-used office where he studied and researched it for several hours. He came to a decision. He picked up a phone. “Number One.” A moment later, “Deeth, I’ve got a critical here from Todesangst. I’m bringing it up.”

Deeth looked up from the printout. Rhafu was old. Probably older than any Sangaree alive, and near the time when rejuvenation would no longer take. The shakiness of massive nerve degeneration had set in.

Deeth frowned. He would not have Rhafu much longer. How would he manage without the man?

He scanned the report again. “I must be missing the point. I’don’t see anything remarkable here.”

“It came red-tagged. I wondered what Michael is up to, that’s all.”

“Send someone to check.”

“I already have. Deeth, if I may?”

Deeth smiled a soft smile. That was Rhafu’s bad news tone. “Yes?”

“It looks to me like he’s trying to bail out on us.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The figures. What they add up to. A hell of a lot of wealth if this thing can be tamed. That and the risks he took.”

“I don’t see . . . ”

“Sir, your son is Sangaree by your will only. If the truth were known, I expect, he wishes you weren’t his father. He grew up a Storm. Inside he still wants to be a Storm. Or, second-best, some anonymous human. We’re a closet skeleton he’d rather forget. He could disappear if he wanted, but he’s hooked on money and power. If he could be somebody else and still have those . . . ”

“He’s got all the money and power anybody could want, Rhafu.”

“Sangaree money. Sangaree power. Tainted. And shared. We can control him. We can destroy him by exposing him. With the wealth of this Blackworld thing he could assume any one of several identities we don’t yet know and leave us standing around with our fingers in our noses wondering what happened. Except that he was stupid enough to use his own computation capacity to run this feasibility study.”

Deeth leaned back, closed his eyes, tried to banish the pain. Rhafu was probably right . . . 

“Deeth, there are indications he tried this once before. Nothing concrete, but he apparently went after a Starfisher harvestfleet years ago. He’s never told us about it.”

“And he might have achieved the ends you’re arguing?”

“Yes. I hear it was an eight-ship harvestfleet. That’s a lot of wealth, and a damned good place to hide.”

How could Michael prefer anything else to being heir of the leading Sangaree house? That was not logical. What more could a man want? He put the question to Rhafu.

“Respectability. Acceptability in Luna Command. Rehabilitation from the sin of youth that got him rusticated in the first place. You can smell on him how badly he wants to get into the humans’ elite club. He’ll do anything, including selling us down the proverbial river if the payoff is big enough.”