The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle (49 page)

Emergency vehicles had taken over the parking lot, so Wilson parked on an unused piece of lawn and got out. Oscar was standing watching the work parties in a group of several office staff and a squad of uniformed CST security guards.

“Morning, Captain,” he said, and saluted. Everyone around him abruptly straightened up.

“Morning,” Wilson replied. He didn’t bother with returning the salute, outside genuine military circles there was little point. “Where do we stand?” Before he’d left last night, he’d discussed the immediate problems with Oscar and left his deputy to it.

“The starship is okay, all critical onboard equipment is stable and holding. There were enough backup and redundant systems lying around down here to reestablish most of the umbilical feeds overnight. We’re going to keep her like that until we can secure her inside an assembly platform again. The malmetal manufacturer hopes to deliver a viable globe to us in another four days. Once that’s in place, we can perform a more detailed examination.”

“Good.” Wilson nodded at the sagging ruin of the closest assessment hall. “And the complex?”

“That’s going to take a bit longer. Security wants to verify the place safe first, make sure the terrorists didn’t leave any nasty little booby traps behind. Once that’s done we can clear the site and start the rebuild. With the
Second Chance
so far along her schedule, we won’t need the full suite of facilities down here again, so a lot of the work will just be patch-up operations. CST’s civil engineering division is preparing a bunch of appropriate equipment as we speak; as soon as we give them the go-ahead, they’ll move straight in.”

“Sounds like you’ve done a good job, Oscar, thank you.”

“Least I could do. Wish I’d been here yesterday.”

“Believe me, you don’t. I suppose security is eager to implement a whole new set of procedures?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re going to have to make some decisions about that and review our new assembly program today. I put off the biggies until you got in.”

“Right. I’ll get on it. Do I have an office?”

“I took over chemical systems building three for senior staff. Oh, and there’s some security people who want to see you now.”

“They can wait.”

Oscar gave him an uncomfortable look. “It might be a good idea to get it done and over with. Mr. Sheldon suggested it.”

“Did he now?”

The last Alamo Avenger had been shot by an FTY897 as it was charging through assessment hall seven on its way to the gateway. An atom laser had pierced clean through its force field to strike the main body with devastating consequences. It had been severed in two as its primary power cells exploded. The blast flung the sections apart, smashing the forward part into racks of delicate fuselage panel stress test equipment, while the smaller rear portion had buried itself into the composite wall, which had promptly collapsed on it, leaving the overhead ceiling dangerously unsupported. One of the legs had been ripped off, embedding itself in the concrete floor.

A CST security tech force had spent the night debugging and powering down the wreckage. Small red tags fluttered from every element, confirming it was now inert and harmless. There were so many of them they made it seem like some abnormal Chinese parade monster. Paula walked slowly around the upturned front section, bending down to inspect one of the shattered sensor clumps on the head. The Director of the Serious Crimes Directorate, Rafael Columbia, was standing in the middle of the damaged assessment hall alongside Mel Rees, the pair of them watching her as she performed her little inspection of the dead armored monstrosity. Both looked unhappy. Water left behind by the fire sprinkler deluge dripped off the overhead beams; their expensive shoes were already soaked from walking through all the puddles.

Paula ran a finger over the battered polyalloy armor, feeling the thin carbon ablation blisters crumple like ancient paper below her nail. “Not bad for a hundred-and-fifty-year-old weapon,” she acknowledged. “They were lucky Captain Kime was in orbit to take charge.”

“Absolutely,” Mel Rees said.

“I would have preferred CST to be luckier somewhat earlier,” Rafael Columbia told the Deputy Director. “The current estimate is one hundred and seven people killed, and another eighteen so far unaccounted for. They’re still calculating the financial loss, but it won’t be less than two billion. And we had
no
prior warning. None. This is the single most destructive act of criminal terrorism we have known in the last century. The death toll in nationalist succession movements adds up over time, but this …” His arm swept around, a gesture taking in the smashed hall. “This is our failure. It is a challenge to the Directorate’s very credibility to perform its designated task. I will not tolerate this appalling violation of law and order.”

“We’ll get them,” Mel Rees said. “No question of that.”

“Your division has had decades on this case. I expected better.”

Paula turned from the Alamo Avenger. “I have spent decades on the Johansson case, not Deputy Director Rees. And I really hope you’re not implying we should have provided you with some kind of advance warning.”

“Paula—” Mel Rees began.

She shot him a look that silenced him immediately. “The reason Bradley Johansson and his associates have had the run of the Commonwealth for so long is twofold. The resources which are allocated to tracking him and his activities are wholly inadequate. That is a political decision, made by you and your predecessors, Mr. Columbia. He also receives help from someone extremely well placed in the Commonwealth establishment.”

“Rubbish,” Rafael Columbia snapped.

“Even with inadequate funds, there is absolutely no way he should have eluded me for over a hundred and thirty years. It simply isn’t possible. If he kept a low profile and lived a thoroughly simple life I should have caught him. But as the leader of a criminal organization constantly involved in smuggling weapons to Far Away he leaves himself continually exposed to our sources and monitor programs. To avoid them requires a considerable degree of assistance. He is not acting alone.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying? Do you know how many administrations there have been since he founded his ridiculous Guardians movement? There isn’t one which would give him any kind of support, covert or otherwise, let alone all of them.”

“Administrations change, power groupings do not.”

“I am not going to stand here and be told I’m part of some corrupt cover-up operation. I don’t care who you are, how dedicated you are, or what your case conviction record is. I am the chief of this Directorate, and you will show me some respect.”

“Respect is something which is earned, Mr. Columbia.”

“Okay!” Mel Rees put his hands up and walked forward to stand directly between them. “One thing Johansson would be doing right now is laughing his ass off at the pair of you. The only person you’re helping right now is him.”

“Thank you for that,” Columbia said. He gave Paula a glare that would normally ruin any of his staff. She didn’t even seem aware of it.

“First question,” Paula said. “Why do you think it’s him?”

Columbia gave an irritated wave to the Deputy Director.

“Method of operation,” Rees told Paula. “This has Adam Elvin’s signature all over it. We think he put the operation together.”

“That would be unusual,” Paula said. “Elvin himself hasn’t been directly involved in violent acts since Abadan. He just puts shipments together for Johansson.”

Rafael Columbia produced a small scornful laugh. “This is not an age where the measure of time depreciates anything. I thought you of all people should appreciate that, Chief Investigator.”

“All the recent Guardians propaganda has been denouncing the
Second Chance
as a project organized by the Starflyer,” Rees said. “They’re the only ones who have any kind of reason to do this.”

“A reason?” Paula said thoughtfully. “To launch an action like this inside the Commonwealth is a huge change of policy for Johansson.”

“Who knows how his deranged mind works,” Rafael Columbia said.

“He’s not deranged,” Paula said. “Deluded, certainly, but don’t make the mistake of believing he isn’t capable of rational thought.”

Rafael Columbia pointed at the crumpled blackened body of the Alamo Avenger. “You call this rational?”

“We’re only a couple of hundred meters from the gateway, and the other two got through. Then there was the kinetic assault on the assembly platform. They almost succeeded. I’d call that pretty smart. Whatever you think of him, and I think worse than most, he is not stupid. If he is behind this, then something new is happening. Is it possible the
Marie Celeste
came from the Dyson Pair?”

“Unlikely in the extreme,” came Wilson Kime’s voice. He nodded respectfully at Rafael Columbia as he walked across the wet floor of the assessment hall. “Paula Myo, a privilege. I’ve accessed a lot of your cases.”

“Captain.”

“We’ve discussed the possibility of a link between Dyson Alpha and the
Marie Celeste
with the Director of Far Away’s Research Institute,” Wilson said. “He says it doesn’t exist. I’m inclined to believe him.”

“An official denial is the certificate of endorsement for conspiracy theorists,” Paula said. “Especially one issued by the director of the Institute. We know Johansson believes there is a link.”

“That’s his problem.”

Paula gave him a grave smile. “He just made it yours, too.”

“I want him stopped,” Rafael Columbia said. “Deputy Director Rees has assured me you are the best, indeed only, person to take charge of this case. Do you agree with that assessment?”

“I certainly have the experience,” Paula said. “What I need to finally track him down is the Directorate’s full cooperation and resources behind me.”

“As of now, you’ve got them. Whatever it takes. You can build your own team, take whoever you want no matter what they’re working on. This has total priority.”

“Very well, I’ll start with my usual colleagues, and expand from there as our lines of inquiry open up. The first thing I’ll need from you, Mr. Columbia, is political coverage. CST security will want to make this their mission. Please talk to Mr. Sheldon and have them stand back.”

“I will point out the jurisdiction implications to CST,” Rafael Columbia said. He ignored the quiet laughter coming from Wilson’s direction.

“Thank you. Now how exactly do you smuggle three working Alamo Avengers to a planet?”

“They weren’t smuggled in,” Rees said. “According to the export files, they were neutralized relics on their way to a new museum here on Anshun. It was a lawful shipment.”

“A new museum?”

“You got it. The land exists, it was bought three months ago, and there’s a registered company to control it. But there’s no building yet, or even plans. The company has a few thousand Anshun dollars in its account, but that was transferred from a one-use account on Bidar. Untraceable, or at least very difficult.”

“Ah,” she said in satisfaction. “Yes, that does sound like Elvin’s signature.”

“Completely. The Alamo Avengers were bought legitimately from a dealer a week after the museum company was registered. Back then, they really were just wrecks. They’ve spent the intervening time being ‘refurbished’ to display standard on the Democratic Republic of New Germany. The company which did the work has been sealed up, and the DRNG police are going over their facilities and records for us.”

“What about the spaceplanes?” Wilson asked.

“Leased from a fully legitimate commercial operator here on Anshun. Again the company hiring them was a shell. Using them as kinetic missiles was a simple case of reprogramming their pilot arrays. It’s not difficult. We’re sending in some teams to the port they took off from. I’m not expecting much.”

“Are these Guardians likely to try again?” Wilson asked.

“Johansson has been launching attacks against the Institute on Far Away for a century and a half,” Paula said. “It would be reasonable to assume this was only the first attempt against the
Second Chance
.”

TWELVE

Over the High Desert the deep sapphire sky began to darken. Kazimir McFoster stood alone on one of the long wave-shaped dunes of gray sand and watched the stars emerge. It was a ritual for him now, staring up at those platinum sparks, waiting for the mighty constellation of Achilles to come shimmering out of the golden velvet twilight. When he’d found the shape of the ancient warrior and his gleaming red eye, he traced along the Milky Way swirl of his cloak. There in the sparse lower hem was a twinkle he could never be sure was real or imagined. Earth’s star.

She will be there, standing on cool, rich, green land, looking up into this same void. Six hundred years away. But I can see you still, my glorious angel. Grant me victory on this raid, even though you never believed in our cause.

In Kazimir’s mind, Justine’s beautiful face was shadowed by sadness as his task on this night became clear to her. “Choose your own path, my love,” she whispered in the darkness and thick warmth of their secluded tent in the forest. Fingers lighter than mist stroked him
this way
, then again
like so
. Her delighted laughter filled the tent as he twisted with helpless delirium beneath her sensual puppetry. “Be your own man, not the tool of others. Promise me that.” The pleasure she bestowed made him weep openly, swearing on generations of McFosters as yet unborn he would be true to himself and his own thoughts.

Yet for all her concern, Justine did not understand the reality of this planet. Like every offworlder before her, she regarded the Starflyer as a local myth, Far Away’s Loch Ness monster.

“Forgive me?” he asked of the stars. “I’m doing this for you, so you may enjoy your world and the wonderful life you have there.”

A tiny rivulet of sand shifted behind him, causing the faintest of sounds. Kazimir smiled softly, and continued to stare into the heavens. The desert heat lacked any hint of humidity. Surrounded on all sides by the Dessault Mountains, the air here never moved. Not even wisps of cirrus clouds sneaked past the rampart peaks. The static climate sucked the moisture from exposed skin and every breath. Few plants grew here, some native cacti that resembled stones, and were often harder; not even the Barsoomians could bring verdant life to a place without water. But for all its harsh nature, it was home, the place in the universe where Kazimir felt most secure.

“If I were the Starflyer, you would be mine now,” a voice whispered contentedly in his ear.

“If you were the Starflyer, Bruce, you would be dead now,” Kazimir said. He pushed the knife blade back a little farther so the tip touched the stomach of the other young man.

Bruce McFoster laughed with relief, and threw his arm around his friend. “You had me worried, Kaz, I thought you were going soft.”

“Worry for yourself.” Kazimir withdrew the knife and slid it back into the sheath on the side of his sporran. “You sounded like a herd of T-rexes coming up the slope. The entire Institute will hear you coming.”

“They’ll hear me from the afterlife. Tomorrow night we shall inflict a massive blow to them. Did you hear the attack on Anshun damaged the human starship?”

“Scott told me.”

“Scott! That old woman? Is he here? I can’t believe the elders will let him in on the raid.” Bruce dropped a shoulder and limped around Kazimir. “Mark my words,” he lisped. “This Starflyer will spill your blood and tear your body apart for its amusement. Never has there been a monster so evil in the universe. I know, I faced its slaves in single combat. Hundreds of them killed, a thousand, yet still they came on.”

“Don’t mock so,” Kazimir exclaimed. He and Bruce had grown up together, shared so much they were closer than any brothers. Yet his friend could still be incredibly offensive, not to mention tactless. Sometimes he wondered if Bruce had ever been awake at any time under Harvey’s years of tutelage. “Scott has suffered for our cause, more than I’d wish.”

Bruce straightened up. “I know, I know. But you have to admit, he’s too cautious.”

“He’s alive. I’ll be happy if I’m alive after serving the cause for that long.”

“Keep daydreaming about your offworld nympho, and your contribution to the cause is going to be over too quickly. You were thinking about her again, weren’t you? That’s what you’re up here for, presenting a fine skyline target for the enemy.”

It was difficult for Kazimir not to smile. “I was enjoying the quiet, that’s all. Listening to you for the whole day before the raid would drive anyone nuts. And stop calling her a nympho.”

“I knew it! You were thinking about her again.”

“So what? At least I do care about others.”

“Oh, hey, below the belt, or what. There have been a lot of girls I cared for in the last few years. More than you.”

“More, yes. But none of them for very long, eh, Bruce?”

“Doesn’t need to be long, just thorough. Now come on, Romeo, time we got ready.”

“Yes.” Kazimir took one last longing look at the thick swath of stars, then followed Bruce as he skidded his way down the dune. Directly ahead of them was StOmer, the great mountain that marked the most northeasterly point of the Dessault range.

“Did it help?” Bruce asked, serious for once. Or as serious as he could be. They’d reached the broad ridge of crumbling sandstone where there was a tunnel to the clan’s Rock Dee fort.

“Did what help?”

“Thinking about her?”

“Some. Yes. I know that what we’re defending is worthwhile.” Kazimir ducked his head to step under what looked like a deep overhang. The tunnel was underneath, hidden from the sky, barely wide enough for one person. He tucked his shoulders in, and scraped his way forward, the once-gritty sandstone on either side now smooth as marble from the passage of so many bodies over the decades. The tunnel bent twice, following a sharp S-curve. Thirty meters from the entrance it opened out into the first of the wide chambers that formed Rock Dee fort. The guard, standing proud in her lavender and tangerine McMixon kilt, studied his face, then allowed him to pass. If the Institute soldiers did ever find the tunnel, any guard would be able to hold them off just about single-handed as they wriggled their way out of the narrow slit one by one.

Polyphoto strips had been epoxied to the roof, with long strings of black electrical cable stretched out between them. Their relentless sol-spectrum light etched deep shadows across the rumpled sandstone as they led deeper into the fort.

“She must have been phenomenal in bed,” Bruce said with apparent sympathy. “I mean, the two of you only had, what, a couple of days together? And you’re still moping about her.”

“Sometimes, I almost wish you’d met her.”

“Almost?”

“If you’d seen her, got to know her, you would understand this isn’t some easy infatuation like the ones you have. And I would have wanted my two closest friends to meet.”

“Oh … well, thanks, Kaz.”

“But I thank all the heavens you didn’t, because you’re such an embarrassment I’m sure she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with anyone who knew you.”

Bruce made a lunge for him. A laughing Kazimir dodged ahead and started running. The pair of them burst out into the fort’s main chamber, still taunting and insulting each other loudly. Heads swung around to check out what was happening. Some frowned at the flippancy of the youths at such a time. Others—those of a similar age—smiled tolerantly. Most simply turned back to their work.

Kazimir and Bruce put on their sober faces, slowed down, and nodded courteously at their fellow clansmen. The rocky cavern had been carved in the rough shape of a football amphitheater by storm waters now long gone from this side of the mountains. Two fast channels had once merged here, swirling around and around as they clashed before rushing out toward the northeastern lowlands. The surging waters also had eroded a host of smaller passages and caves, tributaries that had splintered and shifted as geology took over from hydropressure.

Rock Dee was one of the largest Guardian communities, and a formidable safe refuge. There was still fresh water to be found in the lower caverns, filtering in from the mountains that guarded the desert above. Solid-state heat exchange cables had been sunk deep into the mantle below, providing power for lighting and cooking, along with the more important task of supplying the armory with electricity. All that had to be brought in was food, and that was supplied by the McKratz clan’s farms and grazing lands scattered throughout the Dessault range.

Kazimir felt a surge of pride at what he saw in the big chamber. If only he could have brought Justine to see this, then she would have believed in the Guardians’ purpose. Over eighty fighters were busy on the chamber floor, making up one of the largest raiding parties the Guardians of Selfhood had put together in years. But then, as everyone here knew, events were picking up with the construction of the human starship. The Starflyer’s long-laid plans were maturing rapidly, bringing disaster and death to the Commonwealth from the one direction no one in authority was looking.

All the clans had contributed to the raid. McFosters had provided a dozen young fighters, who were checking over their packs and equipment. Their emerald and copper kilts had been packed away; this evening they wore their navy-blue and ebony hunter tartan, helping them pass unseen through the night.

The McNowaks, also predominantly fighters, were in their gray and brown tartan. A group of them were engaged assessing the armor worn by one of their captains. The blue skeletal suit flooded the air around him with a nebulous orange haze, as if he were standing inside a ghostly amoeba. The radiance crackled and intensified each time a test penetrator cane was applied against him. With each application the force field emitter was gradually tuned until the emanation was nothing more than a faint aural outline, the kind any Old Testament saint might possess. Fine-tuning inverted the radiance, cloaking him in a skin of absorptive shadow.

The McOnnas were the third clan to focus on the soldier ethic. Their nomadic boys and girls were undergoing the same lessons, training, and tests that Kazimir himself had gone through. All of them he knew he could trust as much as Bruce. All were totally loyal to the cause, prepared to give their lives that humanity could be liberated. The squad they’d sent were wearing their nightguard blue and vermilion kilts, along with dark leather travel jackets; ion pistol holster and harmonic blade knife sheaths hung from their belts.

The McMixons, who were charged with the keeping of Rock Dee and other forts in the countryside surrounding the Institute, were tending to the Charlemagnes, the warhorses they would all ride to the raid. The gene-modified beasts were fully twenty-one hands, carried by legs like small tree trunks. They had no mane or tail; their thick leather hide was tougher than rhino skin, and a similar dull slate-gray in color. A short unicorn spike rose out of their heads, tipped with carbon-bonded titanium blades by the Rock Dee smithy. Any unprotected human caught by one would be ripped in half; and even force field armor had been known to give way from the inertia of a full charge. Fat iron bolts had been driven through the tough shield ridges of bone that protected the neck and underbelly, and straps of leather and silicon threaded through hoops in the bolts to hold the saddle in place. The Charlemagnes had been designed by the Barsoomians in their lands away to the east of the Oak Sea. Not for money—an emblem of the culture to which the radical ecogeneticists were fiercely aversive—but for the challenge of engendering an animal that in symbiosis with humans had only one purpose: carnage. The Barsoomians probably even delved into the forbidden field of psychoneural profiling, for no clan fighter had ever known a Charlemagne to shy away skittishly in the heat of battle like an ordinary horse would. With their tough skin, triple hearts, and multiple stress loading pathway skeleton, the great beasts were inordinately difficult to kill even with modern weapons.

The McPeierls, the widest-roaming clan of all, gathered intelligence on Institute activities from all over the planet. They also collected the advanced equipment that Johansson smuggled through the gateway along hundreds of innocuous routes. This evening, their members were distributing the final pieces of technology and weaponry required by the raiders.

The McKratzes farmed and raised cattle out across Far Away’s sweeping plains and tricky mountain pastures. They were the ones who bred the Charlemagne herds and lynxhound packs, and other domestic animals used by the clans. Throughout the year, they insured the more nomadic clans were fed and supplied.

And everywhere in the main cavern moved the McSobels, the armorer clan, responsible as well for general technology. Lugging their test equipment over the rock floor, they stopped beside each fighter and warhorse, running test programs through the arrays. Scarlet superconductor cables were pulled about behind them, supplying top-up charges to batteries and weapons magazines. Seven of them had been assigned to the raid, dressed in kilts that were matte-black with a plain grid pattern of thin dark gray lines and equally black coats. Five were bringing the missile launchers and medium-caliber plasma cannon, bulky titanium-cased units hanging from their Charlemagnes, which didn’t even seem to notice the extra weight. The remaining two operated electronic warfare systems intended to neutralize the Institute communications and throw in as much confusion and false data as possible.

Walking up to his own warhorse, Kraken, Kazimir felt the gooseflesh rising as the prospect of the coming raid grew more real. The Charlemagne snorted like a small thunderstorm, lifting and turning its head slightly so it could watch him walk around to its flank. Kazimir had absolutely no instinct to pat the creature reassuringly, this was nothing like the normal ponies and horses he’d learned to ride on. It was enough that the beast didn’t try to bite his head off on sight; the carnivore tusks curving over its rubbery lips were thicker than his fingers.

He began to check his pack once more.

“So are you two screwups ready?” a rasping voice asked.

Kazimir smiled around at Harvey McFoster, his old tutor. The man was a veteran of many clan raids against the Institute, and had the scars to prove it. Years ago, an ion beam fired by an Institute soldier had vaporized a superconductor battery beside him, and the superenergized molecules had penetrated his armor force field. After his injury, he spent his time teaching rather than fighting. He was lucky he survived the toxic shock. Clan medics spent six months repairing as much tissue as they could; even so the skin on a third of his body now had a melted appearance, and he could never raise his voice to shout. Not that he needed to, his presence alone inspired awe in his pupils. Kazimir considered himself privileged to have been one.