Chapter 1
when the enemy took adrianople, it gained a base within the solar empire, placing dozens of imperial worlds within jump range. cicero was the first strike—but adrianople was the first, most significant strike in a long and difficult war.
—Oren Kemal and Mya'ar HeChra
The Great War, volume I, 2429
"Five. I make it five." Dan McReynolds stood on the bridge of the Fair Damsel, scowling over the shoulder of the pilot at the display board. Raymond Li, the Damsel's chief navigator, stood opposite, leaning forward on the board and looking up at the captain.
"So there are five ships with IN flags here. What's it to us?"
"I have to explain everything to you. Tamarind Station"—Dan gestured toward the forward screen—"is maybe forty parsecs from the nearest big naval base and we're only two jumps out of Crossover. Maybe it's a coincidence and maybe not, but we were carrying what might turn out to be a real important package."
"I thought that the—package—belonged to the High Nest."
"Look." Dan's scowl was enough for the pilot to stop what he was doing and look back at him. "The Imperial Navy takes care of its own. I'll bet you a liter of the best whiskey we can buy here that the dock will be covered with bluejackets."
"I've had Tamarind whiskey, Skip, and I still won't take the bet. What've they got on us?"
"It's just a feeling I have. Five Navy ships . . . I don't believe in coincidences, Ray."
As a matter of course, merchanters develop instincts about situations. In the days of ocean sailors, a captain might get a feeling sniffing the wind as it blew across his quarterdeck, or sense a change in the sky or the chop of the waves on the bow of his ship—certainly not clinical observations, but often more accurate than the poor instruments the captain might possess. Instincts were the difference between an experienced sailor and a dead one.
By comparison, space lacks many empirical clues. Wind, wave and sky have no convenient analogs; the sophisticated equipment required to navigate from star to star extends the scope and range of the senses. Perils and dangers can be perceived a long way off . . . Of course, death comes more quickly and more violently in space.
Still, at sea or in space there are certain things in common. Merchanters know to keep their heads down and listen to warnings wherever they come from.
As the Fair Damsel made its docking approach, Dan McReynolds got his first and only warning: He was not only expected, but there was someone waiting for him. The ship was committed and deep in the gravity well, and—as Ray Li had pointed out—nobody had anything on them.
Knowing that there was no avoiding it, Dan made himself very conspicuous on the dock as the Damsel began to unload its cargo. It only took a few minutes for uniformed Tamarind security to take notice of their presence, and a few minutes more for a deputation to make its way across the station deck to the Fair Damsel's berth.
"Look at them swagger," Pyotr Ngo, Dan's chief pilot, said quietly behind him. "Tough guys."
"At least to the locals," Dan replied. People were deliberately making way for the half-dozen armed men and women making a beeline for his ship; he could see other civilians speaking furtively and looking in his direction, thinking, no doubt, There but for the grace of God go I . . . "Get the Sultan," he said over his shoulder, without turning. "And hang close."
The group came up to where Dan stood looking over a cargo manifest. He deliberately tried to ignore them.
"You McReynolds?" asked the leader of the group, a tall, thin scowling woman in a well-decorated brown uniform.
"I'm Captain McReynolds," Dan said. Sultan Sabah and Pyotr Ngo took up positions behind him. "What's it to you?"
"Man wants to see you."
"Man got a name?"
"Imperial Navy," the woman answered with distaste. "Asked for you personally."
"Me?" Dan turned slightly to look at Pyotr and the Sultan. "You boys know why the Navy might want me?"
"Maybe wants you to reenlist," said the Sultan. "Scrapin' the bottom of the barrel for officer material, you ask me."
"I'm not interested in signing up." Dan turned back to the Tamarindi. "Tell the 'Man' that if he wants to talk to me he should send someone of his own. My papers are in order, and I've got work to do." He began to turn away.
"Listen, you—"
He rounded on the woman. "No, you listen to me. I've got a license to trade within the Solar Empire. I have my landing permit, my docking order, my permit to berth . . . and a published manifest that allows me to load and unload. Those are all you can question me on, Officer. If the 'Man' wants to talk to me, then the 'Man' had damn well better send his own messenger to talk to me rather than wasting my time and yours."
He turned away again and left the woman sputtering as the three crewmen of the Fair Damsel walked back into the cargo hold. After a moment, the woman took her cadre of guards back across the brightly lit deck.
"You think that was such a good idea, Skip?" the Sultan asked, looking over his shoulder at the retreating brown uniforms.
"Don't know. But I'm not going to be ordered around by some local tinhorn. I already did my time in the Service. Damn it, those papers are in order, too." He stopped at a stack of meter-high cargo cubes and sat down on one. "Give me that comp," he said to the Sultan, and began to query it for information.
"I'd better get the troops moving in case we have to bug out quickly," the Sultan said, turning his attention away from his captain.
"Wait a sec." Dan showed Sabah and Ngo the comp. "Says here that the biggest ship in dock is the IS Pappenheim, commanded by someone named Maartens. You guys know anything about either?"
"Pappenheim," Pyotr Ngo said, folding his arms over his chest and looking at the readout hanging in the air over the comp. "That's not a police cruiser—looks like a ship of the line, maybe Imperial Grand Survey or a perimeter squadron. The skipper's name doesn't ring a bell, though."
"The other ships here at Tamarind are all smaller ones. This isn't a battle fleet; it's more like a bunch of little guys that found a big skirt to hide behind."
"What are you getting at?"
"Unless I miss my guess, Pyotr, something big has started to happen, something that's gotten all of these ship commanders scared. Anything come to mind?"
"Sounds like a war," Pyotr Ngo said quietly. "Meaning—?"
"Meaning that whatever she got involved in"—and all three of them knew who "she" was—"has started."
"So . . . what are we going to do?"
"We go on with what we're doing, I guess," Dan answered. "And we wait for the 'Man' to come to us."
They didn't have to wait more than an hour. Dan had returned to his own quarters, leaving the Sultan in charge dockside; he was sitting at his cluttered workdesk when a private-channel message signal sounded on the internal comm. "Captain here," he said. "What's up?"
"Personal base-to-base coming in for you, Skip," said the voice—Ray Li at the conn. "You want it patched through?"
"Where's it from?"
"Pappenheim," Li said, after a moment. "Imperial starship. It's docked down the way."
"Yeah, put it through." Dan gestured to the wall; a holo appeared on the opposite side of the desk. He whacked a spot on the wall with the heel of his hand and it flickered into focus. "This is Dan McReynolds of the Fair Damsel. What can I do for you?"
"Captain McReynolds." An older man in the uniform of a Navy captain appeared, sitting at a ready-room desk. Near his left lapel there was an icon showing that Ray Li had marked it as "private," so no one aboard—or on the station—could patch in. "I'm Georg Maartens of the IS Pappenheim. I sent a message to you earlier, asking you to meet me in the station command center."
"Yeah. Well, I thought it was local harassment, and I didn't like the tone."
Maartens smiled, which was unexpected. Dan had hoped to get a rise out of Maartens, who looked like a stiff-necked Regular Navy type. "I'm not surprised. Perhaps I can be more conciliatory. I'd like to invite you aboard for a drink, and to convey a message to you."
"A message."
"That's right." Dan noticed that the Pappenheim bridge was maintaining General Quarters, even though the ship was at dock. "Me personally. Mind telling me what this is all about?"
"This isn't exactly a secure channel. Perhaps you could join me at, say, 1600 Standard? If you'd like to bring your exec aboard, he's welcome as well."
"It doesn't sound like this is a yes-or-no question."
"Well . . . it isn't. But there's no reason that everyone on Tamarind needs to know that. I understand merchanter attitudes. I see no reason to show you up if it can be avoided. 1600 hours, then?"
Dan remembered the sights and sounds of an Imperial starship. It had been many years since he'd been aboard one, but the familiarity of "officer country" aboard the Pappenheim reminded him all too much of the Torrance. Even the cold antiseptic air in the corridors brought back memories of his time in service.
Pyotr Ngo—whom he had brought along primarily to provide a reality check—just looked nervous.
"What's with General Quarters?" Dan asked of the Marine squad leader as they stepped into a lift. They'd been escorted through the starship's corridors for almost five minutes; Dan suspected there might have been a more direct route, but perhaps Maartens sought to intimidate them.
"Sir?" the Marine squad leader asked, keeping his face unresponsive, not looking at Dan as the door closed; and, at the guard's spoken command, the lift began to rise.
"General Quarters. Why is the ship on alert?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't discuss security matters with—"
"With civilians. I know," Dan snorted. "I remember the regulation."
"Sir."
"Just thought I'd like to know what this Captain Maartens has in mind. What sort of fellow is he—can you tell me that? Or is it classified?"
"The captain is a fine officer, sir."
"I'd expect that. What's he like?"
"He's well liked and respected by the crew, sir." The Marine's expression never changed. "Captain Maartens has more than thirty years in service, and he's earned his bars. Sir."
This comment was aimed at Dan as a merchant captain; there wasn't much love lost between Marines and merchanters—or between Regular Navy and merchanters, for that matter. Enemy territory, Dan reminded himself. If the Marine had intended to anger him, Dan wasn't about to take the bait.
The lift reached its destination and the two merchanters were escorted out and along a few more corridors until they stopped in front of a door flanked by two other Marines. The squad leader executed a smart salute, and one of the guards gestured at the door without taking her eyes off of Dan and Pyotr.
"Come."
The door slid aside and the Damsel's officers entered the room. Captain Maartens was sitting at a huge, neatly organized wooden desk, dominated by a slightly dented model of the Pappenheim. He dismissed the Marines with a gesture and pointed to three comfortable-looking armchairs in a part of the compartment set up as a sitting-room. He walked to a sideboard located under a framed portrait of the Solar Emperor and poured three small tumblerfuls of brownish liquid. He carried them on a silver tray to his guests and settled into an armchair of his own, extending his hand in a toast.
"Fair winds," he said, a traditional sailor's toast. They drank.
"Good brandy," Dan remarked after a moment. It was: Not the sort of stuff he'd expect a line officer to waste on a couple of merchanters. "How'd we earn this?"
Maartens took another sip of his drink, giving Dan a chance to look him over. The captain of the Pappenheim was deep into middle age, his hair gray and getting wispy, his eyes set deep in a face with history etched into it. The compartment reflected the comforts of a lifetime naval officer: wooden desk, armchairs and pile carpet . . . He'd been aboard this ship for quite a while.
"This is no ordinary shore call, as I'm sure you've guessed. My eyes and ears on-station tell me that all kinds of rumors are floating around, and I have to tell you that the worst one is true. The Empire is at war."
"With—?"
"Actually," Maartens answered, toying with his glass, "I think you already know who the enemy is. Most people don't, and won't, until we're deep into this thing."
"You must think I have pretty good connections."
"I know you do. Don't play dumb with me, McReynolds; I know where you jumped from and I looked at your crew roster." He paused—a moment of melodrama. "Tell me about Kearny."
"Kearny?" Dan's stomach lurched momentarily, and he wasn't sure if he'd let his face show it: His mind began to race as he tried to determine where this conversation was going.
"Kearny. Jackie Kearny. Engineer's mate. My best information says that she's not aboard your ship. Where is she, Captain McReynolds?"
"I don't see that it's any busi—"
"Oh, but it is. You're a reservist, Captain. Do I have to quote you chapter and verse on your current status? This is an emergency situation, and you're in a war zone. I'm empowered to call you to active duty. I'm doing it right now. By the same authority I can impress your ship and crew into Imperial Service. I can even appoint one of my officers to command that ship.
"But," Maartens continued, as he let it sink in, "I see no reason to take that last action. Nonetheless, Captain, as an officer under my command, you are obliged to follow my orders: And I am ordering you to tell me where I can find Jackie Kearny, engineer's mate, recently a member of your crew."
Dan took a moment before answering and exchanged glances with Pyotr, who looked stunned at Maartens' remarks.
"I don't know."
"I see." Maartens drank off the rest of his brandy and set his glass carefully on an end table. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him. "Let me tell you why I have such a strong interest: I happen to know who she really is. And get this loud and clear, McReynolds: She's real important to me, and I take a strong interest in her welfare. Do you read?"
"I read you loud and clear," Dan replied.
"So, let me repeat the question. Where is she, and where is Ch'k'te?"
"I . . . don't know." Dan looked around the room, as if he'd be able to tell if anyone was listening in. "How secure is this room?"
"As secure as I can make it." Maartens spread his hands and leaned back. "That's why we're here."
"Last time I saw Jackie or Ch'k'te was at Crossover Station. They went ashore and didn't return. She told me to wait two days and then to bug out; I waited, then bugged out. I don't know if they're alive or dead, Captain, I really don't."
"I spent some time and cashed in a few favors to track her down." He stood up and walked to the sideboard, and began to pour himself another drink. "Let me tell you some things about myself, McReynolds. I'm fifty-eight years old, and I've been in His Majesty's Navy longer than you've been alive.
"When I was a powder monkey, a gunner's mate"—he finished pouring and walked back to his seat, tumbler in hand—"there were still stories told about Admiral Marais in the fleet.
"I'm the captain of a starship. Not the largest or best-built; God knows, not the newest. I was given command of the Pappenheim sixteen years ago, which puts me in the top ten or twelve in the fleet, in terms of time in service with one vessel. It's all I want to do, all I ever really wanted; never wanted to be a commodore, never wanted station or flag command. The Pappenheim is enough for me—as a ship captain, you understand that. I haven't got any axe to grind, never did. I'm Regular Navy, but not ramrod-straight; I'm loyal to the officers I serve."
"What's your point, sir?"
"Jackie Laperriere was an officer I served." Maartens took a long drink. "I was on-station at Cicero when the—aliens—took over."
"You were—"
"When she called, I came," he continued, his eyes now full of some difficult memory. "Picture this, McReynolds: First, most of the squadron goes haring off on some fool's errand beyond the border. Then what's left of it comes back with all of the Sensitives aboard dead. Then I get a call out of nowhere: 'Aliens have taken control of Cicero Down.' Then my exec, someone I've known for years, turns into—changes into—"
He took a long drink, and Dan thought he saw Maartens' hands shake. "Almost forty years, I've never seen anything like that. I turned . . . it over to authorities at Adrianople. I hope I never see another one.
"That's what we're up against, McReynolds. Aliens that can replace people we know. An alien replaced Jackie—well enough to fool me and everyone on the station. An alien replaced Bryan Noyes, commander of Cicero Op. But for Jackie Laperriere, I suspect that an alien might have replaced me. We figured that's what the aliens had in mind: infiltration of the Empire to gradually take it over, but by accident we—she— uncovered what they were doing. Jackie decided to evacuate Cicero, even though it cost her her career, but it saved a lot of lives."
"I wouldn't worry about her career. She's got a brand-new mission these days."
"Something to do with the zor High Nest, from the sound of it."
"I'd say so." Dan looked aside at Pyotr Ngo, who didn't comment. "The zor have boxed her into following some ancient legend, in order to recover a valuable item that they let the enemy capture. They knew it would happen, and they knew it would happen at Cicero—that's why they put a VIP in the path of the aliens."
"Torrijos."
"That's right, Captain: You look close enough, you realize that this accident was no accident, as seen from the High Nest. They saw this coming, maybe years ago, and they set it up."
"How did you get involved in this?"
"Old friendships." Dan smiled. "You've probably got the whole damn dossier; I go back a long way with Jackie, farther back and deeper down than you do. Another old friend called in an IOU and arranged for my ship to carry her and her caddie wherever the quest led them. I did it for a rather handsome fee, but I wouldn't have said no even if it was for free.
"The thing that burns me, Captain—and it should burn you as well—is that the High Nest saw all of this from beginning to end. They even foresaw what happened at Crossover—whatever that was—and where it all ends up. They even saw that they'd be alone now. Jackie and Ch'k'te are on their own, and it's fairly likely that's what the High Nest wants."
"Why?"
"Who the hell understands how a zor thinks?"
"I get the distinct impression, McReynolds, that you haven't told me everything."
Damn right, Dan thought to himself. But you'd never believe it. "I've told you what's relevant."
"All right, McReynolds. I could order you to submit to Sensitive examination, but there's probably no point to it." He stood and walked to his desk. He picked up a comp and carried it back to where Dan and Pyotr still sat. "Here are your orders," he said, tossing it into Dan's lap. "You have eight hours before we jump."
"Where are we going?"
"Look at the orders and get your ship ready for jump. You'll know soon enough. Dismissed."
"But—"
"Dismissed, Captain. We'll have plenty of time to discuss this, but not now. Get back to your ship, and prepare to bug out. You read?"
"Yeah." Dan stood up, turning the card over in his hands, as if he'd never seen one before. "Yeah, I read you, sir."
"Well?" Don asked Pyotr, as they crossed the deck from the Pappenheim to their own ship. "What do you make of that?"
"What do I make of it?" The chief pilot stopped walking and turned to face Dan, anger obvious in his eyes. "Do you remember when we started this partnership and bought the Damsel? Do you remember what you said when I asked if it was wise to purchase a bigger ship when it might tie us up with reserve commitments?"
"Pyotr, I—"
"I remember. Every damn word: 'Don't worry about it,' you said. 'There's no one for the Empire to fight against. How could they call me up?'"
"There wasn't any way of knowing—"
"No." Pyotr turned away from Dan and began walking toward their ship. "No, there wasn't any way of knowing, was there? So we're in the Navy now."
The operation of a merchanter vessel of any reasonable size is a prohibitively expensive proposition. The costs of acquisition alone are such that few, if any, private individuals can ever afford to buy or build one; usually, only a corporate or government entity can come up with enough capital to do it. In the former case, large private companies build and staff fleets to conduct commerce, placing bonded captains in command at generous salaries but with no stake in the profits; in the latter, planetary, provincial and Imperial navies keep naval architects and shipwrights busy.
After a certain amount of time in a merchant fleet or service in a navy, skilled pilots, engineers or other hands want to acquire a piece of the action. As merchant fleets evolve, older ships that don't perform well are made available for their crews to buy out and go independent. In navies—especially the Imperial Navy—bigger and better ships are sometimes made available rather than just the oldest and slowest. In peacetime, when civilian governments don't want to foot the bill to keep them in service, navies often will provide ships in lieu of a mustering out bonus.
There is one significant difference. The navy will usually include a condition: that in wartime, the ship's captain and any other crewmembers are recalled from reserve status to active duty, placing the ship in military service. Since the last war had been Marais' war of conquest eighty-five years earlier, most people mustering out of the Navy were more than willing to sign, even given that condition.
This information wasn't welcome news to the crew of the Fair Damsel.
"Okay, pipe down, pipe down!" the Sultan shouted over the din in the cargo hold. Only Ray Li was absent; he was watching from the bridge. Everyone else had been assembled, most standing in the back of the hold or perched on cargo blocks or canisters. Dan and the Sultan stood facing them; the officers looked grim. The crew simply looked angry.
Eventually, order was restored and Dan looked around the room at the men and women that worked and lived aboard ship. Most of them were shareholders in the Damsel, which meant they'd put some of their own money into her, enjoyed the profits and suffered the losses. They had voting power to accept or deny a new shareholder, to decide on routing and the choice of officers. Dan, Ray, Pyotr and the Sultan held more than sixty percent of the stock and had already discussed strategy, so the captain wasn't worried about losing his job; still, there was no telling what most of the crew might think.
"You already know most of the facts, so I won't belabor them. In accordance with the indefinite lease contract under which the corporation bought the Fair Damsel eight years ago, the Imperial Navy has the right to recall us whenever a state of emergency is declared. They have now declared one, and I've received orders from the Pappenheim to jump from here"—he looked at the chrono on the wall—"in about five hours. Every crewmember with prior military service—provincial or Imperial—has been recalled to active duty, including me. The ship is now under my command, as a captain in the Imperial Navy. And I'm pretty damn far down on the seniority list, too." Some of the crew chuckled at that.
"The rest of you have two choices. The first choice is the easy one: Do nothing, keep your job, serve aboard the Damsel for the duration. Of the civilian officers, Pyotr has decided to do just that. Ray, the Sultan and I, of course"—he grinned a bit—"are stuck with the hand we've been dealt, as are several of you.
"The second choice isn't as pleasant, and I'm not really happy to suggest it, for good reason. The Damsel isn't armed worth a damn, and its hardpoints aren't really suitable for it anyway. They're not going to put us on the front line but we might see some enemy fire; we can't go where we want and, while they'll pay our way, we won't be turning much profit.
"Therefore, I'm prepared to make the following offer: I'm willing to buy out the share of anyone who doesn't want to come along. According to the corporate contract, that's worth a twenty-percent markup on the value of that share.
"I'm also willing to pay off anyone without a stake, at the usual markup for duress. It should be enough to get you off Tamarind.
"Captain Maartens of the Pappenheim has informed me that any key positions left vacant by such departures will be filled by Regular Navy personnel."
"How much time we got to decide?" asked someone from the group: Sonja Torrijos, engineer's mate.
"About four hours."
"What happens if we stay, and then want off later?"
"My guess is that there is no 'later.' I don't expect us to be calling at many civilian stations once we leave Tamarind."
There was some hushed conversation. Dan turned to the Sultan. "This really sucks," he said. "If I didn't want these people, I wouldn't have them aboard. But they didn't buy into this."
"They knew what they bought when they bought it," the Sultan answered, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a characteristic pose. "Everybody reads the contract; that's why we print it and get them to sign it."
"But they didn't expect to be mixed up in a war."
"Neither did I." The Sultan looked across the crew, now discussing the subject with some animation. "But you can't indemnify against it; they're here at the ass-end of nowhere for the same reason you and I are, Skip: to make money. Without the help you got from the Navy in the first place, they'd never have made the bundle they've made already."
"All true, Chief," Dan said.
"So why would they trade being dirtsiders for a chance at being part of a profitable operation when this is all over? Like you said, we're not going to be in the front line—how tough is this going to be?"
You have absolutely no idea, Dan thought. Of course, it might not be any safer off the Damsel.
Jackie, what the hell are we getting involved in?
"Is that the consensus among the crew, Chief?"
"I'd be surprised if you lost anybody, Skip."
While the discussion continued aboard the Fair Damsel, Georg Maartens sat alone in his cabin, sprawled in an armchair, his jacket tossed onto one of the chairs opposite. He let his arms hang over the sides of the chair and his eyes were shut; anyone coming in suddenly, would've thought the old man was asleep, but he wasn't—he was merely deep in thought.
What the hell are we involved in? he repeated to himself. What kind of war can we fight?
It wasn't Maartens' job to decide, of course. Fighting these aliens wasn't going to be like tangling with pirates or suppressing a colonial rebellion—the only types of conflicts he had experience with. On the other hand, the incidents at Cicero a few months ago had given him insight that was lacking in all but a few others in his position. There were only a handful who knew what was out there . . . including Jackie Laperriere, he reminded himself.
Wherever she is.
How do you fight an enemy that can change its appearance . . . that can take over your mind . . . that's way ahead of us technologically? The Admiralty hasn't let out information about the enemy, hasn't even admitted there is an enemy—just "an emergency."
He remembered an interview with Admiral Hsien, Maartens' new boss after leaving Cicero. The old man had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not—repeat, not—to discuss what happened there, since there was still a court-martial investigation going on. That wasn't the real reason, of course. Aside from McReynolds, who knew more about what was happening across the line than he'd been willing to admit, Maartens hadn't discussed Cicero with any of the other merchanter captains now under his command. He was leading them into . . . what? Their next destination, Corcyra, had had a naval research center, but now it was nothing but a ruin. There, most of them would get their first look at what the enemy could do.
He wasn't expecting to find survivors; but if there were any, his Sensitives would have to poke around in their minds before he'd let them aboard his ship. Cicero had made him paranoid. What would happen to squadrons led by commanders who were less suspicious, because they didn't know what they were facing?
As Maartens sat there, his eyes closed, thoughts racing through his mind, he realized the war had a good chance of being over even before it had begun.