Brigadier General Perrin Ochemet had found the cryptic summons waiting on his desktop when he returned from lunch. His eyebrows had gone up. The Space Force didn’t need anything from the Guild at the moment, and he certainly hadn’t asked. Then he’d shrugged (
Maybe Ransome wants something from us for a change
) and made arrangements for one of the duty atmospheric-craft pilots to fly him into the mountains beyond Treslin, and up to the massive stone pile that was the Retreat.
Unlike the first trip he’d made, this one was almost relaxing. Nothing urgent required his attention at the moment; the only crisis, the disappearance of General Metadi and the death of the General’s aide, had been ongoing for a while now with no change—and as Metadi himself was fond of saying, “Anything that lasts more than a week isn’t a crisis, it’s a situation.” Ochemet could lean back against the padded seat and take an afternoon nap with a reasonably clear conscience.
This time, the airfield at the Retreat had a hovercar waiting for him when he arrived. Ochemet rode up the narrow switchback road to the citadel, and found the Guild Master waiting again in the courtyard.
“Well,” Ochemet said, as the hovercar purred away to wherever the Adepts at the Retreat kept such things, and the massive ironwood gates swung closed, “I got your message. Here I am. Where is this thing I’m supposed to see?”
“Come with me,” said Ransome. He turned and began climbing the narrow stone steps that led up from the courtyard onto the walls. Ochemet shrugged and followed.
Once on the battlements, Ransome led the way to another stair, this one spiraling upward inside a dark, thick-walled tower. They emerged at the top to walk along more battlements to where a second, even higher tower reared up over them, and then climbed yet another spiral stair up to the highest point in the Retreat. Nothing but the dull blue sky of late evening remained above them on this topmost level, not even the banners that might have flown over such a fortress in the ancient days; the Adepts flew no one’s banner, and had none of their own.
The sun was setting—in Prime, Ochemet reflected, it would be close to midnight by now—and a chill wind blew down across the watchtower from the icy face of the mountains beyond the Retreat. Master Ransome looked out at the ragged skyline and said nothing.
“Well?” said Ochemet again. “Where is it?”
Ransome shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that there is something here tonight that you and I will see. And I know that you and I are together when we see it, and that it will be important to us both.”
This
, Ochemet reminded himself,
was why you wanted someone else to handle liaison with the Guild.
“Do you know what this thing is?” he asked.
The Adept made an impatient gesture. “If I knew, I would tell you.” He smiled briefly, without much humor. “Unless, of course, you shouldn’t know it.”
“That’s not especially helpful,” said Ochemet. “And if I wasn’t sure that you were on our side, I’d worry.” He paused. “I’m waiting.”
Ransome was silent for a while longer. Then, still looking out across the darkening landscape, he asked, “What do you know about the Mages?”
The question caught Ochemet off guard. “Not much more than anybody else does,” he said after a moment. “A bit more than some people, maybe—I was around for the tail end of the War.”
“Then you saw the end of their hegemony and the destruction of their works,” said Ransome. “But you know almost nothing of their philosophy.”
“I leave that to your people.”
Ransome laughed; Ochemet thought he heard a faint note of bitterness in the sound. “My people. Things would be easier for me if they really were. But no one controls anyone else, ever. No one is possessed by another, ever. No matter what the Magelords think.”
“If you say so,” Ochemet said uneasily. “I wouldn’t know.”
“No,” said Ransome. “I suppose you wouldn’t. But have you heard anything … unusual … from the Mageworlds lately?”
Ochemet thought about the Magebuilt raider that was even now gliding through the Outer Net, and about the team of specialists traveling out to examine it. Their courier ship would drop out of hyper soon; their first report might come as early as tonight or tomorrow. The team—including an Adept. Had she reported to Ransome, Ochemet wondered, and if so, how? For that matter, how did Adepts do any of the things they did?
He decided to hedge. The formal report hadn’t yet shown up on his desk, which as far as the regs were concerned made him still officially ignorant. “Nothing’s happened lately that hasn’t happened before.”
Ransome turned toward him. “Don’t trifle with me,” was all the Guild Master said, his words as soft and mild as ever. Then he turned away again, and was silent.
The tension in
Naversey
’s cockpit hit Llannat like a physical blow; she had to grab at one of the zero-g handholds to steady herself.
What’s wrong? Everything looks okay
… .
She took a deep breath to restore her equilibrium, then glanced about the cockpit. The starfield that glowed outside the cockpit viewscreens appeared normal, at least as far as she could tell; if there was a problem, it wasn’t close enough to see. Vinhalyn and the two pilots were looking at the control-panel readouts instead, and the very air around them was full of the dark colors of dismay.
Llannat cleared her throat. “Mistress Hyfid reporting as ordered. Is there some kind of problem?”
The pilot nodded. “
Ebannha
’s not here.”
“Not here. You mean you can’t find her?”
“I’ve already been through this with Lieutenant Vinhalyn,” said the pilot; his voice had a ragged edge to it. “I mean she’s not here. These are the coordinates we were given; we should be close enough already to pick her up as a bright star on visual. And she isn’t here. No visual, no comm signals, no ID signals, nothing.”
“Not quite nothing,” Vinhalyn said. The academic had a tight-lipped expression quite unlike anything Llannat had seen on his face before. “The sensors are picking up a great deal of hot drifting metal. And hi-comms are completely down—our attempts to contact Prime, or anyone else, have been in vain.”
“Hot drifting metal.” Llannat shook her head. “What’s been going on out here?”
“I don’t know,” said the pilot. “And I don’t like it. I think we ought to head back to Galcen. But I’m just the taxi driver for this expedition—Lieutenant Vinhalyn has the final call. And he says we ought to consult with you first.”
“Me?” She looked at Vinhalyn. “What am I supposed to know that you guys don’t?”
The former academic shrugged. “Perhaps nothing. But I learned during the Magewar that it never hurts to ask.”
“Right,” she said. She looked out at the starfield again, a myriad glowing dots against the black.
So now I’m supposed to make like some kind of oracle … what do I tell him, that I can’t do that sort of thing on order? Better at least give it a try first.
Closing her eyes, she tried to sense the patterns that flowed through the universe beyond the cockpit. Nothing at first; she had trouble working with the immensity that was realspace between the stars.
Relax
, she told herself.
Don’t push it
.
She let the patterns move for a while without watching them, letting herself float and grow accustomed to this new experience. Abruptly there was a shifting sensation, much like dropping out of hyper, as her awareness flexed and changed, leaving her newly at ease with the scale of things. And, in the next instant, certain of what she was seeing.
Magework. Magework and dark sorcery.
Not since the raid on Darvell, when Magelords and Circle-Mages had manipulated the fabric of the universe to fight both her and each other, had she felt the patterns twisted and knotted like this. And nowhere out there was any spark of light. It was all dead … .
No. Not quite.
“On.”
Her voice came out in a hoarse croak. She didn’t have any idea how long she’d stood with her awareness turned away from her physical surroundings; her knees would have given way if Vinhalyn hadn’t steadied her.
“We need to go on.”
RSF SELSYN-BILAI: INFABEDE SECTOR GALCEN NEARSPACE
B
Y THE time RSF
Selsyn-bilai
reached the dropout point for the Infabede sector, the engineering warrant officer who currently answered to the name Gamelan Bandur was more than ready to see realspace again. A stores ship like the
Selsyn
took its time about getting from one place to another, spending several weeks in hyper for the same journey a courier ship could make in a couple of days. Such unhurried progress irritated a man who had always preferred his starships fast and dangerous. On the other hand, the
Selsyn
had been going back and forth between Infabede and the supply depots of the Inner Worlds for several years now, and the warrant officers’ mess was full of very interesting gossip. Bandur had listened, contributing now and then a humorous anecdote from the shipyards of Galcen Prime, and had taken copious mental notes.
Elsewhere aboard the
Selsyn
, he supposed, CC1 Ennys Pardu had been pursuing similar interests. Except for occasional brief glimpses, he hadn’t seen the clerk/comptech since they’d both come aboard, but he remembered her efficiency very well. If RSF
Selsyn-bilai
’s record files held something she considered important, stopping her would take more data security than a stores ship was likely to be able to muster. Bandur hoped that she was equally competent at covering her tracks afterward.
On a large vessel like the
Selsyn
, artificial-intelligence routines in a ship’s memory handled most aspects of the the dropout from hyperspace, but the engineering spaces kept up full crews just the same, in case of emergencies. Both the realspace and the hyperspace engines underwent considerable stress at the moment of transition, and the systems of a vessel with the mass of a stores ship were orders of magnitude more complex than those of a small cargo vessel.
Bandur had a station in Main Control, monitoring the datalink that transmitted the conning officer’s helm and throttle commands from the bridge down to the AI systems in Engineering. The smooth functioning of the
Selsyn
’s machinery and the performance of her transition-detail team impressed him, in spite of his long-standing preference for fighting ships—and in spite of the fact that where shiphandling was concerned, he’d never been an easy man to please.
He listened to the speaker on the IC panel as it echoed the words of the bridge team:
“Stand by for realspace.” … “Standing by.” … “On my mark, drop out, mark.” … “Realspace transition.”
On the panel, the power readouts flickered as the realspace engines cut in, and the accelerometer began to show negative during deceleration. Bandur nodded to himself in satisfaction and verified the log entry showing time of dropout.
“Right, then,” the chief engineer said. “Secure from hyperspace running.”
Shortly afterward the speaker on Bandur’s panel came to life again, this time relaying the voices of the junior officer of the watch and the officer of the deck:
“Two contacts, close aboard. Friendlies.” … “Roger, prepare arrival report for transmission.” … “Aye, aye.”
He listened, curious. In the old days, even friendly contacts this soon would have been reason for serious alarm; nobody back then had good reasons for waiting around so close to a known drop point.
Plenty of bad ones, though … I remember the points just beyond Ophel, where the big Magebuilt cargo ships used to halt and top off on fuel and stores before the long push home. On a good day you could pick off the escorts one at a time as they came through, and after that it was easy pickings … .
Bandur shrugged. Times changed; no one knew that better than he did. He turned to his duties, supervising the junior crew members as they secured the hyperspace engines preparatory to opening them for inspection. A few minutes later he was surprised to see the chief engineer walking over to him.
“Secure, Mister Bandur. Skipper wants to see you in his cabin, instantly.”
Now, what the hell
…? “On my way.”
Bandur spoke to the leading petty officer in his party—“Carry on smartly”—and left Main Control by the vacuum-tight door leading forward. He strode through the passageways to senior officer country without any hesitations or false turnings, and found his way to the captain’s cabin. Once there he knocked, then palmed the lockplate. As soon as the door slid open, he took a step forward and came to a careful attention, his thumbs aligned with the seams of his uniform trousers.
“Warrant Officer Bandur, reporting as ordered.”
“Very well, Bandur,” said the CO—the longest speech that he’d made to the warrant so far. “Stand easy. Captain Tyche here has a couple of things for you.”
Bandur relaxed and looked around the captain’s cabin for the first time, just as another officer, this one in Infantry uniform, entered the space.
“Mister Bandur,” the newcomer said, “I have orders that you accompany me.”
I don’t know what they’ve got waiting back on Galcen, Bandur thought, but if it isn’t something really good I’ll have Perrin Ochemet’s guts for garters.
“Yes, sir,” he said aloud. “Shall I collect my gear?”
The Infantry captain shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Your gear is being collected for you right now.”
One of the comm links on the desk beeped. The CO picked it up—it was a hush-circuit, mostly earpiece with a small vocal pickup attached—and kept an eye on Tyche and Bandur as he talked: “The devil you say! … Retransmit … .
All
circuits? … Are you sure? … Well, keep trying.”
Bandur glanced over at Captain Tyche. “Mind if I ask what’s happening?”
Something about the Infantry captain, possibly the way his appearance managed to combine wholesome square-jawed blandness with an impression of knife-edged efficiency, suggested to Bandur that there was more to Tyche than met the eye.
One of the Intel boys
, the warrant officer conjectured.
Perrin must be seriously worried
. He wasn’t surprised when Tyche said only, “There’s been a modification to your orders. You’re to come with me.”
The quick pinging of a portable comm link sounded from Tyche’s belt. The Infantry captain pulled the device free and thumbed it on.
“I have a party from that long-range recon craft we spotted earlier,” a tinny voice said. “They request permission to board and inspect.”
“Permission denied,” Tyche said into the link. “I say again, denied.” He nodded to the
Selsyn
’s CO, who was still on the hush-link and all but ignoring the two men. “Sir, I’m taking this man with me in accordance with my orders.”
The CO waved a hand to signify that he understood. Tyche palmed the lockplate for the outer door and gestured at Bandur to precede him through it.
Just as the warrant officer stepped forward to cross the threshold into the corridor beyond, a movement in the cabin behind him caught his eye. Two more men in uniform had entered the space through the inner door. They didn’t look like any of the regular crew, though, and they carried sidearms—definitely not standard operating procedure on board the
Selsyn
.
This is starting to smell like genuine trouble.
The years had provided Warrant Officer Bandur with a well-developed set of protective instincts. He kept on moving, with Tyche close on his heels. Behind them, the first of the new arrivals was saying to the CO, “Captain, you’re under arrest.”
The
Selsyn
’s captain started to his feet. “The hell—!”
“By order of Admiral Vallant … .”
Vallant
, thought Bandur with perverse satisfaction as the door closed behind him and Tyche.
I
thought
there was something going on in Infabede!
Outside, the bulkhead speaker began an announcement. “All officers please assemble in the forward wardroom. All officers please assemble in the forward wardroom. All officers …”
“If you ask me,” said Bandur, “that sound like a damned unhealthy order to be obeying right now.”
Tyche just looked at him. “You know your way around the ship a lot better than I do. What’s the quickest route to the docking bays?”
Bandur consulted his mental map. “This corridor, up a level, then starboard.”
Tyche nodded. “You lead, I’ll follow.”
Beka seated herself in the pilot’s chair and belted on the safety webbing. “Places, everyone.”
“The shuttle’s cast adrift with a beacon on it,” came LeSoit’s voice over the intraship comm link.
“Good. If the Space Force wants it, they can come get it. Now we find out if our repairs are going to hold.”
“Let’s not push it,” Jessan said. “There’s no point in blowing ourselves up before we get there.”
“There’s a time to be cautious,” Beka said without looking at him, “and this isn’t it.” She pushed the realspace engines to full forward. “Navicomp data check, confirm. Near approach Galcen, check, confirm. Stand by, jump.”
She pushed the throttles forward the last bit needed for jump speed, and flicked on the hyperspace engines. The stars winked out and the substance of space went to opalescent grey. She heard a sigh of relief from Jessan in the copilot’s seat as the music of the hyperdrive hit its proper note and held true.
“Engines normal,” he said. “Run true, dropout calculated on time, twenty minutes real time running.”
“Roger. Let’s see how things look when we get to Galcen.”
“You’re expecting trouble on dropout?”
She looked at him. “You saw what was going on at the Net. Where the hell else could an armada like that be headed
except
for Galcen? The Mageworlds can’t have built enough ships to take on the entire Space Force at once—they’ll have to break our fleet up into portions small enough to defeat one by one. And that means hitting Galcen first thing after they bring down the Net, so that even if we get our communications back together there’s no central command.”
Jessan nodded. “‘Cut off the head first, then deal with the body piece by piece.’ … Have you read Chelysi’s
Poetics of Armed Strife
?”
In spite of herself, she smiled. “Sorry. The finishing school I went to left it right out of the Galactic Literature in Translation course.”
“Well, Chelysi calls that strategy a classic method of dealing with a superior force. But it’s still tricky, especially the first strike against enemy HQ. Any little thing can mess up your timetable and lose you the element of surprise.”
“Exactly what I want to do,” she said. “As soon as we hit Galcen nearspace.”
“You don’t trust our friend back there to have alerted everybody?”
“I don’t trust anyone. Besides, he might have classified the information—especially after all the galactic superspy noises you had to make to get his attention.”
“And you intend to break security?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Wide-beam, in the clear. I’m tired of sneaking around.”
“Coming up on time for dropout,” Beka said a few minutes later. “Dropping out … now.”
The shifting not-greyness outside the cockpit stretched and darkened and blazed up into a field of stars. A quick series of beeps told Beka that the ship’s sensors had gone into their automatic data-collection routine for the navicomps, pulling in beacon signals, star patterns, and anything else that might help them identify one point out of a vast galaxy.
The navicomps went to work digesting and collating the information. Beka turned to Jessan. “Check to see if we’re getting anything on lightspeed comms.”
“Nothing so far,” he said after a moment. “I think we beat the Mages in.”
“That was the whole idea … . Do you have any Space Force activity?”
“Negative. I don’t see any.”
Beka straightened suddenly in the pilot’s seat.
“Hit the guns,” she said, as the sensor readouts lit up and alarms began shrieking all over
Warhammer
’s cockpit. “Assume that anything not squawking Space Force identifiers is hostile. We’ve got company.”
In the viewscreen ahead, the fabric of reality was rippling and trembling, shaking back and forth between the starfield and the grey pseudosubstance of hyperspace as ship after ship came through. The Mageworlds warfleet had come to Galcen.
Warrant Officer Bandur found himself lying on the deck against the bulkhead, with the hidden sleeve gun he always carried held unconcealed and ready in his hand. It took him a moment to figure out why he was there.