Authors: David Weber,John Ringo
Throne of Stars (39 page)
O’Casey grinned again, this time at his expression. Disbelief mingled with professional outrage on the sergeant’s face, until he ended up looking just plain disgusted.
“That’s Mountmarch all over,” she said. “He’s a brilliant media manipulator, and thinks his brilliance at that extends to everything. There’s nothing in the world for which he doesn’t have a better, and much more brilliant, plan. Of course, the reality is that the vast majority of them backfire—often badly.”
“Who is he?” Julian asked. “Other than the governor of the colony, that is?”
“He used to be a power at court,” O’Casey said as she leaned back. She hadn’t bothered to store her files on the Earl of Mountmarch in her toot, so they’d been lost along with most of her reference works and papers when
DeGlopper
was destroyed. Now she delved deep into plain old, biochemical memory for as much as she could recall about the earl and frowned thoughtfully.
“That was back in Roger’s grandfather’s later days,” she went on. “There’s not much question that he really was a brilliant example of a ‘spin merchant,’ and the old Emperor was very fixated on public opinion. Even though he wasn’t elected, he felt that the will of the people should be observed. Which is all well and good, but ruling based on opinion polls, especially ones pushed by narrow agendas, is never a great idea. It’s one of the reasons that the Empress is still having so many problems. Or was, before the coup, at any rate.”
Their eyes met grimly for a moment. Then she gave herself a shake and resumed once more.
“The approach of the Imperial bureaucracy—that it’s either completely untouchable, or that its function is solely to act in accordance with the will of opinion polls (which actually means at the will of skilled manipulators like Mountmarch who
shape
those polls)—is a tremendous drag on getting anything fixed,” she said. “It’s that holdover of bureaucratic and senior policy officer inertia, coupled with the iron triangle of senatorial interests, the interests of the bureaucracies, and the special interest groups and polls that combine to drive the senatorial agenda, that have made it nearly impossible for the Empress to get any real change enacted or to replace the worst of the bureaucrats with more proactive people.
“But I digress,” she said, pausing to inhale, then cocked her head as Julian broke out in laughter. “What?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ve heard you say that much about the situation back home this entire trip.”
O’Casey sighed and shook her head.
“I’m
familiar
with preindustrial societies, and plots and plotters seem to be the same on Earth as on Marduk. But it’s modern Imperial politics that are my real forte.”
“I can tell,” Julian said with another chuckle. “But you were saying about Mountmarch?”
“Mountmarch,” she repeated. “Well, he excelled at taking the interests that were brought to him—whatever they were, but they tended to be on the ‘Saints’ end of the political spectrum—and turning molehills into mountains. He knew just about everyone in the media, and no matter who paid him, or for what, before you could say ‘it’s for the children,’ whatever was going to end the universe this time would be the number one headline on all the e-casts and mags. And suddenly, with remarkable speed, there’d be committees, and blue ribbon panels, and legislation, and opinion polls, and nongovernmental charity organizations—all of them with lists of contacts and almost identical talking points, sprouting up like mushrooms. It really was quite an industry.
“And the leaks! He had access to everyone in the upper echelons of His Majesty’s Government, either because they were afraid of him, or else because they wanted him to do the same thing for them. And whenever there was a tidbit of information that worked for the interest he was pushing at the moment, it would be major news the day he got it. Then along came Alexandra.
“Roger’s mother had been watching him basically push her father around for years, and she didn’t care for it one bit. In general, Alexandra tends towards the socialistic and environmentalist side of the political spectrum herself, but she’s also aware of the dangers to society of going too far. So when the newest item Mountmarch was pushing was over the Lorthan Cluster, she pushed back—hard.”
“Lorthan?” Julian asked. “You mean the Lorthan Incident?”
“The very same,” she said. “Mountmarch was given the information that a task force had been sent out to lie doggo and try to catch the Saints red-handed raiding the Lorthan colonies. They’d been insisting that it was nothing but pirates, and offering ‘military assistance in our need,’ but all the indications were that it was a Saint force or forces that were trying to drive humans, and their ‘contamination,’ off of the Lorthan habitables.”
“So was it Saints, or pirates?”
“Well, officially, no one knows,” O’Casey said. “The task force was the ambushee rather than the ambusher, and officially, there was no information one way or the other on whether it was Saints or pirates. Of course, a pirate fleet that could take on an Imperial task force is pretty unlikely. And then there were the two
Muir
-class cruisers that were captured nearly intact.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Julian said.
“And you still haven’t. But when we get back and I get situated, I’ll take you out to Charon Base and you can see them. The point is that the leak cost nearly fourteen
hundred
Fleet lives, and Alexandra was
not
pleased.”
“So she pinned it on Mountmarch?”
“He was the most common facilitator of such things. Whether he did it, or someone else, she really didn’t care. She used administrative actions to remove most of his titles, but as a sop she must have posted him to Marduk. The most out of the way, barren, forsaken, and useless post in the Empire. And he’s under Imperial law, so if he so much as sneezed, he’d be dealing with IO and the IBI, instead of local officers and the IC Authority. He can manipulate those; he still has people who, for some godforsaken reason, think he has a clue. But the Inspectorate and the IBI are another thing entirely.”
“Remind me not to get on her bad side,” Julian said. “Of course, I think that with a little training, Roger’s going to be nearly as nasty. Maybe nastier. The tough part will be keeping him from killing anyone who pisses him off. But for right now, at least I can give him some good news—the local commander is an idiot, if a good manipulator of the media, and it looks like the port is going to be a cakewalk.”
“Let’s not get cocky,” she said warningly.
“Oh, we won’t,” Julian said. “Two of the plasma cannon are listed as off line, but Item Number One will be to take them out anyway, just to be on the safe side. We’ll send the armor in first to remove the wire, in case it’s really there, then the mines. There’s other bits. We’ll get it right.”
“And then grab a ship and go home,” she said.
“To what?” Julian asked. “That’s not going to be so easy.”
“No,” she admitted. “Everything in this download is hanging together, so I think Temu Jin is on the up and up. All the usual suspects in something like the ‘attempted coup’ are saying all the usual things. In fact, they’re being so ‘normal’ that I’ve got the very definite feeling of either excellent information management, or pressure from behind the scenes. Although the
Imperial Telegraph
has called for a ‘full and independent medical review of Her Majesty’ with ‘all due deference to the Throne.’ On the other hand, they’re being castigated by most of the major news outlets for ‘pressuring her in her grief.’”
“As if that matters when the safety of the Empire is on the line?” Julian asked.
“Well, it does to some, or at least the polls will say so,” O’Casey said with a thin smile. “Only the Commons can call for a vote of confidence on Her Majesty, and that’s what it would take to force an independent medical exam, if our suspicions are correct. And we’re not the only ones voicing them; there’s a broad rumor that the Empress is being mind-controlled by Roger’s father, with Jackson barely even mentioned. The problem is, that its being spun into a ‘conspiracy theory’ tying back to the death of the Emperor John and everything up to an invasion by implacable alien bugs from the Andromeda Galaxy.”
“Thank goodness for the Andromeda Galaxy!” Julian laughed. “Without it, there’d be no science-fiction at all!”
“Indeed,” she smiled. “Well, one wag does have it as the Andromeda
System,
but he’s probably talking about Rigel.”
“Probably,” Julian agreed. “Another favorite.”
“But if—w
hen
it turns out that she
is
being controlled, we’re going to have an uphill climb to convince people that she was. In this case, something which happens to be the absolute truth is being successfully tied to every silly, paranoid fantasy floating around loose. Which means that it’s undoubtably in the process of being dismissed by every ‘serious-minded’ person in the Empire.”
She shook her head.
“I wish I could be convinced that it was just happening to work out this way, but I don’t think it is.
I
think what we’re looking at is a carefully organized defense in depth. First, the people really behind the coup are counting on ‘sensible people’ to reject such crazy rumors out of hand. That will undercut any effort to force an independent exam of the Empress which might prove that she’s being controlled, which is bad enough. But even worse, if Roger turns back up and claims he’s been framed and that his mother’s being mind-controlled, it’s going to be really, really hard to convince anyone that he’s telling the truth.
“But at the same time, I think Jackson is deliberately setting New Madrid up as the fall guy—the ‘evil manipulator’ the ‘good Regent’ can discover and pin all the blame on if the wheels start to come off. He can hammer New Madrid under any time he has to, and look at the other advantage it gives him. New Madrid is Roger’s
father,
whether Roger can stand him or not. So who would be a more natural ‘evil manipulator’ than the father of that arch traitor, Roger MacClintock? Obviously, father and son thought the whole thing up together!”
She sighed, and shook her head again.
“I’m sure he believes Roger really is dead, so the whole thing is designed to use New Madrid as a scapegoat and a diversion if he needs one. I suppose I could even argue that the fact that he thinks he may need a diversion badly enough to concoct this new story blaming it all on Roger is a sign that his control is a lot shakier than it looks from here. But even though he’s setting it up for an entirely different set of reasons, it’s only going to make things look even worse for Roger if Jackson ‘suddenly discovers’ that New Madrid has been controlling the Empress all along. And it’s going to be a lot tougher for us to deal with
that
than it’s going to be to get through Mountmarch’s defenses here on Marduk.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Julian said. “And the good news is that if you can’t, it’s just as likely we’ll all be dead long before the problem crops up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I wish we could use the pocking radios.”
Roger peered through the battlefield smoke and cursed. The Krath army used about one arquebus for every ten soldiers, and between those, the Marines on the right, the Diaspran infantry on the left, and the occasional bombard firing from either side, the fields were covered in a veritable smokescreen. His helmet visor’s systems gave him far better vision than any unaided eye could have provided, but that wasn’t saying a lot. Worse, the billowing waves of smoke made it impossible to use visual signals in place of the radios. He could punch the occasional communications laser through, but enough gun smoke deprived him even of that.
“Tough, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Pahner asked. “The fact is, up until we hit the Krath, you were spoiled as far as emissions discipline is concerned. When you don’t have a complete monopoly on it, there are plenty of times when you don’t have the luxury of using radio. Doesn’t do to let the other side hear you, whether they can understand you or not. Then there’s direction-finding. Or the battle could be taking place across lag distances where the turnaround time on transmissions just makes it impractical.” He looked out across the smoke-covered fields between the two citadels and nodded. “At least this time you can
almost
see what’s happening. That gives you at least a chance of judging what’s going on.”
Feet pounded on the stone steps behind them, and Roger turned to the runner who’d just arrived from the left wall. The sound in that direction had switched back to regular platoon volleys, he noted.
“How goes it, Orol?”
“Captain Fain says the enemy is off the wall and in retreat,” the runner replied, rubbing blood from a cut at the base of his horns out of his eye.
“Bad?” Roger asked.
“Not really, Your Highness,” the Mardukan said with a grunt of laughter. “They’re not much as individual fighters; not a patch on the Boman. They barely got to the top of the wall, and we counterattacked with steel. We had a good killing.”
Roger laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Go get your head looked to, you old coot,” he said. “There’s more where those came from.”
“Aye, and they’ll be back tomorrow,” the Mardukan replied. Then he saluted and headed back down the stairs, and Roger turned to Pahner.
“It sounds like the action on that side is pretty much the same as what’s happening on the right. Time to sally?”
“I think so,” Pahner replied. “Gastan?”
“If you think it wise,” the Shin king said. “They could get bogged down and trapped, though,” he added, looking just a bit dubious.
“Time to find out,” Roger said, and walked to the rear of the wall. His position overlooked the courtyard directly behind the gates, which was currently packed with
civan
. The aggressive, bipedal omnivores were stamping their great three-toed feet and snapping at each other restlessly. The older of them recognized the conditions and were ready for action; it often led to a really good feed.
“Time for you to earn your damned pay, Rastar!” he shouted.
“Just make sure you’re around to cover it!” the last Prince of Therdan shouted back, then looked at the commander of the gate tower. “Open the gates!”
The cavalry unit headed out in column of fours, crossing the double moat system and bypassing a bit of ruined siege tower from the Krath’s farthest advance until they reached the outer works. Then they shook out into a single column, riding down the road and away from the castle at a walk. As the last rider cleared the outermost fortifications, the entire column began to pivot until it had turned into a line faced at right angles away from the roadway.
The instant the maneuver was completed, the
civan
broke into a long, bounding canter towards the left flank . . . and disappeared almost immediately into a fog bank of smoke.
“Blast!” Roger glared in disgust as the smoke overloaded his helmet’s thermal sight capability—easier to do with the cold-blooded Mardukans than with most species. “The hell with this, I’m heading down to Fain’s position. Maybe I can see something from there!”
“Very well, Your Highness,” Pahner said, and gestured with his head to the collection of Marines and Diasprans, headed by Julian, who had remained behind to guard the prince’s back. “But please keep firmly in mind that you are now Heir Primus.”
“I will,” Roger sighed. “I will.”
Captain Fain looked up from a brief conversation with Erkum Pol and nodded as Roger loomed out of the smoke billowing up from the Diasprans’ rifle fire.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness. How is it going with the rest of the wall?”
“They seem to have come in most heavily over here,” Roger said, peering through the smoke towards the enemy trenches. “Is it just me, or do they seem to still be up and about?”
“As a matter of fact, they appear to be contemplating another attack, Your Highness,” Fain replied. “I would consider that unwise, were I their commander, particularly given how disordered they are. But . . . nonetheless.”
“They won’t be contemplating it for long,” Roger told the captain with an evil chuckle. “I’d hoped that they wouldn’t have regained their trenches; it was too much to hope that they’d actually be getting ready to try again.”
“Ah, are we going to witness a
civan
charge?” Fain asked, then gave a grunting Mardukan laugh when Roger nodded. “I’m sure Honal is just
hating
that!”
“I can’t see a blasted thing!” Honal cursed.
“Well, if we stay on this heading, we should find something to attack . . . eventually. Even if we can’t see it,” Rastar said calmly, consulting the tactical map on the human pad Julian had programmed for him. “According to this, we’re about two-thirds of the way to the forces opposite Fain.”
“If that bloody Diaspran even knows where he is,” Honal said as his
civan
stumbled in a hole. A Krath who appeared to be lost stumbled out of the fog of smoke within the sweep of Honal’s sword and promptly died. “Come on, Valan!” Honal snarled as he flipped blood from his blade. “Give us a
breeze
!”
“Rain coming,” Roger said as the sky darkened slightly. “That should finish off any visibility.”
“Breaks of the game, Your Highness,” Fain replied. “Of course, rain could lay some of the smoke, too, which wouldn’t hurt.” The native captain shrugged, never taking his eyes from the field before him. “I do believe that the Krath have dressed their lines. Perhaps you should consider moving back to the central keep.”
“Hell with it,” Roger said, leaning out and peering into the smoke himself. “I’m safe enough here.”
Fain sighed and looked over his shoulder for Erkum Pol.
“You’re safe enough
for the time being,
Your Highness. But if I ask you to retire, I must insist that you accept my judgment. I will not explain to Captain Pahner why I got you killed.”
Roger looked at him with an expression very like surprise, then burst into laughter and nodded.
“All right, Krindi!” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, but you sounded
exactly
like Pahner there.”
“That wasn’t my intention, Your Highness,” the officer said, looking towards the Krath lines again. “But I don’t consider it an insult. And, I have to add, that time might be soon.”
The Krath used human-sized signs, held on long poles, as their unit guidons. The signs were marked with complex color patterns that designated unit and rank. In a culture without radio or any of the other adjuncts of high-tech civilization, such extremely simple visual signals were the only way for units to maintain cohesion in the smoke and confusion of a battlefield. The Krath had no option but to use them—or something very like them—if they wanted to hang on to any sort of organization, but the system also made it easier for the Diasprans to estimate when they had really reconsolidated. And they seemed to have gotten their act back together in record time.
“Just a bit more,” Roger said. “Then I’ll leave.” He looked towards the Krath citadel, which had just disappeared behind a wall of silver. “Rain’s almost here anyway. Won’t be able to see a thing in a few minutes.”
Even as he spoke, the blast of wind that precedes a storm tore aside the smoke, revealing the battlefield in all its detail.
“Oh, my,” Roger said.
“Ho! My prayers are answered!” Honal said, as a breeze caressed his cheek. Then, as the smoke cleared, he grimaced. “Maybe it was better the other way.”
The Krath hadn’t simply reconsolidated the units which had just assaulted; they’d brought up reinforcements, as well. The new units had been deployed in blocks to either side of the original assault group, and the last few were moving into position as the smoke blew aside. Which left the Vashin barely two hundred meters from the nearest Krath battalion . . . which was just starting to dress its lines.
“Too late to worry about that!” Rastar snapped as he glanced in both directions. For a wonder, the cavalry had more or less kept its dress. “Now, for Shul’s sake, don’t get so carried away you get cut off or something; I’m tired of having to come to your rescue. Bugler, sound the charge!”
“The kazoos, the kazoos of the North,’” Roger muttered. The Vashin used a short metal and bone horn that sounded remarkably like a kazoo, to a human.
“Now that is pretty,” Pahner commented over Roger’s shoulder.
“I thought you were staying by the gates,” Roger said, glancing back at the Marine. Then he returned his attention to the field. “And, yes it is.”
The pennon-fluttering Vashin lances had come down as one, and the
civan
had burst into a gallop, heads down and legs pumping. The species was similar in appearance to the extinct Terran velociraptor, and nearly as dangerous. At the moment, laid flat-out, tails whipping to maintain their balance, they looked like the most dangerous thing in the galaxy. Coupled with the Vashin on their backs, they were certainly the most deadly shock melee force ever evolved on Marduk.
“What’s that quote?” Roger asked softly. “Something about it’s good that war is so terrible?”
“ ‘It is good that war is so terrible, else we might grow too fond of it.’ An American general named Lee in the early industrial period. He had a point.”
“It’s beautiful,” Roger said. “But the Krath are going to swallow them without a burp.”
The battalion the Vashin were charging contained at least three times as many men as they had. And it was but one of at least twenty drawn up in front of the walls.
“After fighting the Boman, the one thing Rastar knows is when to disengage,” Pahner pointed out.
“Let’s hope,” Roger replied.
Rastar tried to withdraw the lance which had just transfixed the Krath infantryman, but it was stuck fast. He hated to give up the weapon’s reach advantage, but he also knew better than to make himself a stationary target trying to recover it. And so he kept right on moving while he drew his sword and slashed at one of the swarming locals just as his
civan s
tamped at another. The wicked, iron-shod claws shredded their target’s torso even as the sword bit into flesh, but it was obvious they were getting bogged.
It wasn’t that the locals were trained to receive cavalry. Indeed, the battalion that they’d struck at first was gone, shattered and scattered to the winds. But there’d been another behind it, and still more forces pouring out of the trenches. At this point, the Vashin were almost surrounded simply because of the sheer inertia of the Krath forces on either flank of their penetration. The terrified infantry
wanted
to get out of the way, but there was nowhere for them to go.
He looked around for the bugler and realized he was almost all alone.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. It was a curse Honal had picked up from the human healer, and it was appropriate for the moment. The ground in every direction was covered with bodies. “I really need to get us out of this.”
He began waving at nearby units, gathering them about him as he headed to the rear and the rain began to fall. At first, the drops were scattered, but in moments the storm had become a real Mardukan gullywasher. Water pounded down like a hammer—or a waterfall—and quickly formed puddles nearly knee deep to a human.
Rastar slashed down a few of the locals on the way out, especially when they were delaying his forces, but his main objective now was to withdraw his men intact, not to run up his body count. He’d only drawn his pistols once, but when he saw a cluster around a group of dismounted Vashin, all four came out. The Vashin, including Honal, were hunkered down behind their dropped
civan,
slashing and firing at a group of about twenty Krath who obviously wanted their weapons and harnesses.
Rastar pressed the
civan
into a gallop, and it responded wearily. He could tell the beast was badly fatigued, but its feet spurned the bodies of the fallen and it leapt over the occasional
civan
body until it finally bounded into the midst of the Krath attackers. Rastar laid down a curtain of revolver fire all around himself, while the
civan
kicked and bit in every direction, until a dozen of the other troopers he’d rallied came charging in to finish the enemy off .