Path of the Fury by David Weber
The command deck hatch hissed open, and Senior War Mother Resdyrn niha Turbach stepped through it.
She was impressive, even for a fully mature Rishathan matriarch. At 2.5 meters and just over three hundred kilos, she towered over every human on the bridge yet looked almost squat. Her incredibly gaudy carapace streamers enveloped her in a diaphanous cloud, swirling from her shoulders and assaulting the eye like some psychotic rainbow, but her face paint was sober—for a Rish. Its bilious green hue suited her temporary “merchant” persona and made a fascinating contrast with her scarlet cranial frills, and Howell wondered again if Rishathan eyes really used the same spectrum as human ones.
“Greetings, Merchant Resdyrn,” he said, and listened to the translator render it into the squeaky, snarling ripples of Low Rishathan. Howell had once Known an officer who could actually manage High Rishathan, but the same man could also reproduce the exact sound of an old-fashioned buzz-saw hitting a nail at several thousand RPM. Howell preferred to rely upon his translator.
“Greetings, Merchant Howell,” the translator bug in his right ear replied. “And greetings to your line mother.”
“And also to yours.” Howell completed the formal greeting with a bow, amazed once more by how lithely that bulky figure returned it. “My daughter officers await you,” he continued. “Shall we join them?”
Resdyrn inclined her massive head, and the two of them walked into the briefing room just off the command bridge. Half a dozen humans rose as they entered, bowing welcome while Resdyrn stalked around the table to the out-sized chair at its foot.
Howell moved to the head of the table and watched her slip her short, clubbed tail comfortably through the open chairback. Despite their saurian appearance and natural body armor, the Rishatha were not remotely reptilian. They were far closer to an oviparous Terrestrial mammal, if built on a rather over-powering scale. Or, at least, the females were. In his entire career, Howell had seen exactly three Rishathan males, and they were runty, ratty-looking little things. Fluttery and helpless, too. No wonder the matriarchs considered “little old man” a mortal insult.
“Well, Merchant Howell,” the irony of the honorific came through the translator interface quite well, “I trust you are prepared to conclude our transaction for the goods your line mother has ordered?”
“I am, Merchant Resdyrn,” he replied with matching irony and a gesture to Gregor Alexsov. His chief of staff keyed the code on a lock box and slid it to Resdyrn. The Rish lifted the lid and bared her upper canines in a human-style smile as she looked down at a prince’s ransom in molecular circuitry, one of the several areas in which human technology led Rishathan.
“These are, of course, but a sample,” Howell continued. “The remainder are even now being transferred to your vessel.”
“My line mother thanks you through her most humble daughter,” Resdyrn replied, not sounding particularly humble, and lifted a crystalline filigree of seaweed from the box. She held it in long, agile fingers with an excessive number of knuckles and peered at it through a magnifier, then grunted the alarming sound of a Rishathan chuckle as she saw the Imperial Fleet markings on the connector chips. She laid it carefully back into its nest, closed the lid once more, and crooked a massive paw protectively over it. The gesture was revealing, Howell thought. That single box, less than a meter in length, contained enough molycircuitiy to replace her freighter’s entire command net, and for all her studied ease, Resdyrn was well aware of it.
“We, of course, have brought you the agreed upon cargo,” she said after a moment, “but I fear my line mother sends your mother of mothers sad tidings, as well.” Howell sat straighter in his chair. “This shall be our last meeting for some time to come, Merchant Howell.”
Howell swallowed a muttered curse before it touched his expression and cocked his head politely. Resdyrn raised her cranial frills in acknowledgment and touched her forehead in token of sorrow.
“Word has come from our embassy on Old Earth. The Emperor himself—“ the masculine pronoun was a deliberate insult from a Rish; the fact that it was also accurate lent it a certain additional and delicious savor “—has taken an interest in this sector and dispatched his war mother Keita hither.”
“I . . . had not yet heard that, Merchant Resdyrn.” Howell hoped his dismay didn’t show. Keita! God, did that mean they were going to have the Cadre on their backs? He longed to ask but dared not expend so much face.
“We do not know Keita’s mission,” Resdyrn continued, taking pity on his curiosity (or, more likely, simply executing her own orders), “but there are no signs that the Cadre has been mobilized. My line mother fears this may yet happen, however, and so must sever her links with you at least until such time as Keita departs. I hope that you will understand her reasoning.”
“Of course.” Howell inhaled, then shrugged, deliberately exaggerating the gesture to be sure Resdyrn noted it. “My mother of mothers will also understand, though I’m sure she will hope the severance will be brief.”
“As do we, Merchant Howell. We of the Sphere hope for your success, that we may greet you as sisters in your own sphere.”
“Thank you, Merchant Resdyrn.” Howell managed to sound quite sincere, though no human was likely to forget the way the Rishatha had set the old Federation and Terran League at one another’s throats in order to pick their joint bones. Four hundred years later, humanity was still coping with the lingering echoes of the League Wars in places like Shallingsport.
Fortunately, the Rishatha’s military follow through had been less successful than their diplomatic judo throw. They’d ingested most of the old League during the First Human-Rish War while a war-weary Federation writhed in the throes of civil war, but their calculations hadn’t allowed for the Empire which had arisen from the Federation’s ruins under then Fleet Admiral Terrence Murphy, and Terrence I and the House of Murphy had kicked the Lizards back into their pre-war boundaries in the Second Human-Rish War.
“In that case,” Resdyrn rose, ending the unexpectedly brief meeting, “I shall take my leave. I am covered in shame that it was I who must bring this message to you. May your weapons taste victory, Merchant Howell.”
“My daughter officers and I see no shame, Merchant Resdyrn, but only the faithful discharge of your line mother’s decree.”
“You are kind.” Resdyrn bestowed another graceful bow upon him and left. Howell made no effort to accompany her. Despite her “merchant’s” role, Resdyrn niha Turbach remained a senior war mother of the Rishathan Sphere, and the suggestion that she could not be trusted aboard his vessel without a guard would have been an intolerable insult to her honor. This once, he was just as glad of it, too. Contingency plans or no, this little bit of news was going to bollix the works in fine style, and he needed to confer with his staff.
“Jays, Skipper,” one member of that staff said. “Now what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?”
“Keep your suit on, Henry, Howell replied, and his long, cadaverous quartermaster leaned ostentatiously back in his chair.
“No problem—yet. But we’re gonna look a bit hungry in a few months with our main supply line cut.”
“Agreed, but Greg and I knew this—or something like it—might happen. I wish it had waited a while longer, but we’ve set up our fallbacks.”
“Oh? I wish you’d told me about them,” Commander d’Amcourt said.
“We’re telling you now, aren’t we? You want to lay it out, Greg?”
“Yes, sir.” Alexsov leaned slightly forward, cold eyes thawed by an atypical amusement as he met d’Amcourt’s lugubrious gaze. “We’ve set up alternate supply lines through Wyvern. It’ll be more cumbersome, because our purchase orders will have to be spread out carefully, and it was certainly convenient to have the Rishatha as a cutout in our logistics net, but there are advantages, too. For one thing, we can get proper spares and missile resupply direct. And we’ve already been dumping a lot of luxury items through Wyvern. I don’t see any reason we can’t f
He shrugged, and heads nodded here and there. Most Rogue Worlds were fairly respectable (by their own lights, at least), but Wyvern’s government was owned outright by the descendants of the captain-owners of one of the last piratical fleets of the League Wars to go “legitimate.” It bought or sold anything, no questions asked, and was equally indiscriminate in the deals it brokered. Many of its fellow Rogue Worlds might deplore its existence, yet Wyvern was too useful an interface (and too well armed) for most of them to do anything more strenuous. Which, since the Empire had both the power and the inclination to smack the hands of those who irritated it, gave Wyvern’s robber-baron aristocracy a vested interest in anything that might disrupt the nascent Franconian Sector’s stability.
“As for our other support—“ Alexsov paused, mentioning no names or places even here, then shrugged “—this shouldn’t pose any problems. Unless, of course, Keita’s presence means the Cadre plans to shove its nose in.”
“Exactly, and that’s what worries me most,” Howell agreed. He glanced at the rather fragile-looking commander seated at Alexsov’s right elbow. Slim, dark-skinned Rachel Shu, Howell’s intelligence officer, was the sole female member of his staff . . . and its most lethal. Now she shrugged.
“It worries me, too, Commodore. My sources didn’t say a thing about Keita’s coming clear out here, so my people don’t have any idea what he’s up to. On the face of it, I’m inclined to think the Rishatha have overreacted. They don’t dare antagonize the Empire by getting caught involved in something like this, and they remember what Keita and the Cadre did to them over the Louvain business, so they’re pulling in their horns and getting ready to disclaim any responsibility. But I don’t think my sources could have missed the signs if the Cadre were being committed on any meaningful scale.”
“Then why’s Keita here? Wasn’t he their point for Louvain, too?”
“He was, but the Cadre’s too small for him to have pulled out any major force without my people noticing it. Besides, my last reports place him in the Macedon Sector, not on Old Earth, so this looks more like a spur of the moment improvisation, and the timing’s about right for it to be in response to Mathison’s World. He was right next door and they banged him on out—they didn’t deploy him from the capital. I suspect he’s on some sort of special intelligence-gathering mission for Countess Miller. She’s always preferred to get a reading through Cadre Intelligence to crosscheck on ONI, and Keita’s always been happier in the field than an HQ slot. If he hadn’t, he’d have the general’s stars and Arbatov would be his exec.”
“Which means we could see the Cadre yet,” Rendlemann pointed out.
“Unlikely,” Shu replied. “Our support structure’s very well hidden and dispersed, and the Cadre’s a precision instrument for application to precise targets. In fact, I’d say the Ministry of Justice was more dangerous than either the Fleet or Cadre, since it’s the covert side of this whole operation that’s most likely to lead the other two to us, and Justice is best equipped for getting at us from that side. As far as the Cadre’s concerned, I’ll start to worry when we see a major transfer of its personnel to this sector or one of its neighbors. Until that happens, Keita’s just one more spook. A good one, but no more than that.”
“I think you’re right, Rachel,” Howell said. At any rate, he certainly hoped she was. “We’ll proceed on that basis for now, but I want you to double-check with Control ASAP.”
“Yes, sir. The next intelligence courier’s due in about five days. It may already be bringing us confirmation; if it isn’t, I’ll send a request back by the same dispatch boat.”
“All right.” Howell toyed with a stylus, then glanced at Alexsov. “Is there anything else we need to look at while we’re all together, Greg?” Alexsov shook his head. “In that case, I think you and Henry might make a quick run to Wyvern to set things in motion there. Don’t take along anything incriminating—we’ve got the liquidity to pay cash for the first orders—but sound out the locals for future marketing possibilities.”
“Can do,” Alexsov replied. “How soon can you leave, Henry?”
“Ummmm . . . a couple of hours, I’d guess.”
“Good,” Howell said, “because unless I miss my guess—and unless Keita is going to make problems—we ought to be getting our next targeting order from Rachel’s courier. I’ll want you back here for the skull sessions, Greg.”
“In that case, I’d better get packed.” Alexsov stood, a general signal for the meeting to break up, and Howell watched his subordinates file out of the briefing room. He walked over to the small-scale system display in the corner and stood brooding down at the holograph star and its barren, lifeless planets. Rachel was probably right, he decided. If Keita were the spear-point of a Cadre intervention, he would have brought at least an intelligence staff with him. On the other hand, Keita was the tip of a damned spear all by himself; the rest of the weapon could always be brought in later, and that could complicate life in a major way.
He reached out, cupping a palm around the minute, silvery mote of his flagship, and sighed. Problems, problems. The life of a piratical freebooter had seemed so much simpler—and so much more lucrative—than a career with the Fleet, and the bigger objective was downright exciting. There were the minor drawbacks of having to become a mass murderer, a thief, and a traitor to his uniform, but the rewards were certainly great . . . assuming one lived to enjoy them.
He released his flagship with a heavier sigh, folding his hands behind him, and started thoughtfully towards the briefing room hatch.
How in hell, he wondered silently, had Midshipman James Howell, Imperial Fleet, Class of ‘28, ended up here?
Chapter Six
“Still so eager to be up and about?”
Alicia inhaled a spray of sweat as she gasped for breath, but she welcomed the teasing malice in Lieutenant de Riebeck’s voice. The physical therapist was a fellow Cadreman, without a trace of the semi-awe her drop commando reputation woke in ordinary medics. That was refreshing enough, and his complete indifference to her mental state was even more so. Alicia had agitated so noisily to get out of bed that even Okanami and Major Gateau had finally given in, but de Riebeck had been their revenge. His sole interest lay in getting one Captain Alicia DeVries not merely ambulatory but fully reconditioned, and his was clearly an obsessive personality.
“Looking a little worn to me, Captain,” he continued brightly, and cranked the treadmill’s speed control up a bit. “Care for another five or six klicks? How about another five percent of grade just to make it interesting?”
Alicia moaned and collapsed over the handrails. The still-moving treadmill carried her feet from under her, and she twitched with a horridly realistic death rattle and belly-flopped onto the belt. It deposited her on the floor with a thump, and she oozed out flat.
Lieutenant de Riebeck grinned, and someone applauded from the training room door. Alicia rolled over and sat up, raking sweat-sodden hair from her forehead, and saw Tannis Gateau clapping vigorously.
“I give that a nine-point-five for dramatic effect and, oh, a three-point-two for coordination.” Alicia shook a fist, and the major chuckled. “I see Pablo is being his usual sadistic self.”
“We strive to please, Major, ma’am,” de Riebeck smirked. Alicia laughed, and Cateau reached down to pull her to her feet.
“You know, I never thought I’d admit it, but this is one part of the Cadre I’ve missed,” she panted, massaging her rebuilt thigh with both hands. The repaired muscles ached, but it was the good ache of exercise, and she straightened with a sigh. Despite her reactivation, she refused to cut her hair, which had escaped its clasp once more. She gathered it back up and refastened it, then scrubbed her face with a towel.
“I think I’m going to live after all, Pablo.”
“Aw, shucks. then, there’s always tomorrow.”
“An inspiring thought.” Alicia hung the towel aro
“Indeed I have. Uncle Arthur wants to see you.”
“Oh.” The humor flowed out of Alicia’s voice, and her forefingers moved in slow circles, wrapping the towel-ends about them. Her success in so far avoiding Keita made her feel a bit guilty, but she really didn’t want to see him. Not now, and perhaps never. He was going to bring back too many painful memories . . . and Cadre rumor credited him with telepathy, among other arcane powers. He’d always made her feel as if her skull were made of glass.
“Sorry, Sarge, but he insists. And I think it’s a good idea myself.”
“Why?” Alicia demanded bluntly, and Cateau shrugged.
“You didn’t quit the Cadre just to avoid Uncle Arthur, and you’ve been hiding from him long enough. It’s time you faced up to him. He knows, whether you do or not, that you didn’t ‘fail’ him by resigning, but you’re never going to feel comfortable about it till you talk to him in person. Call it absolution.”
“I don’t need ‘absolution’!” Alicia snapped, jade eyes flashing with sudden fire, and Cateau grinned crookedly.
“Then why the sudden heat? Come on, Sarge.” She hooked an arm through Alicia’s. “I’m surprised he’s let your debrief wait this long, so you may as well get it over with.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass, Tannis.”
“True, too true. Now march, Sarge.”
“Can’t I even clean up first?”
“Uncle Arthur knows what sweat smells like. March!”
Alicia sighed, but the steel showed under Gateau’s humor, and she was right. Alicia couldn’t keep pretending Keita wasn’t here. But Tannis only thought she understood why Alicia had resigned. No one—not even Tannis—knew the real reason for that, and how much it had cost her or why she had turned her back so utterly upon the Cadre. No one but Sir Arthur. Yet even reliving that decision, horrid as it would be, was only part of her present hesitance.