CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Sol System, 4331 C.E.

The yellow-white light of Sol was as Corin remembered it. Not that one would expect it to change in only a little over two years.

He wasn't seeing it directly. The viewscreen was showing him a download of what the advance scouting elements were observing. Even to them, cruising among the orbits of Sol's outer gas giants, the home sun was little more than a superlatively bright star. From where Corin waited with the main fleet, it was still just an undistinguished member of the stellar multitudes.

Still, the sight made him remember all that had happened since his last glimpse of that particular glow. Which, in turn, made him glance downward at the sleeve of the uniform he was wearing. Fleet gray. By extending the upper arm up and out he could see the black-and-red shoulder flash.

They had returned with Roderick Brady-Schiavona to Sigma Draconis, where they'd gotten their identities verified with finality and sworn allegiance to Ivar. He had accepted it, on Roderick's and Aerenthal's recommendation. But he'd balked at allowing the Deathstriders to be reconstituted as a free company with deep-space warships—even one working for himself under a long-term exclusive contract, an arrangement Roderick had been prepared to consider. Aerenthal had helped work out a compromise: they were taken into the Fleet but allowed to keep a unique identity—a quasi-autonomous unit with its own integral ground-attack capability, technically Marines but permanently assigned to the unit, which could be justified in terms of operational flexibility as well as morale. Of course they couldn't use the name of what had been a free company. They'd also had to take demotions: Corin and Janille had reverted to their pre-desertion ranks of Fleet captain and Marine major, while Garth had had to settle for colonel, the highest rank he had ever legitimately held as a mercenary. Ivar had been adamant on that last point, and Garth had taken it surprisingly well.

The Emperor's other sticking point had held the potential for being more troublesome. . . .

Aerenthal had broken it to them one night. "His Imperial Majesty has ruled that there is no question of a Marine officer commanding a unit whose Marine component is secondary. In consequence . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, Captain Marshak will be in command of the Permanent Task Group for Special Operations." The name they'd arrived at to replace the officially nonexistent "Deathstriders" could mean anything you wanted it to mean. "Colonel Krona will command the unit's ground-assault component."

Garth's face and voice had worn the same alarming mildness Corin and Janille had once seen in the depths of an alien space-construct. "Is it out of the question for a Marine . . . or for a Marine who's an ex-mercenary?"

For the first time since they'd known him, Aerenthal had looked ill at ease. "Ah . . . I really can't speak to that question. At any rate," he'd continued briskly, "it's being rationalized by allowing Corin to keep his original date of rank, while yours is the date you were accepted into His Imperial Majesty's service—last week, to be precise."

Garth had nodded ponderously, while Corin had sat immobilized by embarrassment. It might have led to trouble, but Garth's desire for revenge on Chewning had proven so strong that all other considerations had been reduced to irrelevant triviality. Also, he'd been kept occupied by a challenging job. It was a truism that an elite military unit which suffered too many casualties simply ceased to exist, for there were too few veterans left to provide a mold into which the new recruits could settle and harden. Garth had had to rebuild the Permanent Task Group's powered-armor component little by little around the small cadres that had gotten away from Mars. Corin had had an easier time of it, for more of the warships had escaped from the debacle at Sol.

Now his eye continued on down his gray-clad sleeve from the shoulder flash with its striding black Mark 32-A silhouetted on a red background, to the single sunburst above the cuff. He'd won his way back to commodore's rank as they'd kept the pressure on the "Emperor" Chewning, forcing him back to Sol. He would never forget the reconquest of the Epsilon Eridani system, although he doubted his satisfaction had matched what Garth had felt as he'd led the first ground assault to hit the surface of Neustria. The place had been a windfall of recruits, for a lot of Deathstrider veterans had faded into the planet's woodwork during Chewning's occupation.

And now, at last, they were returning to Sol. . . .

"Excuse me, Commodore." The flag captain's voice returned Corin to the present. "Admiral Brady-Schiavona's compliments, and he's ready now."

"Thank you." Corin knew all the unit commanders were getting the same message. He returned to his command chair, which was equipped for conferencing. He took the various leads extending from it and attached them to the appropriate connection points on his uniform. Then he donned the wraparound, eye-covering headset.

The technology was of immemorial antiquity, and people with the aptitude for direct neural interfacing found it a tedious substitute. But at least everyone could use it. And the virtual conference room that, to Corin's eyes, had replaced his flag bridge seemed real enough. So did the people seated around the table, although the way the late arrivals kept popping into existence in their chairs somewhat spoiled the naturalistic effect. The table was circular, and therefore shouldn't have had a head. But of course it did have one, defined by where Roderick Brady-Schiavona was sitting. Certain others might yield to vanity and use the cosmetic software which, while leaving one recognizably oneself, optimized appearance beyond nature's best efforts. He didn't need it. No program could supply the indefinable quality which made everyone around him seem an afterthought.

"Good morning, everyone," he said as the last image materialized to join the shared hookup, scrupulously observing the ships' clocks. "This is going to be our last opportunity to meet before the final advance on Earth, so I want to give everyone the chance to voice any questions or concerns." He activated a hologram which floated above the table's center—an image within an image. It showed disposition of his fleet where it hung outside Sol's Oort Cloud.

"Just one, Admiral." Aline Tatsumo had also made commodore, and thus was too senior to be Roderick's flag captain. Rumor had it she'd resisted promotion as long as possible. Now she was commanding a task group. "I'm wondering if Commodore Marshak's reinforced task group is the best possible choice for the rather crucial position to which you've assigned it."

Corin forced self-control on himself. Tatsumo's behavior toward him had always been correct, but she wasted little energy concealing her opinion that Roderick was too ready to grant important commands to former rebels and outlaws. When the young admiral had assigned some additional battlecruiser and cruiser squadrons to support what couldn't be openly called the Deathstriders, and placed the beefed-up force at the tip of one of the inward-curving flanking formations he meant to bring sweeping in to envelop Earth like the enfolding wings of a vast bird of prey, she'd dropped even the formality of concealing her feelings.

"We've been over this in private, Aline." Roderick's tone said he'd been under the impression that they'd settled it there as well. "But since you've brought it up here, let's get your objections on the table. Are they to the composition of the force itself, or to Commodore Marshak as its commander?"

If, by challenging Tatsumo to put up or shut up, Roderick had hoped to startle her into doing the latter, he was disappointed. "Actually, sir, I have concerns with both. I suggest it might be more suitable to use a unit whose makeup is more . . . homogeneous." Straight old-line Fleet without any mercenary outfit in its pedigree, you mean, Corin thought. But he knew there were others around the virtual table who agreed with Tatsumo, so he kept quiet as she continued. "Likewise, Commodore Marshak is still somewhat junior for command of a task group—even one of somewhat irregular nature."

"So are you, Aline," Roderick observed with his disarming smile. "So are a lot of people in a lot of billets. It's that kind of war."

"I wasn't holding myself out as a replacement for Commodore Marshak, sir. There are any number of possibilities. People who, in addition to higher rank, also have more extensive combat experience."

This tack was so unexpected as to bring Corin out of his self-imposed silence. "I believe my record in that respect is fairly `extensive,' Commodore Tatsumo. And I must say this is the first time I've heard you or anyone else suggest otherwise."

"I was referring, Commodore Marshak, to combat experience which is readily verifiable, without having to rely on records from . . . outside His Imperial Majesty's service."

Translation: sensitive commands should go to people who've been with Ivar from the start. Not to Johnny-come-lately ex-mercs. "Are you implying, Commodore Tatsumo, that my record while in the employ of the former provisional government of Epsilon Eridani has been in any way falsified?"

"No, but—"

"Well, then, just what are you—?"

"All right, that will do." Roderick's interjection was delivered in a normal tone of voice, with none of the snappishness that the words might have suggested. But the incipient shouting match halted like a column of marching trainees at a drill instructor's bark. "Corin, I don't think that's what she meant at all. And Aline, his record—his Fleet record—speaks for itself. Not just his service before the current unpleasantness, including his decoration for valor in the last Ch'axanthu war, but also his last two years' service under His Imperial Majesty." Roderick had a way of saying those last three words that made my father superfluous. There were murmurs of agreement from around the table. "And at any rate, I've already explained my thinking on this subject. We have no way of being certain what situation our first-in unit will encounter at Earth. Under the circumstances, we need a capacity for independent initiative, and tactical flexibility. The Permanent Task Group for Special Operations has a demonstrated record of both . . . when allowed to function in its own way under its own commander." His voice had taken on a quiet finality, and when he paused for further comment, Tatsumo made none.

"So now," the admiral resumed, "let's turn to other matters. Another reason I called this meeting is to stress—without making a speech—that this is not a war of conquest or of revenge. It is a war to restore the Empire. This is the basis of His Imperial Majesty's policy of clemency toward defeated rebels. That policy remains firmly in force."

"Question, Admiral." Corin spoke mildly. He had a pretty good idea that Roderick's non-speech had been intended for him—and, through him, for Garth. "Does the Emperor's clemency extend to those who go beyond mere opposition and seek to usurp the Imperial title itself?"

"That crime must, of course, be viewed with exceptional seriousness. His Imperial Majesty will have to decide on the disposition of Chewning's case. But I must emphasize that it is his decision, not ours. And his judgment will doubtless be influenced by the degree of resistance we encounter. A usurper who yields and recants has a greater claim on the Emperor's mercy than one who persists in his treason. That consideration—as well as the ordinary rules of war—means any offer to surrender must be accepted." This time there was no question where Roderick's words were directed. Nor was the matter academic, given the manifest hopelessness of any resistance by Chewning. Everyone was expecting a surrender message to arrive any time.

"Yes, sir," Corin murmured. As the discussion moved on to tactical questions, he held his peace, while thinking, I'd better have a little talk with Garth. 

Damiano Chewning gazed from the comm screen with the face of a rapturous rodent. "I assure you, Madame Chairperson, that all Earth—the entire Sol system, in fact—waits to hail you as its savior, as the bringer of—"

"Of the reforms you've promised to implement . . . Your Imperial Majesty." Lauren Romaine's mouth formed a downward droop of distaste as she spoke the title. "You do recall, don't you?"

"But of course, Madame Chairperson! We shall have no difficulties in this regard. I am in full agreement with the program you propose. After the current emergency is over, I will effectuate it by Imperial decree!"

Romaine's fleet had halted to enable a comm ship to unfold its vast tachyon beam array. So she, standing on the flag bridge of FRS Liberator, and he, somewhere on the surface of Earth—or, she suspected, as far under it as he could get—could carry on a real-time conversation across a third of a light-year. But, she was beginning to suspect, meaningful communication with Chewning was beyond the capacity of any technology to provide.

"It is precisely to do away with that way of doing things that the Federated Republics are prepared to support your claim . . . Your Imperial Majesty. But I recognize that for the present it is how we must proceed. And now, let us turn matters over to our respective staffs, to work out the details." She motioned surreptitiously to the comm officer to make the transfer immediately, before she had to undergo further formal pleasantries that required her to render the Imperial form of address to Chewning. Then she turned away and contemplated the stars in the main screen.

Lauren Romaine, Chairperson of the Executive Council of the Federated Republics, had started anagathics late and didn't take to them exceptionally well. But even now, entering her seventh standard decade, she stood slenderly erect. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back into a bun, a style as severe as her Athena-like features.

"Do you really trust him to keep his word?"

Romaine turned with a smile as heartfelt as she could generally manage these days. "Of course I don't trust him, Khalid," she said to her chief advisor, the only other person on the flag bridge in civilian clothes. "How naive do you think I am?"

"Not very," Khalid Sadoury admitted. "Not after having spent half your adult life in politics and the half before that in academe."

"And finding that there was less difference between the two than I'd supposed," she finished for him. "But I don't think he'll have any choice once we've saved him from getting what he deserves at Brady-Schiavona's hands."

"Maybe. Still, there are disturbing stories about what happened to the last ally who thought he'd placed Chewning under an obligation by saving his worthless skin."

"Yes, yes, I know the version Brady-Schiavona has spread since Garth Krona joined him. But Chewning denies it, and how can we separate the facts from the propaganda? Anyway, I'm not relying on Chewning's gratitude! We won't be putting ourselves at his mercy—which Krona did, assuming the stories are true. Once we're in the Sol system with this force, we'll have the whip hand. Chewning will have to carry out the democratic reforms he promised as the price of our help."

"In other words, convert himself into a figurehead constitutional monarch." Sadoury gave his graying dark head a skeptical shake. "He'll try to find a way to slither out."

"Of course it will be difficult to hold him to his commitments. But the chance, Khalid, the chance! This is our one, unrepeatable opportunity to reconstruct the Empire along republican lines. It's also our one chance to stop Brady-Schiavona—the only man who's capable of restoring the Empire in its old form, which means he'll eventually be the death of the Federation. That's why I insisted on coming myself, against everyone's advice."

"And bringing me along, which is even worse," Sadoury grumbled.

Romaine's gray eyes twinkled. You haven't changed, Khalid—the only thing that hasn't changed since we were lovers, a couple of geological epochs ago. "This is too important, old friend. I don't trust anyone but myself to handle it . . . and I don't even trust myself in the absence of your counsel." And, she added to herself, I'd go mad with nobody around me but military robots. I need someone I can talk to—and who knows he can talk to me, freely and uninhibitedly. 

Sadoury proceeded to demonstrate the latter. "Was this `important' enough to make you agree to a secret understanding with Chewning?"

Romaine grew defensive. "If we'd submitted it to the full legislative assembly for public debate, Brady-Schiavona would have heard. And we would have lost the advantage of surprise."

"No doubt. Still . . . you're always making speeches against such things."

"But this isn't a matter of a couple of greedy, unelected warlords making a secret treaty to stab a third one in the back for their own selfish advantage! This is about a principle!" Sadoury's mischievous smile brought her to an embarrassed halt. Yes, Khalid, you're the ballast that keeps me from floating away on my own hot air. But it was too sore a point. "Can't we talk about something else?"

"Certainly. But you may not want to. After we'd deployed the array, we directed it back toward Ursa Major before using it to contact Chewning. There's a backlog of messages for you from the Executive Council. Most of them concern the proposed military appropriations for next year."

Romaine emitted a low groan. "I can just imagine. But tell me anyway."

"Linden is threatening to tie up all further consideration of the measure unless his own planets—and, in particular, certain contractors who contributed to his campaign fund—get a larger quota of the contracts. Jastrov is opposed to it simply because Duchamp is for it. The Alliance of Egalitarians is demanding that no military appropriation at all be passed unless it includes a provision for the abolition of all `elitist' rank distinctions and the establishment of command structure of elected committees. The—"

All at once, disgust and frustration caught up with Romaine like a rising tide of vomit. "You're right. I don't want to talk about it now. I'll deal with it later."

Sadoury inclined his head and withdrew, leaving her to continue convincing herself of the rightness of the course on which she'd embarked.

She'd once hoped the Federated Republics would simply be ignored while the various warlords fought their feuds. Left alone in the Ursa Major region, they could make themselves into something that would serve as a beacon and an example for the rest of what had been the Empire after the warlords had finally done the universe the service of wiping each other out. Some of her colleagues still clung pathetically to that hope. But it wasn't going to work out that way. The Empire was going to be restored, one way or another. And an Empire restored by Ivar Brady-Schiavona must inevitably swallow them. Their only alternative was to do the restoring themselves, converting the Empire into a crowned republic and hoping that the crown would eventually be seen for the superfluity it was and kicked summarily into the ash heap of history. Chewning, in his desperation, had promised just that in exchange for an alliance and recognition of his claim to the imperium. That claim's total speciousness hadn't been a problem, given Romaine's fundamental philosophical rejection of the entire Imperial system, including its succession law. From her viewpoint, Chewning's claim was neither more nor less farcical than any other.

And yet . . . from the Old Earth classics of political thought she'd read and admired, a quotation kept rearing its impudent head to disturb her certitude.

Two and a half millennia before, a certain Edmund Burke, challenged to judge the relative merits of competing parties' philosophies, had said, "Show me the men."

Nowadays, she reflected, he would have said, "Show me the people," for political participation was no longer restricted to males as it had been in his benighted time. But, that quibble aside, the point was as valid as ever. The only thing about a political position that was demonstrably, incontrovertibly real was the quality of the human beings who espoused it.

So, Lauren Romaine asked herself with the pitiless honesty of which she was capable, why is it that I, the standard-bearer of progress and enlightenment, find myself allied with Damiano Chewning, the lowest species of vermin to crawl out of the human gene pool? And in opposition to Ivar Brady-Schiavona, the one inarguably decent and honorable individual in the entire swirl of present-day power politics? 

Burke must have been wrong. 

Or . . . could I be wrong? 

Damiano Chewning turned away from his viewscreen as Lauren Romaine had turned away from hers. His face wore a look very different from any in his repertoire of public expressions. But it smoothed itself out as he recalled he wasn't alone in the room.

"You're sure she doesn't know I'm here?" asked the other man, who had stood well outside the visual pickup but still looked jittery.

"Quite sure. We've kept your presence under the tightest secrecy. Thanks to Brady-Schiavona's envelopment of this system, the only direct contact we've had with the Ursa Major region since your arrival has been the mission I sent to arrange the alliance—and they couldn't have told Romaine, because they didn't know."

Vladimir Liang was visibly relieved.

Not for the first time, Chewning reflected that his ex-enemy's arrival at Sol in a battered cruiser, one jump ahead of his victims' relatives in the chaos following Romaine's defeat of his fleet, had been a stroke of luck. Not all of Chewning's advisors had thought so at the time. Kirpal in particular had been all for shooting out of hand the man who'd murdered an Emperor. Typical, Chewning sneered inwardly. Blockheads like that are incapable of appreciating the need for flexibility, of appreciating that today's enemies may be tomorrow's possible allies, and vice versa. He had overruled them and taken the fugitive in. Liang, after all, still had useful contacts in his former Serpens/Bootes domain, whose balkanization had seemed to offer Chewning an opportunity to expand his own sphere of influence. Brady-Schiavona's offensive had forced an indefinite postponement of that program. But Liang was still a useful source of information about his new ally Romaine, however much his judgments had to be discounted for embitterment.

Now, with Liang's fears calmed, that embitterment crept back out. "I still can't believe you agreed to that bitch's terms. She doesn't have the proper respect for you as the legitimate Emperor, as I have. She'd turn you into a mere front man for herself and her rabble of petty grafters, fatuous gasbags and pseudo-intellectual poseurs!"

Chewning laughed shortly. "Oh, don't worry. I have no intention of honoring my agreement with her."

"But how will you be able to avoid it, with her political clown show established here on Earth and her fleet in orbit overhead?"

"The question is premature. And this whole discussion is academic. I had no choice. I needed her as an ally, so I had to promise her everything she demanded. I'll worry about evading those promises after she's stopped Brady-Schiavona for me."

"But will she be able to?" Liang fretted. "After all, her background is completely unmilitary."

"True. But she has some competent Fleet people working for her. And, as you are aware, their record is not entirely without successes." Liang flushed, and his lips compressed as if to hold back the rejoinder he could not make. Chewning permitted himself a moment's enjoyment before continuing in a mollifying tone. "You're basically right, though; her forces are no match for Brady-Schiavona's—or wouldn't be in an ordinary battle."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember, she'll have the advantage of surprise. Also . . . I have a plan which will leave her opponents leaderless when she attacks them."

Liang looked up sharply, his snit forgotten. "And as to this plan?"

Chewning smiled lazily, and met Liang's eyes in a way that completed the banishment of the malice—sheer habit, really—he'd displayed before. "Come. I'll explain the details. And afterwards . . ."

He recalled an ancient adage to the effect that politics makes strange bedfellows. The irony of that saying as applied to himself and Liang never failed to amuse him.

The holo tank was set up to show most of the Sol system, with the green icons of the main fleet still moving inward from its outskirts and, near the center, a single such light creeping along the string-light of Earth's orbit about sixty degrees behind the mother world. Corin, standing on the flagship of the Permanent Task Group for Special Operations—which that last icon represented—gave a command in a voice made brittle by tension. The display changed scale, and Earth's orbit filled the tank's entire circumference. Details emerged—disturbing details, to Corin's mind.

The expected feeler from Earth had arrived as they'd approached this system's outermost orbits, but its content had not been expected. Chewning had declared himself ready to surrender, but unable to make the offer publicly—the military diehards surrounding him wouldn't have it. He could get off Earth. But he would only give himself up to Roderick Brady-Schiavona personally, for he trusted no one else. He'd proposed that Roderick come ahead with a small force, to avoid tipping his hand. Afterwards, safe aboard Roderick's flagship, he would make a systemwide broadcast abjuring his assumption of the Imperial title, swearing allegiance to His Imperial Majesty Ivar, and calling on his erstwhile followers to yield.

The offer had been a bombshell dropped onto their council table. Many had begged Roderick not to expose himself to such danger in reliance on the word of a noted liar. Aline Tatsumo had been especially vehement. But there had been compelling arguments on the other side. It was clear, except to fanatics of the sort Chewning claimed he had to deal with, that Sol's defenders couldn't possibly win; under the circumstances, seeking to save his own skin at all costs seemed convincingly in character. And the stakes—a near-bloodless victory over opponents left disorganized and demoralized by their "Emperor's" defection—justified a degree of risk-taking.

Corin suspected that Roderick's decision had been foreordained anyway. Advising the young admiral to avoid personal danger at his people's possible expense was the surest way to persuade him to accept that danger. His willingness to risk his life might or might not have been related to the fact that, for all his youth, he had less of it left to lose than most. But whatever the truth of that, it was part of his makeup and there was nothing to be done about it—as dearly as Tatsumo would have liked to do something. She'd nearly waxed mutinous when he'd chosen the reinforced Permanent Task Group to escort him. This was precisely the kind of unorthodox operation in which they specialized, but the argument had left her unimpressed.

Now Corin watched as the tiny green icon of the cruiser Bogatyr drew slowly away from its fellows in the holo tank, bearing Roderick toward his rendezvous with the cruiser which—they were assured—was bringing Chewning from the orbital station at Earth's trailing Trojan point. Corin tried to make himself relax—after all, that red icon was approaching as per agreement, having separated from the station's larger one at the prearranged time. Still, it did wonders for his peace of mind to see the trio of green dots curving around toward the station, past the advancing red cruiser-icon.

Roderick had been skeptical at first. "Is it really necessary, Corin, to dispatch a force to seize the station while Chewning has just left it and is still en route?"

"Well," Corin had replied reasonably, "he can hardly object since he's surrendering the whole system. And if what he says about the fanaticism of some of his military people is true, I'd like to take every reasonable precaution to assure the safety of my command."

"Yes. I can respect that. All right, Corin. You can send an assault transport with enough troops to secure the station."

"And some escorts, just in case the station commander is unreasonable?"

"Very well," Roderick had assented, "you can send a couple of cruisers, although we're not looking at any serious defenses." Earth's Trojan points had stations dating back to the earliest space colonists, who'd come to mine the clusters of asteroidal rubble those points had collected over the eons. The stations had been expanded and updated over the centuries, and many of the Trojan asteroids had been towed to their immediate vicinity for easy mining. But the Trojan points' economic importance lay centuries in the past and they were now unthought-of backwaters—which, Corin grudgingly admitted to himself, made the trailing Trojan station a logical place for Chewning to surreptitiously give himself up.

Now he watched the tank as those three green icons curved around behind the advancing red cruiser and approached the station. He'd proceeded exactly as he had proposed and Roderick had approved. There were, however, a few things he'd decided the admiral didn't need to know. For one thing, those three ships were so heavily stealthed as to be invisible to anyone who didn't know exactly where to look for them—they appeared in the tank only because their transponder returns were being downloaded to it. For another, Janille was in charge of the assault force—too small to require a C.O. with the lieutenant colonel's rank she now held—and in overall command of the mini flotilla. And for yet another, one of the two cruiser escorts Roderick had authorized was a specialized scout cruiser, underweaponed but bristling with sophisticated sensors. . . .

He waited and watched, and as time crept by he began to allow himself to hope he wouldn't get the message he'd feared.

Then it arrived, with a shriek of static and a familiar voice made harsh by urgency.

"Corin, this is Janille," she began without preliminaries. Comm had orders to patch any incoming call from her directly to the flag bridge. "It is a trap—warships lying doggo among all the space junk of the Trojan point, not far from the station. We had to get practically on top of them to detect them, with their power stepped down to life-support levels. We're sending you our readouts on them now." The data began to appear on Corin's private comm screen, just as a rash of red dots began to pop out around the Trojan point.

"Janille, listen carefully. Get out of there now. Maintain stealth, of course, but get out as quickly as you can without making yourself conspicuous."

"But Corin, we can go ahead and take the station as planned—"

"Forget the station! That operation was never anything but an excuse to get you in there to look for a trap. And you've found it! If you go ahead and reveal yourself, it will alert them." There was no direct way a target could detect the fact that it was being scanned with modern sensors. So the opposition still didn't know their ambush had been found out. Corin meant to take advantage of that. "Now move! That's an order." He cut off the connection, and any further argument, and swung toward the intraship communicator and addressed the flag captain. "Captain Korachuk! Activate Contingency Plan Alpha." The plan was one of the things he'd decided the admiral didn't need to be bothered with. "Alert Bogatyr. And get me Captain O'Ryan-Scimitar."

"Aye aye, sir."

The face of the battlecruiser Defiant's skipper appeared on his comm screen. There had never been many Sword Clans cognomens in the Deathstriders' roster, and Karl O'Ryan-Scimitar was some sort of scapegrace younger son. Corin had always respected his reticence about his past. What mattered was his unquestioned competence, and—even more so, at the moment—his ability to act on his own initiative.

"Karl," Corin snapped, "it's Contingency Plan Alpha. We're downloading the targets' locations—"

"They're coming up in my tank now, sir."

"Then you know what to do. Signing off."

The Permanent Task Group engaged its drives and began to move, executing Contingency Plan Alpha without the need for further orders. All the warships but one sprang ahead under O'Ryan-Scimitar's command, arrowing toward the Trojan point. The one exception was the flagship Valiant, which Corin rode. That battlecruiser began a course change that would bring it to the relief of Bogatyr, now turning sharply away from the approaching ship that, Corin was now quite certain, did not contain Damiano Chewning.

"Train all sensors on that cruiser," he ordered.

"How is Janille?" came the bass query from off to the side as he waited for the sensor returns. Corin hadn't heard Garth come onto the flag bridge. Strictly speaking, Colonel Krona should have been on one of the assault transports. In reality, nobody had even considered the possibility of keeping him off the flagship.

"She's all right," Corin assured, noting with relief that the icons of her command were getting out of harm's way as per orders. "Hopefully, the same can be said of the admiral. Bogatyr has gone to drive and is putting as much distance as possible between herself and that—"

"Battlecruiser," Garth finished for him as the tank, reflecting the new sensor findings, changed the icon of the vessel Bogatyr had been set to rendezvous with.

Poetic justice, in a way, Corin thought, remembering the legendary trick Roderick had played on the Tarakans. Now the battlecruiser that had been disguising itself as a cruiser engaged its own drive and leapt forward to intercept Bogatyr. 

But with time-distortion drive, an instant's head start meant a lot. Valiant drew into range just before the enemy battlecruiser had brought its overwhelmingly superior firepower to bear on Bogatyr. 

There was nothing more Corin could do, for Captain Korachuk was quite capable of fighting his ship. So he and Garth stood in silence and watched the holo tank.

Things were happening rapidly.

Whoever led the waiting enemy warcraft knew what the Permanent Task Group's sudden activity must mean, and those ships instantly scrapped their timetable and got under way. The mined-out asteroids against which they crouched had tiny Chen Limits of their own. A few seconds' outward acceleration on impellers was necessary before they could safely activate their drives. Those few seconds were crucial. O'Ryan-Scimitar's command came sweeping in when their opponents were still transitioning into the compressed-time state, caught them off balance and went through them like the sword blade of his erstwhile clan name.

At the same time, Valiant energized the gigawatt X-ray lasers that formed the main batteries of deep-space warships below battleship size. Her foe was another, very similar battlecruiser; a one-on-one battle could have gone either way. But Chewning's captain had rigid orders. His first priority was to destroy Bogatyr, killing Roderick Brady-Schiavona and decapitating his fleet. He continued to concentrate his fire on the fleeing cruiser, ignoring Valiant's attack for as long as possible—a little longer than possible, as it turned out. Bogatyr's deflector screens failed under the incoming torrent of energy and her transponder began to scream its electronic pain as the energy lances pierced her physical body . . . just before her tormentor vanished in an expanding plasma sphere which was shortly visible to the naked eye in Valiant's viewscreens.

"Captain Korachuk!" Corin shouted into his intership communicator above the cheering. "Have comm raise Bogatyr. Find out if the admiral—"

"We've already made contact with them, sir. He's—"

"I'm all right, Corin." All at once, the main comm screen showed Roderick Brady-Schiavona, somewhat the worse for wear, against a background of crackling electrical fires and frantic damage control. The cheers that began to spread through Valiant were louder than those that had followed the volatilization of the enemy battlecruiser. "We were lucky; our weapon systems are down, but our drive and impellers are all right, as are most of our electronic systems and some of our deflectors." The famous white grin split the soot-blackened face. "I think I may have been lucky in other ways as well. Is it possible that there were a few elements of your planning that you never quite got around to sharing with me?"

"Well . . . er . . ." Desperate change of subject: "I'll send a shuttle to bring you over to this ship, Admiral." Nothing smaller than a battleship mounted transposer equipment, so they'd have to do it the old-fashioned way.

"Never mind. Have you gotten the alert from the main fleet?"

"Uh . . . no, sir."

"Put your holo tank on system scale." Corin obeyed, and a chill stabbed through him.

Red icons had blossomed out among the gas-giant orbits, swinging in from the outer blackness to intercept the green formation. And, moving outward from Mars, a smaller scarlet array advanced to form the other jaw of a trap.

"That's got to be Chewning's main force departing from Mars," he heard himself say. "But who are those hostiles entering the outer system?"

"They've made no secret of their identity since being detected: they're Lauren Romaine's people, just in from Ursa Major."

Garth found his voice before Corin could. "So Chewning has conned somebody else into allying with him."

"And now, Corin," Roderick said briskly, "get into a shared hookup immediately. And whoever led your main body just now . . . what's his name?"

"Captain O'Ryan-Scimitar, sir." Karl had, he noted out of the corner of an eye, just reported in.

"Have him join us. Signing off." And the admiral's image was gone, leaving Corin to marvel that he could function in the face of the news he'd just heard. But he, Corin, also moved, issuing orders and donning his VR gear, as though energized by a transfusion of vitality. Contact with Roderick Brady-Schiavona had that effect on people.

The virtual conference room was the standard one. The admiral, looking spiffier than he had on the comm screen—the software wasn't programmed to reflect smudges and other marks of battle—stood beyond a system-scale holo display. O'Ryan-Scimitar appeared a second or two later, standing stiffly at attention in the presence of rarefied rank. Then another form popped into existence—a large one. Garth had evidently found a headset. Roderick glanced sharply at the uninvited arrival . . . but only for an instant. Then he gave a small but eloquent nod, and Garth was no longer uninvited.

"Now, gentlemen, let's see what we've got." They all gazed at the system display. Corin's mind automatically superimposed a clock face over it. Planets and other objects were orbiting counterclockwise around the sun symbol at the center. They themselves were trailing the blue dot of Earth at about seven o'clock—but close to the tank's center, for Earth's orbit was dwarfed on this scale. Much further out, the main fleet was at eleven o'clock, while still further out Romaine's red intruders were converging on it from twelve o'clock. Mars was in that same general direction; Chewning's forces forged outward in a transfer orbit that would bring it into the running battle.

"They haven't coordinated this very well," Roderick observed. "Chewning's forces won't be able to affect the battle until Romaine's have been engaged for some time."

"Why am I not surprised?" Garth growled.

Roderick smiled. "Yes, it does seem to be a behavior pattern, doesn't it? Well, this time it's going to cost them. It's clear from the data we're getting that their combined forces aren't all that superior to our main fleet. They certainly don't have the kind of edge that would normally justify risking this kind of attack. They're obviously counting on the effect of my having just been killed." The grin grew predatory. "So they're in for a surprise. Two surprises, actually, because we're going to spring a trap of our own—with this task group."

O'Ryan-Scimitar let out a small yelp. "But sir," he protested, shaken out of his deference, "we can't even get there in time!" He gave a gesture that took in the side of the sun they were on, the direction the entire cosmic carousel was turning, and the fact that neither impellers nor drive conferred any magic insulation from inertia.

"Yes, we can," Roderick said, his eyes flashing with eagerness. "Not by much—but we can do it. Look." He spoke a series of quick commands, and a green string-light appeared in the display, curving sharply away from their present position, inward from Earth's orbit toward Sol in the kind of very flat hyperbola that couldn't have been thought of in the far-off days of reaction drives, then whipping wildly back outward on a course that would intersect that of the main fleet shortly after Romaine had engaged it.

Corin looked up, incredulous. "You're going to use Sol as a gravitational slingshot?" The technique was hardly ever used any more, but there was no reason it couldn't be; a ship under drive was not immune to gravity. But . . . "That course brings us so close to Sol that—"

"It only looks that way in the tank," Roderick reassured him. "Pretty close, yes—but our deflectors can handle it."

"Can your deflectors?" Corin demanded, the difference in their ranks momentarily forgotten. "After the damage Bogatyr has taken? Let me send a shuttle for you."

"There's no time for that, Corin. We've got a very narrow window of opportunity here, if this is going to work at all. I'll stay where I am. Bogatyr can keep up."

"But even if you don't get your ass singed off by Sol, we'll have a battle to fight at the far end!"

"Well, you'll just have to protect me." Roderick's look took in all three of them. "You've shown you're good at that." O'Ryan-Scimitar's eyes gleamed and he stood even straighter. "But we've got to move now. If we do, we can take Romaine's force from the flank, when it's already deeply engaged."

Garth leaned over the display, studying it intensely. Nobody got to be a successful mercenary leader by taking reckless chances. "But will there be enough sheer tonnage and firepower to make the difference, Admiral? I mean, you'll just have the Permanent Task Group for Special Operations."

Roderick met the big man's eyes and held them. "No," he corrected. "I'll just have the Deathstriders."

In some objective corner of his mind, Corin wondered, How does he get away with this? At the same time, he heard his own voice saying, "Let's do it!"

"I'm with you," Garth rumbled. And, in defiance of all military etiquette, he extended his hand to a four-sunburst admiral. Roderick took it, then turned and offered his hand to Corin.

The software was capable of full tactile feedback. A handshake felt like a handshake.

He's not really your descendant, Corin told himself, even though he's descended from exactly the same blood that flows in your veins. Must remember that.