Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 23

The day of Zatar's arrival was a bad one for Herek. Not just because it was the day of his deposition; he had grown accustomed to the fact, had forced himself to accept it. It was simply one of those days in which everything went wrong, in which even the smallest detail of life on board the warship could not proceed smoothly without his personal attention.

By the time they were due to make rendezvous with the Y'mastene transport, his patience and his nerves had been worn dangerously thin. If one more divisionmaster were to come to him for judgment in a matter that his subordinates should have been able to handle, the odds were good he would kill the man outright; he was that tired of incompetence.

He wondered how well this Zatar would do when saddled with the responsibilities of command. The Braxana were nothing if not spoiled, and he suspected that this one had not given much thought to what went on behind the command chair he so coveted. Blessed groundling! He could take the ship and be welcome to it, and let the Holding see what happened when a self-indulgent n.o.ble ousted one of Braxi's most successful commanders.

But his conscience would not let him continue in that vein. You know why he's coming, an inner voice chided. You caused it to happen.

He refused to face that possibility. If it were the truth, he would know it soon enough. He was angry enough without adding such guilt to his burdens.

What about Kiev? D'argash? Musrii?

Concentrate on particulars: the thousand and one details that must be taken care of before the Intruder arrives. Clear the reception dock of all its cargo, have every inch of it scrubbed (by hand, if necessary) until it was so immaculate that dirt would never think of settling there. The Braxana were nothing if not showmen; very well, prepare the theater. A path of black carpet for the Pale one to tread, a thousand men to flank him on each side. That was a start. His officers would wear Border dress uniforms; it was an unusual choice, as Y'maste was in a stabilized zone, but it was among the Commander's options. The sharp contrast of black and gold would be a more suitable environment for the Braxana than a field of charcoal and tan, the usual alternative.

And then see if that helps. See if showmanship alone is enough to settle the nagging fear that you know why he's here, and it has nothing to do with a Braxana's vanity. It has to do with his Garranat involvement, and with the power that a Central Lord can wield above and beyond that of military discipline. And with Kley-D'argash-all the others. . . .

He shuddered.

Zeroday, zerotenth. Two thousand a.s.sembled, as nervous as he was but with less specific cause-and hiding it better, he suspected. It took all the self-control he could muster to keep his hands open, to let them fall naturally to his sides. The dock was perfectly prepared, the reception would be flawless, the tour of inspection would proceed without a hitch . . . and he was afraid. Afraid! He, who had faced the enemy numerous times-Talon-Commander Herek, scourge of the Border! The Braxana had reduced him to this without even setting foot on his ship; how much worse would it be when this Garranat authority stood before him, cloaked in the invulnerability of his Race?

You don't know why he's come, he told himself sternly. You're only guessing.

You could be wrong.

He would find out soon enough. The transport had completed its approach, pa.s.sing through the Sentira's outer forcefield and then the inner one, until it rested on the gleaming, immaculate floor. A pause; it seemed to Herek that he could hear his heartbeat, and the rhythm was not rea.s.suring. Then the portal dissolved and a ramp was extended- And he emerged.

Magnificent: the description fell short of the truth, but it was the best Herek had. Here was the human form developed to the point of physical perfection, the warrior's essence expressed in flesh. He was the spirit of Taz'hein clad in mortal guise, with the mark of the G.o.d still evident. Herek had never seen a purebred Lord before, could not have imagined the power of that presence, or its effect upon his men. Or on himself. It was small wonder to him that on some worlds the Braxana were regarded as demiG.o.ds.

He is just a man, he reminded himself, irritated by the awe that the Braxana inspired.

The Lord Commander came toward him, his authority evident in every step. It was there in the way he looked over Herek's men, in the way he held himself, the very way he walked . . . who could help but be affected? It took all of Herek's strength to resist the power of this man's presence, to stand before him proudly, as a Talon-Commander should.

He voiced the necessary lie.

"Lord and Kaim'era Zatar: you are welcome."

Almost a smile, not quite a nod; the black eyes were fixed on him, their depths unreadable.

"My commission," Zatar said, and he held up his left hand. A message-ring fit snugly over the index finger, the mark of Garran upon it.

The hated, hated ritual. "My ship is yours. My talon is yours."

And he bowed.

"Your officers?" said the Lord Commander.

He tried not to read hope into Zatar's choice of words, merely went through the motions which law and tradition demanded of him. Introductions: Carol, son of Hedrek, Master of Voidat Armaments. Huzal, son of Sezret, Master of Astrogation. Feval, son of Temak, Commander of Ground Forces. Name after name he presented them all, the men who ran the Sentira, the names that had made her great. And last of all, First Sword Sezal-who was taking it all in with guarded hostility and not a little unease. He was small and slender, as all pilots were, and it was much to his credit that he stood before the Braxana as proudly as he did; the physical presence of the larger man came close to overwhelming him.

"Your officers," the Talon-Commander concluded.

Zatar nodded. "We will set course for the Border immediately. Huzal-you will see to it."

The astrogator bowed. "My Lord."

"Meanwhile, Commander"-he meant Herek-"I a.s.sume you have quarters set aside for my use. With a briefing chamber, as I requested. You will take me there now, and we will discuss the details of my commission."

"As you wish, Lord Commander."

"The rest of you will continue in your accustomed duties until such time as you are instructed otherwise." His dark gaze swept over them, taking their measure, as they acknowledged his orders. Then he turned and looked over the ranks upon ranks of soldiers, and in his eyes there was a look that might have been pleasure.

You are mine, he seemed to be saying.

"Commander Herek?"

With a last sullen bow to his conqueror, Herek submitted to his authority. And led him into the ship-his ship-where the throne of his experience had just been shattered.

The briefing chamber which Herek had reserved for Lord Zatar was by far the finest the talon had to offer. Its domed ceiling was honeycombed with flatscreens and studded with outlets for a starmap display, so that one might experience visual data in limitless formats. Let stars sweep across the heavens, radiating out from one wall to cross the center of the room and disappear at the opposite side; let the galaxy fill the room with light while starcharts display the constellations along its rim. There was no image so complex that the room could not manage it, no guest so auspicious that the chamber could not do him justice. Until now.

The ancient Braxana had rejected technology. Now, though they used it, it failed to impress them. The chamber was a tool, nothing more, and Zatar's manner made it clear that it would take more than a mere technoarchitectural wonder to impress him.

He looked at Herek-a.s.sessing him, it seemed-and then said simply, "You know why I'm here."

"I can guess," he said quietly.

"Tell me."

"The Kaim'era is no doubt familiar with my record." How could he describe the situation without condemning himself? "My talon was the first to breach the Suraan front, and we led the attack on Zerenk'ir and Fri. Our territorial gains in this sector have been numerous-'' Until recently, he admonished himself, and stopped his recital suddenly, embarra.s.sment clogging his throat. You are like a schoolboy, listing your accomplishments in the hope of delaying punishment. Or of earning sympathy? The thought was repulsive. "My recent record . . . has not been so impressive." Were there no better words? "I'm sure the Kaim'era knows the details."

"Losses-erratic, unexplained, inexcusable. Defeat under circ.u.mstances which should have guaranteed victory. Punctuated by triumphs every bit as brilliant as those we have come to expect of you. And that is the problem, Commander Herek. If this were simply the case of a warrior past his prime . . . well, there are ways to deal with that. But it doesn't seem to be the case. Yes, when we look for the fruits of your excellent reputation, we are often disappointed. But if we seek for evidence of the decline of a great mind, we are equally frustrated.

"Garran has sorted through every file connected with your progress, and all our computers have failed to come up with a pattern to explain your losses. So: I've come here to investigate, Talon-Commander. Both you, and your circ.u.mstances.

To determine the cause of your recent defeats, and take whatever action is necessary to correct the problem. The House of War will abide by my decision.

Any questions?"

If he had leveled a neural stun at Herek, he could not have left him more speechless. Was it possible that the Braxana-so quick to punish, so blind to the concept of innocence-would work to save him and his reputation, rather than simply replacing him? It was incredible; he could not accept it. He had feared a confrontation such as this for so long that he no longer had any realistic concept of his value as a commander. He could only wonder why Zatar was bothering, and offer lamely, "How can I serve you?"

"I need access to your files-public, private, the things you sent to Garran and especially the things you didn't. I'm. willing to bet that somewhere on this ship is the information I need to establish a pattern; it isn't in the House of War's computer, hence it must have been edited out at this end. I'll want scannerlogs, composites, any and all material that pertains to the battles in question. And unlimited computer access, to run the a.n.a.lytic matrices. That's a start. I will want you to search your own memory, painful though that may be; I want to live those battles with you until I can see, through your eyes, just what happened.

Somewhere there is a key element that Tactical has failed to isolate; we must find it if we are to understand how the enemy has managed to better you. Now: satisfy me as to your own endeavors. You've looked into the possibility of a single strategist masterminding the majority of your defeats?"

"I have, Lord Commander." That would have been the easiest course: identify the enemy, a.n.a.lyze his tactical preferences, and develop a plan to neutralize them. "The Azean system for determining tactical authority is somewhat chaotic, but I've managed to work out who was responsible for what in each of the battles in question. There is no common thread there, I regret to say."

Zatar nodded. "That agrees with Garran's research. What about spies?

Informants? A leak in your communications network?"

Herek had investigated all that, to the point of issuing false orders in the hope of manipulating such a leak to his advantage. But the five fully prepared warships who met him off Yusudru made it clear that this was wasted effort. However they did it, the enemy seemed to know his plans. Just as the strange Azean had known when Sezal would fire upon him. . . .

He must have looked startled, for Zatar asked, "Commander?"

"A report from my First Sword ... he came against a fighter who managed to evade him by antic.i.p.ating his attack." Wasn't that what had happened in each one of those fateful battles-that the enemy had known, somehow, what Herek had planned to do?

"Please continue," Zatar urged him.

"That's all. It seemed unnatural to him-" Just as those battles did. He looked up at the Braxana and offered, stunned, "There is a pattern. But how do we determine its source?"

"One thing at a time. Is this pilot's confrontation in your records?"

"Of course. Along with a composite a.n.a.lysis of the fighter in question."

"Compiled by-?"

"First Sword Sezal."

"Excellent. I'll want to see it-and him. You'll arrange it?"

He bowed. "Of course, my Lord." Muscles were relaxing now that had been knotted for days-since he'd learned of Zatar's a.s.signment to the Sentira. The flood of tension from his body left calm in its wake, and with it hope. "I am the Commander's servant."

"Yes." The Braxana nodded. "And a good one."

He gave the compliment a moment to sink in, then added, "I do not intend to lose you."

It was hard to keep the men in line.

At first they were merely sullen; hostility surfaced now and again, but on the whole things were quiet.

Then the storm began.

Who is this man, anyway? What right has he got to march in here and take over?

Questions Sezal himself had asked. How could he hope to answer them?

Just what in Ar's name is a Lord Commander? What's Herek going to do now-wait upon him hand and foot? Who's in charge when we're under attack, that's what I want to know!

Herek and Zatar were in constant conference-sharing notes, feeling their way around an awkward relationship. It was not yet necessary for the pilots to be briefed. When it was time to fight, they would be told who was doing what.

Wouldn't they?

He's a groundling, a blessed useless aristocrat. Put him out there in the Void and he'll go crazy. What's he doing here?

They were his own thoughts, sometimes his own words. It was hard to silence men when they spoke the truth.

He's fine on flatscreen, but has he ever been on a warship before? What does he think will happen when we come up against the enemy? Does he expect everyone to wait while he consults his maps and his charts and whatever blessed else he's got going on in there?

He could only remind them that Zatar was Braxana, he was their ruler, he had the right to kill them at will. It quieted them, but only briefly.

For they were afraid. Not of his power, but of the man himself. They saw him in the corridors and were stunned by his physical perfection. They came into the gym and saw him working out there, his woolen costume stretched tight against his flesh as he drove himself on and on without stop, managing feats of strength that Sezal's men could only dream of.

And there lay the crux of the matter. Zatar played upon their deepest insecurities, causing them to reevaluate who and what they were. They were used to being valued above all others; now someone new had been added to the top of the social ladder. They had lived in a world without cla.s.s distinctions; now, inspired by the presence of a fullbred Lord, some of them recalled their lower- cla.s.s origins and cursed the name that had awakened bad memories. They were strong men in their own right, but when they saw his strength they wondered at their own relative weakness; when they stood before him the very slightness of build which made them successful pilots seemed a badge of shame, a less than masculine framework.

Easier to curse him, then, to recite over and over the list of his limitations. He has never fought. He wouldn't know how to fight. He is a rich and spoiled Lord who will take one look at the War and turn tail for home. You would certainly never catch him out there in the Void, with nothing but a forcefield between him and the enemy!

It gave them some comfort, to put it in those terms. Sezal found that he could not silence them. He managed to confine the worst of such outbursts to small, enclosed areas. The pilot's quarters, mostly. And that should have made them safe.

But he remembered what Herek had said, and he was afraid. The Braxana have ways of knowing what goes on, even in private.Were they being watched? Had Zatar in fact heard their outbursts? Was he biding his time until he could invoke the demon of Whim Death to thin their ranks, or was he planning a more subtle vengeance?

Like all good Braxins, they feared for themselves.

He feared for Herek.

With a sign of exasperation, Zatar turned the starmap off. The pattern of losses defied a.n.a.lysis. Battle after battle had been reconstructed for his study, yet he was no closer to finding an answer than he had been on Garran.

And yet . . . the feeling that something was wrong here, that some unspoken rule had been broken, grew stronger with each pa.s.sing shift. There was no reason for it that he could put his glove on, but the more he watched the interplay of swordship and fighter, the more he observed gunships laboriously dragging themselves into position and warships, the G.o.ds of interstellar battle, coming in behind them, the more he was certain that something was amiss.

Take Kley-or rather, take the battle which had preceded the loss of Kley. It was the custom of both sides to focus their attention on centers of civilian population: people could be conquered, empty s.p.a.ce could not. Besides, in the vastness of the War Border it was almost impossible to locate the enemy, much less come insync with his frame of reference. Or so Garran had always believed.

The key word was almost.

He called up that battle again and watched it unfold, brow furrowed in thought.

The enemy had come upon them unawares, striking at the talon's vulnerable flank. A long and b.l.o.o.d.y confrontation followed, in which numerous swordships and even a gunship were damaged; Herek and his men fought well, but they were hard pressed to correct their initial disadvantage. By the time the Azeans broke off their offensive, a good part of the talon's mobility had been damaged.

Swordships were vital to a planetary campaign: they alone could withstand the inferno of atmospheric friction, fighting natural gravity and dodging the best efforts of a land-based defense system to lay waste to choice targets, then fleeing too swiftly for outsync instruments to get a fix on them. Gunships were for s.p.a.ce stations, blockades, the rare but deadly outsystem battles; it was on its swordships that a talon depended when a grounded target must be convinced to surrender.

Herek had been concerned about the risk of going ahead with the Kleyan campaign-his log made that clear-but had decided to risk it. His swordship capacity had not been critically damaged. The Kleyan offensive had been coordi- nated with the efforts of two other talons, so that Azea's attention would be elsewhere when he struck. To delay his attack would lose him that advantage.

He made certain he had sufficient firepower to destroy a planet-he had, ten times over-and sent out scouts by the hundred to comb the nearby Void for shipsign. Nothing. Reports from the Lyrellan system indicated that the bulk of Azea's fleet was there, and he knew that Talon-Commanders Rejik and Kamur would keep them occupied. It was all arranged. Now there was only Kley itself. . .

And disaster. Because the Azeans were waiting, five motherships and a horde of fighters, waiting to prey on the Sentira's weakened forces. A smaller number of ships could not have defeated Herek, and even these five could not have done so had they not known, with frightening accuracy, the speed and angle of the talon's approach. By the time the battle had begun, it was already over. It was the first of many nightmares, a harbinger of the zhents to come . . . and the beginning of the end for the Holding's greatest Commander.

So where in Ar's name was Azea getting its information?

He dismissed the starmap display, called up a composite image of Sezal's recent adversary. The First Sword's a.n.a.lysis of the fighter had been both thorough and disturbing. He had stripped the ship of its only nonvital ma.s.s, but still could not explain its alarming capacity. Nor was he content with that result. To cut the basema.s.s down to absolute minimum, he had removed both the emergency grounding gear and the fighter's small store of rations. A pilot's survival often de- pended upon his ability to land on a planet and wait for a.s.sistance; that Azea might have discarded these things seemed highly improbable. But then, everything about this fighter was.

For instance, the identicode. CON:419FA12 it said. The Conqueror. Zatar had called up stats on that ship, had found nothing helpful. Its Starcommander was new to the Border, therefore low in seniority, with little authority . . . so what in Ar's name was the Conqueror's prize fighter doing in someone else's campaign?

Not for the first time he thought: They're breaking the rules.

In war, there are no rules.

Established fact: fighters traveled in units. Each unit was answerable to its mothership. Units might be allied in their action, but the lines of authority were always clear. Fighters from different motherships might do battle side by side, but they did not mix.

Had the Conqueror discarded that tradition?

It was while he was thinking along those lines that a strange feeling came over him. A whisper he could barely hear flitted across his awareness; he felt as though a pair of eyes had been fixed upon his back. He turned around, half-expecting to find that someone had entered the room. But the door was still closed-sealed, in fact-and except for him the room was empty.