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                    Alien Salute
                           The Sand Wars 4


                           Charles Ingrid



                           Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32



                               Prologue
                                                                    ^»
Where in the hell was their transport? What had happened to recall? Jack
fought the maddening impulse to scratch inside his armor, as sweat dripped
down, and the contacts attached to his bare torso itched impossibly. To
scratch now, the way he was hooked up, he'd blow himself away.
   Damn. Where was that signal? They couldn't have been forgotten, could
they? If the pullout had happened, they would have been picked up…
wouldn't they?

   As sweat trickled down his forehead, he looked around.

   Sand. They had been dropped in a vast sea-gulf of sand. Everywhere
beige and brown and pink dunes rose and fell with a life of their own. This
was what the Thraks did to a living world. And the Knights, in their suits of
battle armor, trained and honed to fight a "Pure" war destroying only the
enemy, not the environment, were all that stood between Milos and his own
home world lined up next in a crescent of destruction that led all the way
back to the heart of the Thrakian League.

   So far, they'd been lucky here on Milos. Only one of the continents had
gone under… still, it was one too many as far as the lieutenant was
concerned. The Dominion Forces were losing the Sand Wars. And he was
losing his own private struggle with his faith in his superior officers. They'd
been dropped into nowhere five days ago and had been given the most
succinct of orders, gotten a pithy confirmation that morning and nothing
since. Routine, he'd been told. Strictly a routine mop-up. You don't treat
Knights that way—not the elite of the infantrymen, the fastest, smartest and
most honorable fighters ever trained to wage war.

   Jack moved inside the battle suit. The Flexalinks meshed imperceptibly
and the holograph that played over him sent the message to the suit and, in
turn, the right arm flexed. Only that flex, transmitted and stepped up, could
have turned over an armored car. He sucked a dry lip in dismay over the
reflex, then turned his face inside the helmet to read the display.

   The display bathed his face plate in a rosy color and his eyesight flickered
briefly to the rearview camera display, just to see which of the troops were
ranged at his back. The compass wasn't lying to him. "Five clicks. Sarge,
have they got us walking in circles?" His suit crest winked in the sun as he
looked to his next in command.

   "No, sir." Sarge made a husky noise at the back of his throat. Sarge wore
the Ivanhoe crest—a noncommittal comment on what he thought of his
lineage and his home world, but it made no difference to Storm. The men
who joined the Knights came from every walk of life and the only criterion
was whether a soldier was good enough to use a suit. If he was, and if he
survived basic training, his past became a sealed record, if that was the way
the man wanted it.

   The sand made Jack thirsty. He waved his arm. "All right, everybody
spread out. Advance in a line. If the Thraks are here, that'll flush ‘em. Keep
alert. Watch your rear displays and your flanks."

    The com line crackled as Bilosky's voice came over in sheer panic. "Red
field! Lieutenant, I'm showing a fracking red field!"

   Storm swiveled his head toward the sound, cursed at the obstruction of
the face plate, and re-turned a fraction more slowly so that his cameras could
follow the motion. "Check your gauges again, Bilosky. It's a malfunction.
And calm down." The last in a deadly quiet.

   Bilosky's panic stammered to a halt. "Yes, sir." Then, "Goddammit,
Storm—those Milots have pilfered my suit! Every one of my gauges is
screwed. I'm showing a red field because I'm running on empty!"

    Storm bit his tongue. He chinned the emergency lever at the bottom of
the face plate, shutting down the holograph field. Then he pulled his arm
out of the sleeve quickly and thumbed the com line switches on his chest
patch so that he could talk to Bilosky privately. Without power or any action
to translate, his suit stumbled to a halt. The Flexalinks shone opalescent in
the sun.

   "How far can you get?"

   Not listening, Bilosky swore again. "Goddamn Milots. Here I am fighting
their fracking war for them, and they're pirating my supplies—I ought to—"

   "Bilosky!"

   "Yes, sir. I've got… oh, three clicks to go, maybe. Then I'm just another
pile of junk standing on the sand." He turned to look at his superior officer,
the black hawk crest rampant.

   Storm considered the dilemma. He had his orders, and knew what his
orders told him. Clean out Sector Five, and then stand by to get picked up.
The last of Sector Five ranged in front of him. They could ration out the
most important refills for Bilosky once they got where they were going.
"We'll be picked up by then."

   "Or the Thraks will have us picked out."

   Storm didn't answer for a moment. He was asking a man with little or no
power reserves showing on his gauges to go on into battle, in a suit, in full
battle mode. Red didn't come up on the gauges until the suit was down to
the last ten percent of its resources. That ten percent would carry him less
than an hour in full attack mode. Not that it made any difference to a
Knight. Jack sighed. "We're on a wild goose chase, Bilosky. You'll make it."

  "Right, sir." A grim noise. "Better than having my suit crack open like an
egg and havin' a berserker pop out. Right, Lieutenant?"

   That sent a cold chill down Storm's back. He didn't like his troopers
repeating ghoulish rumors. "Bilosky, I don't want rumors like that bandied
around. You hear?"

  "Yes, sir." Then, reluctantly, "It ain't no rumor, lieutenant. I saw it
happen once."

   "Forget it!"

   "Yes, sir."

   "Going back on open air. And watch your mouth." He watched as the
other lumbered back into position. Then, abruptly, Jack dialed in his
command line and watched as the miniscule screen lit up, his only link with
the warship orbiting far overhead. The watch at the console, alerted by the
static of their long-range comm lines, swung around. The navy blue uniform
strained over his bullish, compact figure. He looked into the lens, his nostrils
flaring. The squared chin was cleft and its line deepened in anger. A laser
burn along one side of his hairline gave him a lopsided widow's peak.

   "Commander Winton here. You're violating radio silence, soldier. What's
the meaning of this? Identify yourself."

   "I'm Battalion First Lieutenant," he said. "Where's our pullout? We were
dropped in here five days ago."

   "You're under orders, lieutenant. Get in there and fight. Any further
communication and I'll have you up for court martial."

  "Court martial? Is that the best you can do? We're dying down here,
commander. And we're dying all alone."

   The line and screen went dead with a hiss. Suddenly aware of his own
vulnerability, Storm pushed his right arm back into his sleeve and chinned
the field switch back on. His suit made an awkward swagger, then settled
into a distance eating stride. Fighting wars would be a hell of a lot easier if
you could be sure who the enemy was.

   Bilosky and Sarge and who knows who else were talking about
berserkers now. The unease it filled him with he could do without. He
squinted through the tinted face plate at the alien sun. Strange worlds,
strange people, and even stranger enemies. Right now he'd rather wade
through a nest of Thraks then try to find his way through the rumors
surrounding the Milots and their berserkers.

   There was no denying the rumors though. The Milots, who had
summoned Dominion forces to fight for them against the Thraks—those
same low-tech Milots who ran the repair centers and provided the war
backup—were as despicable and treacherous as the Thraks whom Storm
had enlisted to wipe out. And there were too many stories about altered
suits… suits that swallowed a man up and spawned instead some kind of
lizard-beastman who was a fighting automaton, a berserker. Rumor had it
the Milots were putting eggs into the suits, and the heat and sweat of the
suit wearer hatched those eggs and then the parasitic creature devoured its
host and burst forth—

   He told himself that the Milots had a strange sense of humor. What
Bilosky thought he'd seen, whatever every trooper who repeated the gossip
thought they were talking about, was probably a prank played at a local
tavern. Knights always took a certain amount of ribbing from the locals,
until they were seen in action, waging the "Pure" war.

   Ahead of him, the dunes wavered, sending up a spray of sand. His
intercom burst into sound.

   "Thraks at two o'clock, lieutenant!"

   Storm set his mouth in a grim smile. Now here was an enemy he could
deal with. He eyed his gauges to make sure all his systems were ready, and
swung about.

   Thraks were insects, in the same way jackals were primates or ordinary
sow bugs were crustaceans. They were equally at home upright or on all
fours, due to the sloping of their backs. Jack took his stand and watched
them boil up out of the sand from underground nests and launch
themselves in a four-footed wave until they got close enough to stand up
and take fire. Thraks were vicious and dedicated to a single purpose… at
least, fighting Thraks were. Diplomatic Thraks, so he had heard, were as
vicious in a far more insidious way.

   He cocked his finger, setting off a burst of fire from his glove weapons
that slowed the wave. The line of Thraks wavered and swung away, even as
they stood up and slung their rifles around from their backs.

    On Milot, they had the slight advantage, having gotten there first and
having begun their despicable planet transforming. Even a slight advantage
to the Thraks was disastrous to the Dominion. Milot was already as good as
lost. Battalions had been wiped out, forced into the deserts, to make as
graceful a retreat as possible. Inflict as many casualties as they could, then
pull out. Jack's job, as he understood it, was to make the toll of taking Milos
so heavy, so dear, that the Thraks would stop here.

    Storm's grim smile never wavered, even as he strode forward, spewing
death as he went, watching the gauge detailing how much power he had
left. Bodies crunched under his armored boots.

   They were mopping up. They were to distract the Thraks and the enemy
cannon long enough to let most of the troop ships—almost all of them
cold-ships—pull out, and then they would be picked up. That was the
promise…

   He strides through the line, knowing the wings of his men will follow,
and seeing that the front is not a front, but an unending wave of Thraks.
What was reported as a minor outpost is a major staging area, and he's
trapped in it, wading through broken bodies and seared flesh. He sweeps
both gloves into action, firing as he walks, using the power boost to vault
walls of fallen bodies and equipment.
   Somewhere along the way, Bilosky lets out a cry and grinds to a halt, out
of power. He screams as his suit is slit open with a diamond cutter and the
Thraks pull him out. Jack ignores the screams and plows onward. He has no
choice now. The pullout site is ahead of him. He has to go through the
Thraks if he wants to be rescued. Ahead of him is the dream of cold sleep
and the journey home. The dream…

   He lives long enough to fall into a pit, a pit ringed by Thraks, surrounded
by what is left of his troop, and by stragglers from other battalions. They
stand back to back for days, firing only when absolutely necessary, watching
the unending waves of Thraks above them. And he sees a suit burst open,
days after its wearer expired with a horrendous scream and the armor halted
like a useless statue in the pit. He sees the seams pop and an incredible
beast plow out, and charge the rim of the pit, taking fully a hundred armed
Thraks with it, even as it bellows, striking fear in those beyond its reach. He
knows he is dreaming that he has seen a berserker, and tries to ignore the
empty shell-like suit with the crest of Ivanhoe left behind in shards and
settling into the sand.

   Even as he stands and fires, he thinks of what it is he wants to dream. He
wants to dream getting out of there alive, with his men. That is what he
wants most. Then he wants to be able to scratch. And he thinks he hears
something inside the suit with him, something whispering at his shoulder,
and he knows he's losing it. Aunt Min back home always said that when the
Devil wanted you, he began by whispering to you over your shoulder.
Storm is scared to turn around. All he wants to do is find his dream of going
home. And when the recall comes, he doesn't know if he's hearing what he's
hearing or not… or if he can even be found behind the wall of Thraks.

   And then he realizes he is cold sleep dreaming, on an endless loop,
dreaming without beginning or end until someone finds and awakens him.

   But that was then. This is now…




                                Chapter 1
                                                                      «^»
The aged freighter hardly qualified as a transport ship, let alone a cold ship,
but none of the nearly five hundred people crowded into it complained.
They stood and shivered and talked quietly to each other in knotted groups,
looking pale and shaken as they waited for processing.
   Only one man had an expression of triumph seized out of the jaws of the
defeat that had forced them into exodus. Tall, made massive by his
opalescent battle armor, he looked the crowd over now, and his eyes flashed
with eagerness even as he assessed the results of the evacuation.

   "What if the emperor offers you the command?"

   He made a noise of anger. "Kavin's hardly cold in the ground."

    The woman with the questioning, gentle brown eyes remained
composed under the wash of his anger, tilting her head slightly to one side
as though to veer away from it. "But we have to consider it, don't we?" She
kept her hand on the Flexalink sleeve he supported her with. Beneath her
fingers, she felt the smoke and grime of battle, and her delicate nose still
scented blood faintly though most of it had been washed away. They'd both
witnessed the violent death of his commanding officer and friend. They
stood intimately close in the immense hold of the transport ship that
vibrated loudly under their feet. "And I need to talk to you… I need time to
tell you what happened." The man's helmet was off, hanging from an
equipment hook at his waist. Sweat darkened his sandy blond hair and
fatigue washed out his blue eyes. Even with his strong cheekbones, he was
plain-faced, ordinary, but there was something commanding in his features.
Tiny lines were etched at the corners of his eyes and into his forehead, for all
he appeared at the prime of his twenties. His avid gaze deflected from his
field command to her, and softened as he took her in. The reflection of her
image in his eyes was as intimate as an embrace. “You don't owe me an
explanation. I just thank god you came back."

   A shiver swept over her, setting off the intricate blue patterning of the
tattoos that covered her—that made her alien from her lover. These tattoos
were only a small portion of what she had suffered, when the religious wars
had swept across Bythia and forced the Dominion settlers to flee. But she
knew Jack was most concerned about facing Emperor Pepys. "You've got
two months of chill time to think about it," Amber returned. "You'd better
have an answer for the emperor by the time we get home."

   "If he offers it to me, I'll think about it."

   "Not good enough," she said, and streetwise savvy edged her tones.
They were among the last of the evacuees to be processed. "You have to
accept, if Pepys asks you. You're the only one left who knows how to fight a
‘Pure’ war. Anyone can wear a suit—"

   He looked down at her and his mouth twitched. "—well, not anyone, but
no one understands the warfare the way you do."

   "I know," he said then, heavily.

    The freighter seemed to groan around them as it picked up acceleration
speed. It would take days to hit warp speed, weeks in transit, and then days
of deceleration. Those days would pass as if in a dream to the vast bulk of
its passengers.

   Amber pressed her fingers into his armor. "And then we can talk."

   Storm shifted his weight uneasily. He did not like the prospect of cold
sleep, never had, never would. A nurse came by, still in sterile greens, and
Jack stepped out to block his passage.

   "I don't want any of these people on a debriefing loop."

   The nurse came to a startled halt. His face was narrow and his chin
pointed, giving him a feral look. "We take our orders from Emperor
Pepys—"

   "Not now you don't. I don't want any of those evacuees stressed out.
They won't forget what happened." He felt Amber shudder at his side. As if
any of them could forget the bloody civil uprising out of which they were
being emergency lifted, compounded by the ever-present, ever-dangerous
Thraks and the rumors of war.

   The nurse sniffed. "Of course, commander." He hurried past then,
skirting around the battle-armored man with caution.

   Jack smiled. Too tired to do so, he couldn't hold it, and the expression
faded rapidly from his face.
   Amber relaxed a little. "Thanks, Jack," she said softly.

   "Not just for you. I don't trust the debriefing loops." He looked out over
the hold as another small group of evacuees pressed forward into the
medical bay. Far ahead of them stood St. Colin of the Blue Wheel, watched
over by his lumbering bodyguard and aide, Jonathan. The Walker prelate
leaned on a cane, injured but hearty nonetheless. Fine gray and chestnut
hairs strayed across a balding head, but his chin was square and his massive
hands gestured as he talked to the group surrounding him. His preaching
voice reached Jack. The man in battle armor shifted his weight, temporarily
warmed by what Colin was saying. Nearby stood young Denaro, also a
Walker, but looking sullen in his uniform, weapon belts crisscrossed over his
chest, his militancy a kind of insult to his affiliation. Storm frowned as he
watched Denaro a second longer. The Walker ministry had suffered a
profound loss on Bythia. Denaro did not look as if he would tolerate it for
long.

   Amber must have sensed his thoughts. Her chin pointed in the militant's
direction. "I hope Colin keeps an eye on that one."

   "He'll have to," Jack answered. "I've done all I can. I've got the Thraks to
worry about now." He'd escorted a wave of humanity aboard the shuttles to
the transport. The Thrakian warship orbiting Bythian space was
momentarily distracted by the necessity of getting its own personnel
off-planet. He had time, but only a little, and he didn't like seeing it wasted.
The column shuffled forward. He and Amber were at the rear and would be
last. "Amber…" and he hesitated, because what he said next the young
woman would not want to hear, and he knew it. "I don't intend to be chilled
down."

   She pulled back. "I have to go alone?"

   "Yes."

   "I don't—"

   "You have to. Just as I have to stay up and alert."

   Amber looked up at him. Her chin jutted defiantly, and then her jawline
softened. "You don't think the Thraks will let us go?"
  "Not if they don't have to. This transport is a load of potential hostages.
Colin, my command, almost everyone on here is of value to the League."

  "It would be worth even more if you could have gotten that
bushskimmer out alive."

   Jack had no answer for that. He'd lost a valuable witness in the Sassinal
riots, a man who could testify to the firestorming of Claron. But that was
over now. At least he'd heard the testimony… words he'd never forget. He
looked down at Amber. "It's over," he said.

   She nodded. She grabbed up his gauntleted hand and held it tightly and
even though he wore battle armor, he could almost feel the chill of her grasp
through it. "What if they insist on cold sleep?"

   Her question suggested that she knew instinctively what also worried
him: the transport pilot was in command here now and not Jack. He
shrugged. "It'll take a lot more men than Harkness has got to hold me
down."

   Now she knew why he hadn't removed his armor once they'd boarded.

   Amber laughed briefly. "I hope I'm awake when they try."



   "You run a sloppy ship."

    The pilot twisted his head to peer at the tall man… seeming even taller
now that he stood in the bulkhead framing. Sandy blond hair swept back
from his brow and his faded eyes reflected disapproval. The ship shuddered
with the vibration of engines thrusting the vehicle nearer and nearer warp
velocity. Harkness grumped and slumped lower in his chair. "And if I do,
it's my business," he said.

   Around the chipped and battered plastic table, the navigator and
engineer got up quickly and left. They did not look the intruder in the face
as he moved to let them shrug past the bulkhead.

    Harkness' voice sounded thick and lumpy as if it needed to be strained
through a filter before issuing out of his mouth. He pointed at the interloper.
"I'll chart no interference from you," he said. "Or you'll be chilled down yet
and shipped like the rest of the stiffs. This is a cold ship transport and don't
you forget it."

   The intruder had eased a wide shoulder against the bulkhead. He smiled
pleasantly. "You've already tried it once," he said. "You have other worries.
We slipped out of Bythian space easily enough, but you're a sitting target
coming out of decel, and there's a good chance the Thraks will be waiting for
us. There's a war on now."

    Harkness' eyes narrowed. He reached for his bag of whiskey and poured
a level glassful. "I took out a contract to lift a shipload of evacuees and return
‘em to Malthen. I did not take out a contract to listen to your mouth."

   The man's smile did not vanish, but neither did it warm his clear blue
eyes. "Not yet," he said. "But you will." The man lifted his shoulder, shifted
his weight, and removed himself gracefully from Harkness' vision.

   The pilot scowled before lifting his drink. Too full, it washed over his
fingers before he got it to his mouth. With a curse at his shaking hand, he
slogged the whiskey down.



    Jack walked the cryogenic bays where his friends and fellow soldiers lay
asleep yet not asleep, their pale bodies seemingly devoid of life under sterile
white sheets. He stopped at the plastic shield of a privacy crèche and paused
to look inside at Amber, lying there, her dark honey colored hair a-tumble
about her face. The sheet covered her from ankle to neck, but it could not
hide her beauty which was all the more exotic for the bizarre tattooing.
She'd said she wanted it removed the minute she got to Malthen, if it could
be done. Jack looked at the dialysis shunt in her ankle, preparatory to the
stage when she would one day be awakened and, unable to help himself, he
shuddered before looking away.

   Only Amber knew if he was a really a hero or a coward for refusing to be
chilled down with the rest of them.

   He paused now and spread his hand out over the plastic shield as though
he could touch her face and share her dreams with her. It had been another
battle to keep psychological debriefing loops from being hooked up to her
cold sleep dreams, but he'd won that one, too. The human mind should
have some dignity in cold sleep, even if the body did not. He looked at his
four-fingered hand, at the scar where the little finger had been sheared off. It
had been amputated, a victim of frostbite from a cold sleep occupied too
long. Seventeen years too long.

   Two months of real time was not too much to be added to his years, Jack
thought. He'd endure it, waiting for the end of the voyage and the
beginning of the war, his war, with the Thrakian League.

   Endure it, hell, he'd welcome it.

   His emperor, the traitor, was another matter.

   Jack dropped his hand from the shielding, took a deep breath, and
continued his journey through the frigid hold, not pausing to look at his
men who lay like fallen soldiers. He did not stop until he reached the gym
where he stripped off his shirt and began to exercise, chasing his thoughts
like demons from his mind.

  The gym was ill-used, but that hadn't surprised Jack after a look at
Harkness' crew. The surprise was that the transport even carried a gym. He
winced a little as he flexed. Deep, purpling bruises still covered his torso.
He'd be healed by the time they pulled out of hyperdrive and began to
decel though… one valid reason for not being chilled down.

   His peculiar susceptibility to cold sleep fever was another.

    The action on Bythia had not injured him badly, but it had cost him the
life of his commander and friend. Jack would be long in forgetting Kavin.
Besides their friendship, the two had shared the common background of
being battle armor Knights, infantry soldiers who were mobile tanks,
fighting ground warfare designed to annihilate the enemy and not the planet
they fought upon. Virtually no one beyond the two of them was now
trained in "Pure" warfare, although the art of wearing battle armor had
recently been recommissioned by Emperor Pepys. Now Jack stood alone.

   He would have to find a way to carry on.

  Sweat tickled its way down his skin. He counted off his sets mercilessly,
whipping his body back into shape, until he was too exhausted to move.

   Jack woke, groggily, on his back on one of the exercise mats, his face still
clammy with sweat. Jack looked up, his neck stiff and cramped, and
stretched. Over him stood a white suit of battle armor, opalescent Flexalinks
muted by the dimmed lights of a ship in downtime. The deadly gauntlet,
powerful enough to crush his skull, each finger the firing barrel of a
destructive weapon, was poised, curving over him as though in benediction.

   Jack smiled, grasped the gauntlet and got to his feet.

   *Hi, boss.*

   "Hello, Bogie. Feeling better?"

   The regenerating being that now occupied his battle armor paused. *I'm
cold.*

   Jack bent over to loosen the muscles in his legs preparatory to finding the
refresher and cleaning up. He craned his neck to look back. "It's standard
temp in here, buddy."

   He returned to his standing position and frowned. He knew little about
the creature in his armor except that it was as fierce in fighting nature as a
Milot berserker, but hadn't, thank god, the cannibalistic, parasitic tendencies
of the giant saurians. Jack had not been sure about that at first, and had been
haunted by the growing sentience of his battle armor.

    More than microscopic, regenerating out of a square of leather that ought
to have been dead tissue, Bogie had been implanted in his suit on Milos
during the Sand Wars, twenty-five years ago. It was hot in a suit. Jack had
welcomed the adaptation by his Milot repair technician. The circuitry and
gear inside occasionally poked and prodded at his back, and the weight of a
field pack with a small-muzzle laser cannon could dig holes in his flesh.
Many of the Knights hung a leather chamois. It had been the death of a lot
of them. Their body heat and sweat could nurture a berserker into parasitic
life. By the time a Knight knew what was happening, he was a consumed
man, trapped inside his suit of armor like it was a meat locker.

   Jack looked at his own suit of battle armor.

   Bogie had a small towel draped across his left wrist. Jack took it and
mopped his face, wondering briefly where the Milots had gotten the leather
chamois they used for his infestation, thinking that they were implanting a
berserker and giving him Bogie instead. He tossed the towel in the corner.

   Unlike a Milot berserker, Bogie had soul. In fact, his mind and soul were
forming far more quickly than his physical being. The chamois hanging
inside the armor showed little change from when it had originally been
placed there. It was a little thicker. If Jack held it between his fingers, he
could sense a pulsing life. Bogie was like an embryo and neither he nor the
sentience knew what it was he had to have to finish regeneration. Berserkers
ate their way through blood and flesh. Though there was no denying that
Jack's presence in the suit vitalized Bogie, neither knew how. Because of
that, and Bogie's hardwired-like psychic hookup with the suit circuitry itself,
he had not removed and incubated the chamois. He feared killing the
creature that way. From a liability, Bogie had become an asset. From a
parasite, he had evolved into a companion. Jack didn't like the armor's
coldness and considered the fragility of life that was Bogie's present state.
The only way he knew to warm the suit was to wear it. He looked about the
massive ceiling of the gym. It had once been part of the freight hold, he
decided.

   He had room. "How about we suit up and go through some basic
exercises?"

   *I would like that.*

   Jack unsealed the seams and got in. He spent some time clipping leads to
his bare torso before settling in and then sealing himself up.

  The holo came up, a soft-tinted rosy glow that read his muscular
movement and relayed it to the suit, through a step-up transformer. A blow
meant to swat a butterfly could conceivably crush a small mammal. Such
was the power of a man once inside a suit.

  There was more now. Jack felt the immediate enveloping embrace of
Bogie, close and intimate, like a lover.

    Only this being was born to fight, Jack knew. Just as he had been sworn
to. Jack smiled tightly to himself as he finished suiting up. "Okay, Bogie.
Let's pretend we're killing Thraks."

   *Kick ass, boss,* the armor responded.
   He began to drill.

   Neither man nor machine saw the twilight wrapped shadow that watched
from the far recesses of the hold as, with a muffled burp, Harkness reeled
out of sight and lumbered back down the corridors of his command.



  The navigator frowned at his blipping screen. "I don't like it," he
complained to his employer.

   Harness hawked and swallowed it down. "Quit whining," he said. "What
do you want me to do, pull out of hyperspace and make a fracking
coordinate change? We might end up inside solid rock."

  Alij stabbed a pointed nail at his screen. "Sir, we might anyway.
Something's happening out there, and I don't like it."

   The pilot straightened. He scrubbed a hand over his patchy head of
grizzled hair. The slim brown navigator glared at him. That arrogant
Dominion Knight son of a bitch had warned him it would come to this. The
pilot shrugged. He reached for the com system and thumbed it onto page.
"Captain Storm, your presence is requested on the bridge."

   Alij sat back in his chair and hid his startled expression in the glow of his
screen, but he was the first to jump in eagerness when the bridge doors
schussed open minutes later to admit the soldier.

   There was not a man in Harkness' crew who hadn't at one time or
another spied on the Dominion Knight, particularly if he could be found
drilling in the gym. Most of the Knights aboard had had their equipment
destroyed before retreating. The crewmen had a morbid fascination in
watching the battle armor at work after having faced it themselves when
they'd tried to subdue Storm. It was a killing machine, no doubt about it.
Now, Alij watched warily as the man entered the bridge.

   "Problem, pilot?"

   Harkness growled in this throat again, then said, "My navigator says he's
getting feedback through his hyperspace readings. Any idea what could be
going on?"
  Jack looked at the pilot. He knew the grudging expression for what it
was. Capitulation, fueled by worry. He looked to the navigator. "When are
we due to pull out and decel?"

  "Beginning of next watch. Say, twelve hours. We're two weeks out of
Malthen, putting on the brakes all the way."

   "Close." Without edging the pilot out of the way, Jack squeezed in as
close as he could to the instrumentation board. He was no pilot. His skill
was warfare, specifically, the infantry. But Harkness was a transport pilot, a
man used to handling freight and the occasional cold ship. Jack could not
read what he saw on the screen either, but he didn't like it.

   He wondered if the Thraks could be waiting for them at the edge, having
calculated their most likely reentry point from hyperspace. The Thraks
knew they'd been at Bythia—hell, that was the incident that had started the
war six weeks ago. It would take about that long to begin mustering forces.

   Harkness' cold ship would be priceless to them because of its cargo
locked in cold sleep. Jack frowned. He looked at Harkness and the copilot
swiveled in his chair. To the copilot he said, "Bring up the subspace bulletin
board."

   "Sir, we haven't got time to put out a call and receive an answer—"

   "I know, officer. I'm looking for bulletins, not placing a call."

   "What?" Harkness practically gargled in his sputtering rage.

   Jack ignored him until the monitor scrolled up the info he wanted.
"There!"

   The copilot froze the screen.

   Some subspace ham had spread the word the best way he knew how,
and Jack's face tightened in appreciation. He had no way of knowing yet if
Thraks had attacked anywhere, but here at least were corridor coordinates of
the latest warship placements. "Navigator—"

   "Alij, sir."

   "Order up a graphics overlay. I'll bet my armor you've got Thraks sitting
there, waiting for us."
  Alij moved to the computer and made his verbal requests.

   "Damn." Harkness smacked a beefy fist on the back of his chair. The
bridge quivered in response. "Any chance of collision?"

  Jack said, "I doubt it, but they'll be firing as soon as they can track us."

  "They'll never catch up with us."

  "They won't need to. They'll catch you turning the corner for braking,
and trap us on the right angle, during the vector changeover."

  Harkness' expression flickered. Grudgingly, he said, "Thought you
weren't a pilot."

   "I'm not. But I've fought Thraks before and I know how they can attack
vessels."

   The pilot said nothing. He looked to Alij as the computer began to show
graphic overlays of corridors and windows. Alij, without knowing what he
was doing, began to nod vigorously as Jack's suspicions were confirmed.
"Yes… yes… here they are… yes…"

    The pilot squeezed his bulky body upward into a firm stance. He nodded
at Jack. "Thank you, captain."

   "You're welcome, Harkness. We're not out of this yet. A transport vehicle
like this is most vulnerable when it pulls out of hyperspace and turns that
corner to begin braking… and it's my bet the Thraks aren't going to blow us
out of the sky."

  "No?" A bushy eyebrow went up.

  "No. I'm afraid what they'll have in mind this time is taking prisoners."

  The copilot broke the silence with a hoarse whisper. "We'd be better off
dead."




                                 Chapter 2
                                                                     «^»
Giving up already, Leoni?" Harkness growled.
  "No, sir." The sallow-faced man straightened hunched shoulders. "Have
you ever seen a sand planet, sir? After the Thraks have come in and taken
over?"

    Jack stood quietly, listening to the exchange. He was very careful not to
let emotion flicker across his face.

   Harkness shook his head.

   "Well, I have. About ten years ago. The crew I was on had to bring in a
load of supplies under treaty. Not that the bugs need much on a sand
planet, but trade is trade, right?" His brown eyes blinked guiltily. His
employer did not respond. Leoni plunged ahead. "It's eerie. My guess is the
planets don't survive long, with the whole ecosystem shot like that… the
oceans are there, but most of the vegetation is gone. It's been eaten down
into these coarse granules, beige and rust colored. I held some in my bare
hand. It felt like bugs were in it, squirming around. My skin stung for
weeks. The Thraks lay their eggs in the stuff, and the larvae eat the sand,
sort of. I remember looking at it and thinking, this used to be grassland,
once. Or maybe a forest or someone's farm. No more."

   Leoni looked around the control room. "I could stand there. I could still
breathe the air even though it had thinned out some. But I wouldn't want to
live there. It's my idea of hell."

  "You were lucky," Alij said. "I heard about a trader run that stayed—the
bodies of its crew added to the supply list."

   "That's an old story," Harkness countered. "I've never heard proof of it."

  "What proof would there be? We know from the Sand Wars that the
Thraks have little use for prisoners. Even if they wanted us, we wouldn't be
kept in very good shape."

   "Then we need to make sure it won't go that far."

  Jack let his breath out slowly. He felt their gazes upon him. He looked
about the control room. Harkness cleared his throat.

   "What are you going to do?"
   He took it in before responding, "What kind of weaponry do you have?"

   "Four, guns, two mounted on each fin aft. Not much."

   "Is the firing circuitry mounted on a single board, or do you have to have
a man at each gun?"

   "They're tied in."

   "That helps. Anything else? Mines?"

  "No. My reputation is my best defense. Everybody knows I don't carry
much of any worth," Harkness said.

   "And this ship maneuvers like a garbage scow." Jack saw the pilot wince,
but did not apologize. He looked over Alij's shoulder to the computer screen
where the graphics overlay brilliantly detailed the window of their exit and
the likely placement of the Thrakian warship waiting for them. "We have
some time," he said. "I need to think." With that, he left a stunned silence
behind him on the bridge.

                                   ***

  He sought the gym and Bogie. The battle armor hung on its rack, quiet
and yet deadly. Jack approached it and sat down cross-legged in front of it.

   The battle which the transport crew and the Thraks were about to engage
in was not in his line of expertise. He knew that and surely Harkness' crew
comprehended it—but perhaps not. He fought on the surface, a man-shaped
mobilized tank, a machine meant to slog through the lines of the enemy. He
was, in so many words, a weeder.

   The thought creased into a smile. Some weeds were tougher than others
to pull.

   He stood up and went to the suit. He needed to think and there was only
way he could do it without interruption. Bogie blossomed open to him and,
after kicking off his boots and stripping off his jacket, he stepped in. Inside,
he kept himself occupied clipping leads to his torso and taking care of the
other details of suiting up. He tried to ignore the chamois at his back as it
settled about this shoulders like some bat-winged creature. He closed the
seams and snugged the helmet on with a half-twist to seal it. The world
immediately became muffled. Isolated. Refined to the visor and the target
grid.

   "Bogie," Jack said. "I need to remember."

   The sense of welcoming surrounding him pulled back in surprise. Then,
*Jack, do you not remember on your own?*

   How could he explain what had been done to him in the name of the
Dominion? The seventeen years he'd lain in cryogenic sleep, adrift on a lost
transport, his mind locked into a military debriefing loop. Those years had
stripped away most of his memory of his youth and his beginnings just as
the Thraks had physically stripped away his family when they'd attacked
Dorman's Stand and reduced it to a sand planet. The corner of Jack's mouth
twisted bitterly.

   Nor had he been well-treated when found. There had been ugly hints
that perhaps his mind had undergone indoctrination when being brought
out of cold sleep and treated for the side effects those seventeen years had
wrought.

   Jack had one recourse left to capture those years—Bogie. He had no way
of knowing for sure if the creature had been alive enough while first
incubated on Milos to absorb any of Jack's conscious or subconscious
memories, but while on Bythia, there had been some indications of Bogie's
ability to do so. It was Jack's only way to regain what being a soldier for the
Dominion had stolen away from him.

   He could feel the warm and comforting presence of the chamois across
his shoulders and back, almost as though a fatherly figure had put an arm
around him.

   "Bogie," Jack said quietly. "Your memory is all I have left of Milos and
before. If you can remember, if you can give it to me so that I can
remember, then…"

   *Then what?*

  "I'm not sure. Then I'll know why I fight. Why I hate. Why Amber is in
danger just being a part of me. But today I have to remember all of what I
know about how Thraks fight. I remember most of it… but it's
overshadowed by the Milots and their damn berserkers." Jack plunged to a
halt. "Dammit, I'm not a computer. I don't have access to old files."

   *Neither am I. I… cannot do what you wish of me.*

  "Bogie, you remember, I know you do—you kept me going on Bythia,
and what you remember may be piecemeal but it's better than nothing! It's
mine. Give it back to me!"

  *I have no control. I don't understand things well enough yet. I'm still
new, Jack.*

   Jack stood inside his armor and suddenly felt alien to this piece of
equipment that had been his second skin for as long as he could remember.
Could remember, dammit, that was the problem. He stretched and felt the
Flexalinks move with him. Because he had no solace other than in
movement, he fell into a drill routine.

    The armor moved with him supplely, far more gracefully than most
would suspect looking at its rigid links, but that was part of its effectiveness.
The rest depended a great deal on the man wearing it, for the structure took
care and maintenance and a man was only as good as his mechanical ability
in the field.

  Bogie said suddenly, in his undervoice which sounded like rocks
tumbling over one another in a deep-running stream, *I can give you this.*

   Jack had hit the power vault before hearing Bogie, and as the memory hit
him, he doubled over and the suit slammed into the hold flooring, but Jack
barely felt it, for he was burning inside his mind.

   Fire swept across a verdant world. Peace and healing disrupted in the
middle of the night. The skies vibrated as warships came down, and their
weapons struck. A firestorm sweeping across Claron, charring all in its
path—his breath caught in his throat. Fear again. The suit, his escape, his
tumbling in freefall in deep space without hope of ever being caught… the
horror of knowing this memory came courtesy of, not the Thraks, but
warring factions within the Dominion itself where he should have had no
enemy.
   "Bogie!"

   *Jack.*

   "Stop it," Jack ground out, his body curled tightly in pain, his temples
throbbing, his gut sucked to his backbone in the nauseating panic of endless
freefall.

   As abruptly, the memory left.

   Jack caught his breath first. Sweat dripped off his forehead. He had no
idea the memories he'd asked for would be vivid recreations of what he had
gone through. Before he could say anything else, Bogie said, *Perhaps this
will be better.*

   He was swept away again…

   Dust motes swirled in the air, and he sneezed as he leaned over a row of
greens, the sound of the automatic harvester droning in the background.
The sky was the color of his mother's eyes, brilliant yet everchanging blue,
even to the clouds which wisped across. The dirt gave up the smell of
growing things, leafy greens hybridized from what had been collard greens
on old Earth, Home World, but which Jack was just used to seeing heaped
up in his mother's crockery, steaming under butter as greens. He liked them
well enough. They were a staple product of his parents' farm. Jack preferred
the orchard though he could not climb in any of the trees except for the
windbreaks.

   He pinched at a leaf now, examining the underside critically for sign of
mites or fungus, frowning in an expression which he knew imitated that of
his father. His father stood far away at the fields' end, carrying his keypad in
the crook of his arm, varying the harvesting pattern of his machinery as he
worked.

   Jack stood up. He looked down the row of growth and saw, almost
beyond his eyeshot, a nest resting under wavering, wilting leaves. The
harvester loomed beyond, darkening the horizon with its presence.

    He moved so quickly he almost lost his cap. His brother's cap, too, and
not only would he catch hell for wearing it, he'd catch double hell for losing
it, he thought as he bolted forward. He pitched forward, scampering down
the irrigation trough, even as the nesting bird dove past his face, wings
fluttering and beating at his eyes. Jack ducked away and tugged his hat on
tighter.

   He stopped a few meters from the nest and stood, his chest heaving from
the run. His shirt clung wetly to his back. Dust swirled around him and then
settled. The noise of the harvester battered against his ears and he looked
up, watching it head straight at him.

   His dad was beyond sight and hearing. Jack would have to save the nest
on his own. He eyed the creamy black and white swirled shells. The mother
would come back—she'd just been nipping at his ear—and if she perceived
him as a real threat, she'd cover the nest, feign a broken wing, then try to
lead him away.

  It was the nest covering movement he waited for even as the harvester
bore down on them, blocking out the sun's rays as it came.

  Jack stopped squinting as the shadow fell across them. He reached up
and took his brother's cap off as he waited.

   The bird wheeled about him once, her gray and speckled body arrowing
across the field. He caught a glimpse of white-ringed amber eyes, piercing
and alarmed.

   If only Dad hadn't taken the safety off the harvester, it would have
perceived him and halted. It was a drain on the batteries, Dad said, and so
he'd removed it. Who would be stupid enough to stand in front of the
machine, anyway?

   Salty sweat dripped into his eyes and he brushed the sting away with the
back of his hand, wincing as his vision blurred. From the corner of his eye,
he saw the mother bird drop frantically to earth and attempt to cover her
nest with both her body and any stray twigs she could scratch up.

   Jack pounced, cap in hand.

   He could feel the heat reflecting off the harvester's grill, waffling off his
face. He'd have freckles for sure after this!

   The cap swooped down, locking over fowl and nest. Jack shoveled in his
other hand underneath and plucked the nest from the ground, a mere meter
from the harvester's whirling blade. He turned and rant

   He didn't stop running until he reached the windbreak. There, he found a
tree with a comfortable fork that he could reach if he shinnied up high
enough. It was tough going with the nest in hand, but he made it, locked his
legs around the trunk and deposited the nest. He left the cap on it and fell
back to earth.

    The grass here was lean and stringy, half-browned by the sun, and it did
little to cushion his fall. Jack leaned back on his spare hips and bruised
elbows—always bruised, he remembered—and watched the nest. The cap
joggled and dimpled as something under it moved.

   He had to leave it alone now, leave it alone or risk chasing off the mother
bird for good. He knew that. He knew almost as much about the local
creatures as he did about his father's farm. So he watched as the mother bird
emerged, fluffing her wings out indignantly, and knocking the cap off
herself. It fell to one side and hung on a slender twig. He thought of what
he'd tell his brother to get him to come out of the house and see what had
happened to his cap.

   The mother bird looked over her nest and appeared to be satisfied with
conditions. Jack caught his breath. He, too, was satisfied. As he got ready to
get to his feet and dust himself off, the twig broke and the cap slid down to
land at his feet. Jack grinned and picked it up. All in all, a good day.

   Jack sat up. The suit moved with him. Bogie said, *I cannot control it.*

   "I understand," Jack answered. He drew in his breath. His brother. The
farm. His father. He'd forgotten most of that. He leaned his head forward,
touching the cool shield of the visor to his forehead. He had his nightmares
of the Thraks. He'd encountered one or two as a free mercenary. He knew
what he had to know to face them.

   He got to his feet. The gauntlets flexed as he balled his hands. Nine
fingers clenched. Ten in his memory of a boy scooping a nest out of the path
of destruction. How close had that blade been? Perhaps it would have been
only a matter of time until he'd had that finger sheared off, for he'd cheated
the blades that day. The scar ached in response.

   * Again,* Bogie said.
   He wanted to tell her she was free, but he was afraid she'd smell the
murders of two men on his hands, and so he decided to wait until morning
to gift her with their deaths.

       "Amber," he said, to capture her attention. "Look at me."

   Her face turned. She used her hair to veil her thoughts from him, its
strands sweeping down and covering half her face. One soft brown eye
watched him warily.

   He could think of nothing else to do and nothing that he wanted to do
more. He crossed the room and knelt beside her on the pillows, and took her
in his arms. Gently he swept back her hair.

  The expression in her eyes shocked him. "You love me," he said quietly,
and was surprised to hear his voice waver.

       Amber shook her head. "Dammit, Jack. It took you long enough to see
it."

       "I haven't been looking."

   "No." She reached up and traced the side of his face where a very faint
scar swept into his dark blond hair, all that was left of a laser burn she'd
doctored for him long ago. "And if I were looking, what would I see?"

  A heat rose in him and he found it difficult to answer, "The same, I
hope."

  She hugged him tightly again, burying her face in the curve of his neck
where it met his shoulders. That was all the answer he needed.

   The pile of pillows shifted, covering the floor near the Bythian courtyard
window as they lay back. Jack fought for control, trying to move slowly, his
hands seeking out, then holding the curves of her body. She answered,
biting his lower lip gently, then moving away so that she could open his
shirt. She uncurled the hairs on his chest as though they were buds and
found his own nipples, and caressed, then kissed them.

   She took her robe off. Bare skin touched bare skin. The port wine dark
sky without sheltered them in privacy. A house lizard skimmed the curtains
as Jack moved over her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, drawing his face
close to hers, gentle brown eyes widening in the mystery of their first
lovemaking.

    Even as he moved to open her, lightning struck his mind. Its blue fire
silvered through and he stiffened, unable to move without pain. All desire
was seared from his flesh even as Amber moved to draw him closer.
Paralyzed, his senses darkening, he could say nothing as he slipped from
consciousness, knowing Amber's mind had struck to kill him.

   He came to, sweat cascading down his torso, and Bogie said, *I am
sorry.*

   Jack's throat had constricted and he could not respond for a moment.

   *I don't understand these memories,* Bogie added. Then, * Again.*

   "No!" Jack cried, as a crimson wash flooded his eyesight, and his body
froze in catatonic reaction as Bogie fed him one last memory. Thrakian
forms rose before him.



  Harkness leaned over Alij's shoulder. He straightened and looked out
over the bridge. "Where the hell is he? Is he going to do something or not?
We're out of frigging time."

   Leoni said tersely, "He's still suited up in the gym. He's been motionless
like that for hours."

  "Maybe he's meditating or something before battle. I heard about those
Knights," Alij added.

   "Meditating." Harkness made a sound deep in his phlegmy throat. His
response was cut short by the opening of the bridge portal, and then the
opalescent glare of the whitish battle armor filled the bulkhead. The man
could not move all the way inside; he was too large for the compartment.

   Jack took his helmet off. Fresh air tickled across his face. Sweat plastered
his hair to his head as he cautiously ran gauntleted fingers through it. He
smiled briefly in memory of a bald sergeant who swore he'd lost his hair
that way, lasering himself with his own gauntlet.

   The three officers looked at him.
   "Well," Harkness rumbled. "What are we going to do?" He stabbed a
finger at the screen where the edge of subspace now defined the clear
presence of a Thrakian warship waiting for them.

  Jack said, "I suggest we surrender."




                                Chapter 3
                                                                    «^»
Surrender?" Harkness straightened his bulk, a half-growl smothering in his
throat. "I knew it the minute you wouldn't go into cold sleep. I should have
known it the minute I saw the lot of you straggling in, your butts whipped.
You're a goddamn coward."
   Alij had gotten to his feet, resting a slim but trembling brown hand on
the back of his chair. "Pilot," he said to his employer, but Harkness was
advancing on Jack, battle armor or not.

   "You're afraid of the deep sleep and you're afraid of them, out there!"
Harkness jerked his head. Spittle hung from the corner of his mouth that he
did not bother to wipe away.

  "You're a damn fool if you're not afraid of the Thraks," Jack said evenly.
He carried his helmet under his left arm like a second head. Removed, but
not inactivated, faint noises came from the gear.

  "I won't lose my ship to Thraks!"

   Jack arched an eyebrow. "I don't think you have much choice, pilot.
This… ship… is not equipped to fight. Leoni, am I correct in my assessment
of the cryo bay as a lifeboat unit that can be detached?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How long is it equipped to maintain life support?"

  "Four weeks."

  "With its cargo awake?"
  "No, sir," Leoni said, ignoring Harkness' look of spite and hatred at him.
"Awake, a little less than ten days."

   Jack looked back to Harkness who stood, his beefy frame shaking with
ineffectual rage. "Ever docked with the lifeboat before?"

   "What has this to do with anything, you ball-less wonder?"

    "Everything." Jack pressed against the bulkhead, leaning in as far as he
could, until his broad-shouldered armor stopped him. "You do have a pilot's
license, do you not?"

   "Yes. Yes, goddammit, I've got a license."

   "Then, sometime in your career, you must have passed the exams to do
so. Could you do it again?"

   Harkness' face worked even as the veins went from red to purplish,
mottling his expression. "I could," he said, finally, defeated by his inability
to vent his anger adequately. "You damn son of a bitch."

  Jack ignored him. "Alij, I need you to set up coords for some alternate
windows."

   Cat-quick, the navigator sat back down. Harkness spat and then said,
"Belay that order."

   "Do it, Alij."

  The navigator looked from Jack's quiet insistence to his pilot. He stopped,
unsure of what to do next.

   "I need those coords now."

   "No, goddammit! This is still my ship!"

  "No," Jack said. "Not now it isn't. Now it is damn near the Thraks' ship
and the longer we argue, the closer we are."

   The pilot's ham hands folded into fists. "I won't let you do it!"

   "Sir?" Alij looked from face to face.

   "You stupid son of a bitch," Harkness threw at him. "He means to jettison
the cold bay and let the Thraks scuttle after it."
   The two subordinate officers stopped in their movements and looked to
Jack, shock livid on their faces.

   Jack shook his head. "No," he said. "I mean to set them free in subspace,
before the Thraks know we've done it. It's their only chance. We'll still be
the main target." He waved a gauntlet about the cabin. "The main lifeboat
gone, we'll still have considerable left of this hulk. Most of it empty, isn't it,
Harkness?"

   "You're my only contract this run," the pilot grumbled reluctantly. His
mottling began to fade and his small eyes showed a flicker of interest instead
of rage. "I still think you're a son of a bitch, but I'm beginning to think
you're up to something."

   "Good," Jack answered. "I am. Set the crew to readying the lifeboat for
detachment. As soon as Alij has coords to show me, I'll be picking out the
release point."

   "Where do you want them to be?" Alij asked as he swung around in his
chair and prepared to manipulate the computer.

   "Away from us and the Thraks. Preferably behind them, if they'll have
the trajectory. Pilot, come with me."

   Harkness' rage was gone now, replaced by wariness. "Why?"

   "I need you to give some orders, and a tour." Jack smiled, but it was not
an altogether pleasant expression. "I want to see what's left of this shell with
the main lifeboat gone."

     Jack doubted if Harkness had ever heard of a Trojan Horse or would
appreciate the strategy if told of it. The pilot gave orders to cast off the
lifeboat without further question, but was uncharacteristically silent as he
waddled along beside Jack's armor. Most of the transport was dimly lit, if at
all.

   Jack paused a moment and waited for their footsteps to stop echoing
inside a corridor.

    He looked down at the pilot. "No wonder you're a poor man, Harkness…
all this space and only one contract for the run."
   The man flushed again, red bursting all the way into the wattle of his
neckline. He spat to one side. "What do you want from me?"

   "I want to know where you keep the contraband. The corridors and
holds." Jack rapped sharply on a metal plate. "Like behind here."

   With a noise that was more growl than hawk, Harkness reached for a bolt
and twisted it. The panel slid open. Jack aimed the sensor-tripped lightbeam
from his helmet into the area. It was empty. He looked at the pilot.

  Harkness shrugged. "Figure it out," he said. "I had to make the run
empty this time. Pepys didn't give me a chance to pick up any other cargo."

   Jack pursed his lips in thought a moment as he examined the interior of
the hidden hold. He stopped his inspection long enough to reply, "And that
just might save your life, Harkness. Now show me the rest of the tunnels."

    The pilot shook his head, not in denial but in puzzlement. He looked up
at Jack, one eye narrowed as if trying to focus on him better. The pilot's
intense gaze swept across Jack's face. "Where the hell does Pepys get his
Knights from?"

  Jack smiled tightly. "You'd be surprised, pilot. You'd be surprised."

  "I already am. Follow me," Harkness returned and then continued
waddling down the corridor. He did not seem to notice that his gripper
boots made far more noise than those of Jack's heavy armor. "It occurs to
me that I might owe you an apology."

   "For thinking I'm afraid of Thraks? I have a healthy respect for them, and
the damage they can do. If I didn't, I wouldn't even consider casting the
cryo bay off."

   "Then what do you have in mind?" Harkness stumbled to a halt, and his
eyes narrowed. "You're going to let them board us."

  "Yes."

  "And we'll hide like smugglers."

  "No," Jack corrected. "You'll hide like smugglers. I'll be hunting."

  "Jay-sus," Harkness blurted. He rubbed his hand over his face.
   "Now," Jack finished. "Show me the whereabouts of the backup lifeboat."

   This request the pilot didn't even try to figure out. He just turned and led
Jack to it without another word.

   Jack sat in the gym, the only place really large enough to accommodate
him when he was equipped, and he studied the information Alij and Leoni
had brought him. The copy lay across his lap. The shortness of time niggled
at him when a buzz of static came across the intercom and Leoni intoned,
"The cryo bay's ready for cast off."

   Jack stood. The copy sloughed off his lap and drifted to the floor, but Jack
did not pick it up. The information was branded in his mind and it was not
likely that he could close his eyes for the next few weeks and not see it
emblazoned across his vision. He traversed the corridors to the bridge
where Harkness and the other two awaited him. They were standing
double-watch, and the stress of the command showed in their bloodshot
eyes as they watched him fill the doorway.

   He told Alij which coords he wanted used, and the navigator repeated
them to the computer.

   Harkness had his head tilted, listening. "That doesn't give us much time,"
the pilot remarked.

   "No. Nor them." Jack cleared his throat. "Before it goes, I want you to tell
the nursing staff to start waking the sleepers."

   "What? What in the hell are you thinking of? They've got four weeks'
supply with sleepers. Less than ten days awake, or maybe you didn't hear
Leoni earlier. And that's just an estimate. If any of those Knights are as big
as you are, the demand's stronger."

   "I heard," Jack said. He felt the pain etching itself into furrows across his
forehead. "But I won't condemn anyone to drift into death asleep."

  "If the Thraks take us," Harkness persisted, "it'll take two weeks to get
Dominion needlers out here to pick them up. They can't make it awake,
you've got to leave them chilled down."

  "Then," Jack said, "I'll just have to make sure the Thraks don't take us."
He turned and left the bridge, but he could feel the fear and hatred in their
eyes washing after him.

    Jack felt the lurch and plunge of the transport as the cryo bay left it. He
moved to the portal screen and watched it drop away suddenly, its inertia
carrying it on a different voyage from that of the mother ship as Harkness
fired retros to change the course of the transport. He felt Amber’s and
Colin's nearness torn away from him as if, even in sleep, they had been
close in their dreams and thoughts. Don't let this be a mistake, he thought.
Then he straightened. Ten days and counting. Amber had ten days of life
left for him to defeat the Thraks and relocate the cryo bay.

    As painful as it was, he did not stop watching the tracking blip until the
screen lost it. Instead of ordering it to fine tune on the blip and follow it, Jack
let it go.

   He hooked up the suit in a way it hadn't been since the Sand Wars. He
paused as he reached the dead man circuit. That little device was to prevent
the armor being taken from him by enemies on the battlefield. Remove a
dead or wounded Knight from his armor without knowing how to disarm
the circuit, and the suit self-destructed. He would be facing the enemy now.
He looped the circuit in. He was nine days and counting when the freighter
erupted out of subspace and began braking for Malthen, and the Thrakian
warship flared into being beside them, tractor beams on full, and the two
ships shuddered as they made contact.

   Then he smiled.




                                  Chapter 4
                                                                        «^»
Amber wore her thermal sheet about her like a cape. It kept her warm. Her
clothes weren't enough; cold sleep permeated the entire atmosphere of the
bay, and her skin was peaked with goosebumps that refused to go away,
even when Colin dropped his arm about her shoulders. His presence was
enough to light a fire normally and she gratefully shrugged into the added
heat although nothing would help the emptiness of waking up and finding
Jack gone.
  "Your hands are ice cold, child," the older man scolded after reaching for
and cupping one. "You came off dialysis too quickly!" His handsomeness
had softened into aged good looks, but his square chin jutted in concern.

   "No! No, it's not that." Amber cut him off from summoning the nurse.
She darted out from under his embrace with a quickness born of the streets.
Colin watched her impassively as, now facing him, she remembered their
shared past together, how the two of them had met, and knew he also
remembered. She had the grace to flush. She'd been stranded on a very
wintery and inhospitable frontier post and she'd tried to roll the Walker
prelate. His aide had caught her—her punishment had been that Colin took
her in and helped her in her quest. That time, after basic survival, it had
been to find Jack.

   A cold tremor swept through her. Colin put his hand out to her again.
"Come on," he said. "You'll feel better when we find Jack. We'll both feel
better."

   Amber shook her head even as they moved off together. "Jack's not
here," she said.

   "Nonsense. Maybe he's not up yet, but we'll find him."

   Amber stopped in her tracks, forcing Colin to a halt also. "Colin, Jack
didn't go into cold sleep. He's not here." She added softly, "I think we're
detached. That's why the nursing staff isn't letting us disperse to transport
quarters. This bay and the three rooms—that's all there is."

   "Detached? You mean we're floating free?"

   "I think so. Jack thought this whole bay looked like a lifeboat.
Something's gone wrong and they won't tell us until everyone is awake."
Suddenly, the thermal sheeting had done its work. She felt warm, burning,
and she let the sheet fall to the deck. The shame of being left behind by Jack
flushed through her being. He didn't trust her—how could he? Somehow he
must have learned that her mission on Bythia had been to kill him. And
although the snakeskin Hussiah had taught her well, had peeled away her
subliminal training to kill, he had also brought her psychic assassination
abilities to the surface. Her rescue by Jack had saved his life as well as her
own. But… had he known? Did he doubt her still? She rubbed at her
blue-dyed arms as if she could chafe away her past and her fears.

   Before she could say more, a young man detached himself from the
group forming at the interior bay doors and strode their way. He wore the
rich dark blue uniform of a Dominion Knight. Its color set off the
white-blondness of his looks, silken hair in a defiant brush, eyes that were
blue without compromise of gray or green, fair skin that had acquired a
sprinkling of freckles from exposure to the Bythian sun. He drew near them,
a wrinkle across his young forehead from his earnest expression. A look
passed between the Walker saint and this young soldier. He paused as if
he'd intended to speak to Colin first, then turned and looked at her.

  "Are you all right?"

  Amber looked at him. She tried to quell her rapidly growing anger, but
Rawlins evidently felt it. His blue eyes showed his pain. She shook her
head. "I'm sorry, Rawlins. Jack isn't here."

  "I know that, ma'am. The commander told me he was staying awake."

  "He told you?" Amber thought he'd told no one but her.

   "Yes, ma'am. He's been anticipating action from the Thrakian League. I'd
say from our present situation that we've been cut loose from transport and
as we lose momentum, we'll be coming out of sub-space shortly. I'd also say
he's had some of the trouble he's been looking for." Rawlins flushed across
the cheekbones as though he'd relish sharing that trouble.

  Colin frowned. His wrinkles, unlike Rawlins', were permanent. "What's
our situation here?"

   "Air and rations for about ten days. Maybe more if we stay relatively
dormant. We're on a kind of autopilot but without the navigational
equipment we need to redirect our course." Rawlins' gaze flickered and he
looked toward Amber. "I came by to ask if I can help. I'd like to… look out
for you."

   Amber was hugging herself and staring off at a plated wall of the bay as
though her gaze could burn a porthole through it. She brought herself back
long enough to meet Rawlins' gaze. "I'm all right."
  "Are you sure?" He bent quickly and picked up the thermal sheeting.
"Cold sleep fever can be awfully hard on some people."

  "I don't get it," Amber said tightly, as though her throat had closed up.

  Rawlins looked back to the older man. "St. Colin?"

  "I'm fine, thank you, lieutenant."

  "I never had a chance to thank you, sir, but I'm told you saved my life."

   There was a strange faraway look on the older man's face, but he gave
only a short nod and said, "I was pleased to do it. You came to my aid in a
difficult situation."

   "Yes, sir. I don't remember much. I guess I just acted in a rush… but I'm
glad I could be of help." Rawlins straightened but stopped short of snapping
off a salute. "I'll be back if you need me."

   Colin waited until Rawlins was out of earshot, then chuckled. Amber
broke away from her inner thoughts long enough to glare at the Walker
saint. “What’s so funny?”

  "Ah, my dear. It's you. You're breaking hearts again."

   "I am? Oh." She stared off after Rawlins who'd disappeared into the ranks
of now awakened Knights. She said nothing further, but folded herself up
and sat down cross-legged on the cold floor. Jonathan detached himself from
the medical quarters and, lumbering bearlike through the crowd, came in
search of his minister. Colin sighed as he saw his bodyguard approach and
looked down at her. "What are you going to do?"

  "Meditate," Amber said.

  "That sounds like an excellent idea. I could do with a bit of prayer
myself." Unceremoniously, Colin joined her on the floor.



   The old ship creaked and groaned as it was invaded. Jack leaned back
inside his suit and listened through his mikes, picking up movement despite
infamous Thrakian stealth. The short hairs along the back of his neck
prickled. A rivulet of sweat started down his bare back between his shoulder
blades, but the chamois that was Bogie's regenerated life soaked it up
greedily.

   The waiting would be the hardest. He had no qualms about that. Killing
them would be difficult, but waiting for them to penetrate the various traps
and deceptions he'd planted throughout the ship's hulk would be the
hardest. That, and wondering if the Thraks would simply kill off Harkness
and the crew once Jack's work began.

   It was the little glitch in Jack's Trojan Horse plan which he'd forgotten to
mention to the pilot. The Thraks might forget they were looking for
Dominion Knights and simply take out their anger on the nearest human
captives. Harkness and the crew would be easy for the Thraks to pick up, if
they hadn't already. In a ship riddled with hideyholes, Jack had left them no
place to hide. Jack had had to categorize the ship's crew as expendable. He'd
had no choice. But that didn't mean he liked having done it. He wanted
surety he'd be able to retrieve the cryogenic bay and Amber safely.

  A hair thin thread of noise reached him. Jack's palms began to sweat. The
gauntlets tingled at his wrists, indicating power up. He set his teeth.

   He could hear them now. Their measured tread along the corridor
flooring. The occasional metal clank as they probed the plates. Soon. Very
soon now the two of them exploring this corridor would discover a
hollowness where there should be none. They would, of course, investigate.
Thraks might be alien, but they were not lacking in curiosity.

  Metal and plastic sounded as the plating was drawn back. Jack braced
himself as his target grids suddenly registered two blips. He was hidden. He
wanted the Thraks within this hold before he killed them.

   And he wanted to kill them as quietly as he could.

   A blinding white beam Jack's visor could not screen out quickly enough
swept his face plate. Vision seared, Jack swore and fired automatically,
trusting his targeting grid. With a high keen, two forms thumped to the
decking. He could hear their muffled death throes.

   Blinking until he could see through his watering eyes, Jack stumbled out
of the back of the hold. Both Thraks lay still, their chest plates punctured by
his glove lasers. Lucky shots.
   No. Not lucky. Instinctual.

   He stared down at their huge bodies. Not quite insects. Supple, within
their own dark brown and sable body plates. In death, their face plates had
gone slack, exposing leathery skin and gaping mandibles. He supposed that
would count for an expression of surprise. He'd never seen a Thrakian face
without its face plates carefully held in a masklike position. Each mask
indicated an emotional nuance, very formalized in its positioning.
Diplomatic Thraks were more theatrical than the warriors, but even warriors
used their masks as if they were shields.

    Jack kicked the forms aside and left the contraband hold, making his way
to the next trap.

   He encountered his next victim in the corridor. As the creature seemed to
sense him and turned, Jack hit the power vault and kicked. His foot
connected with a sickening crunch. The armored boot knocked its head
bouncing down the dim aisleway where it rolled into a crevice. Jack caught
up the spasming body and carried it with him to the next hold where he
threw it as far as he could into an empty corner. Ichor splashed as he did.
Jack stepped into a shadowed far corner.

   They sent another trio after him six hours later.



   Jack jerked awake from his doze as Bogie said, *They're here, boss.*

   "Where?"

   *Three meters down the corridor, according to the sound grid.*

   Jack blinked hard. He had grit in the corners of his eyes. Carefully, he
rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in his back. "Thanks, Bogie."

  *Don't mention it.* The warrior spirit's voice carried an edge of irony. *If
you'd done it my way, we'd have been out of here a long time ago.*

   "If I'd done it your way," Jack retorted, looking over his screens, "we'd
have the whole Thrakian League on our necks, you bloodthirsty old pirate."
He had time enough to wonder how many more his booby traps had picked
off before the cubbyhole's plate was wedged aside.
   No lights this time. The corner of Jack's mouth twitched. They knew he
was stalking them now. The Thraks were aware enough of human
composition to know that lighting might give Jack something of an
advantage. What they were unaware of was that the power of their beams
could blind him.

   He could hear their clicking and chuckling beyond the opening. They
seemed to be discussing who would penetrate the hold first. His twitch
stretched into a half smile.

   He watched as the first Thraks eased into the hold, slope-backed, on all
fours, supple and quick, as cautious as a canine with its back up. It could not
see him, Jack realized, and watched as its deathmask gaze swept his
shadowy corner several times. Feathery antennae erected at cheekbone
height from behind the mask.

  Jack had never seen antennae on Thraks before. Adjunct sensory
equipment? He watched the creature as it reared up into a fighting stance.

   A second Thraks moved in, clacking angrily. It shadowed the first. Jack
looked over their shoulders to the third, hovering in the background. He'd
bring that one down first—its body would block the exit. As soon as it
leaned in closer to its fellows…

   There was an immediate reaction when the first Thraks discovered the
shell of a companion in the corner. Jack had a split second as the third
Thraks reared in the doorway.

   He shot, rolled, and stood up, fingers pointed, and blasted the other two
even as they pulled their weapons into position.

  A fiery beam glanced off the side of the helmet as the last Thraks went
down, its mandibles white with froth.

   From fear or anger?

  Jack stepped over the bodies as he left the hold and shut it behind him.
He could have walked through them to relish the crackle and crunch, but he
had no way to clean the stain off his armor just yet.

   He made his way deeper into the bowels of the freighter to yet another
contraband hold, and closer to his ultimate objective, and waited for the next
to the last time.

   If his plan held.

   The wait gave him time to think, and remember, and compare. He could
not ever remember having seen antennae before, but then, he'd never
stalked Thraks before. And he'd never before had the sensation he hadn't
even been seen.

   What was different this time?

   Nothing. Not a damn thing that he could think of.

   Perspiration beaded his upper lip. Bogie had flooded his mind with
memories of the Sand Wars. If he had enough time to sort them out,
perhaps…

  But his time was not his own. There was Amber to think of, and Colin,
and his command of Knights, and his obligation to the evacuees.



   They sent a whole damn company after him this time.

   Bogie spoke just as the target and sound screens lit up.

   "I see it," Jack told him.

   *You'd better be quick.*

   "Or I'll be dead. I know."

   He had only a split second in which to notice that the antennae had gone
out again, quivering after him as eagerly as dogs sniffing after a scent. Were
they sniffing him out?

  He did not have time to know if they'd succeeded, for his plan called for
him to make himself a living target.

   "Here I am," Jack called, and stepped out into the open.

   *Now you've done it.*

   Jack was too busy to retort.

   He hit the power vault, spraying fire down below as he soared toward
the cavernous roof of the cargo hold. He caught the hatch doorway above,
and was through, in a wash of laser fire that turned the suit red-hot. He
broke out in a sweat as he slammed the hatch lid down and secured the
bulkhead, sealing the bay. The outer door below closed automatically as he
set off the sensors, sending the last remaining lifeboat into launch sequence.
The armor cooled as he waited for the inevitable.

   The stripped down shell of what remained of the transport shuddered as
the lifeboat powered off. Jack waited until the shuddering quit, then began
to make his systematic way to the bridge.

   He stopped a last time as the freighter quivered again, and he heard the
sound of the Thrakian warship blasting off in pursuit of the lifeboat and its
lost company of men.

   A miserable, grubby lot of men awaited him on the bridge. They turned
pale and battered faces toward him as he filled the bulkhead opening.

   Harkness spat.

   "It worked," he said. There was blood in his phlegm. "And at least we're
alive."

  "Now," Jack said, "Let's find our cryo bay while they can still say the
same."




                                Chapter 5
                                                                     «^»
Rawlins tapped Amber gently on the shoulder. She felt his touch as though
she had been asleep underwater and even though she opened her eyes, she
viewed him through a murky veil. It had been days since she'd first
awakened to find the lieutenant following her like a white shadow. She
brought a smile to her face and let it shine for Rawlins, though underneath,
her emotions knotted. Amber found him smiling back as she came fully out
of her meditations.
   The air stank now. It spoke of bodies too close together, and water too
scarce for bathing, and the air itself, too used up to be recycled well. It
spoke, too, of time running out.

   Her stomach echoed the speech.

   Rawlins grinned as he lowered himself cross-legged onto the decking
beside Amber. He held out a savory smelling bundle, wrapped about by a
disposable cloth. "Last of the hot food," he said.

   "Thank you." She did not have to fake warmth in her voice as she
reached out and took her rations. "Did you eat?"

   "Yes," he answered, his gaze flickering off toward the quiet people
surrounding them.

   She thought, in that second, that Rawlins was a great deal like Jack, able
to be alone and private even in a crowd where privacy was nearly
impossible. She also thought that Rawlins, like Jack, had probably given her
a portion of his dinner. She would not insult him by asking further, and she
ate her gift with swift, clean bites.

  Rawlins flexed his back as though tense. Amber swallowed the last of the
meat pie, then said, "What's wrong?"

   His shockingly blue eyes flickered back to her, then he frowned. His
brows were almost as milk-blond as his hair, but he'd darkened them with a
liner. She could see the dye across the fine hairs. Then she realized part of
what was so startling about his eyes: the lashes were nearly transparent,
giving him a wide-open look.

   Rawlins cleared his throat. "We've had no word from the freighter."

   "Have they picked up our homing signal?"

   "Not that we can tell."

   "What do you think it means?"

   "It means that, if Thraks did attack, the freighter may not have survived.
Or that they can't get within range to find us. Or… we're on our own while
they decoy the Thraks away."

   "Or," Amber teased, "the world ended yesterday and we just don't know
it yet."

   He flushed. "And you're not worried?"

  "Yes. But Jack has a way of surviving, even when he shouldn't. And
we're alive today. So that counts for something. And I've just had dinner.
That counts for a lot." Amber grinned.

   "Is it true what the guys talk about?"

   "That depends." Her grin faded. "What do they say?"

   "That you're a street brat. That you grew up in under-Malthen."

  "That I did. So my philosophy is easily explained. Live for today.
Tomorrow, take care of tomorrow. Or something like that."

   Rawlins shook his head. "It must have been tough."

   She paused, squinting her eyes in recall. Rolf, the man who'd kept her
and trained her, had not been a good person. But she'd had her freedom
most of the time… a wild, flighty creature who would be recalled to her
accounting only at sunset. A fey thing, with flashes of intuition that kept her
alive, and successful, and protected her from Rolf. Her mind could, and
would, kill. She'd almost killed Jack the night he had reached for her in love.
The fear that she had, had driven her away in Bythia, straight into the arms
of the holy madman Hussiah. The guilt burned her still. How could she face
that happening again? There was no way of knowing if she had purged
herself of the instinct to kill without intention… until the moment came
again. Amber brushed her hand across her face as if looking for a stray bit of
hair that tickled. The movement brushed away her thoughts. "It was…
different," she answered. "How about you?"

  "I'm a timber man. Or was, until I decided to become an officer. Then
when the Knights expanded, I applied to join them."

   "That's rare. Pepys doesn't like to recruit out of Dominion ranks."

   "I know. But I'm good in armor."

   She appraised him. Jack had mentioned Rawlins' ability many times. But
the young man's soft declaration now was not boastful, merely confident.
"So I've been told."
   He colored then, and ducking his chin down, turned his face away.

  Amber laughed, and put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Rawlins!
Really."

  "Don't worry about it. Here I am with orders to be a tower of strength for
you, and you're the one comforting me."

   "Orders?"

   He looked at her. "You know."

   Indeed, she did. Jack thought of everything… but had he thought of the
fact that she would find Rawlins strangely appealing? That he awoke in her
an echo of what her feelings for Jack awoke? This was dangerous, Amber
thought, and did not continue to meet his gaze. "Tomorrow," she said, "you
can be a tower of strength for me." With a deep breath, she dropped back
into her meditations, not only to control her usage of air, but also to calm the
turmoil of emotions rising within her.



   Rawlins watched her consciousness recede until he could no longer reach
her. Around them sat or lay dozens of people in similar conditions, though
Amber was a master of the deep trance. St. Colin had instructed them all on
meditation in an effort to conserve air and keep stress under control.

  He had no place else to go, and he wanted very much to be where he
was, so he made himself comfortable and tried to drift away.



  "There she is," Harkness said grimly. "We'll be in docking position in
about six hours. It's going to be tight, commander."

   Jack stood behind him, looking over the pilot's shoulder, at the com
screens. "Better late than never," he said.

   "Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how levelheaded our lot has been.
Pinned up in those three labs… we're going to have a squirrelly bunch."

   "A good number of the evacuees are soldiers," Jack told him. "I think I
can vouch for their actions. And St. Colin is quite a man. If you haven't seen
him in action yet, I recommend you do so. He'll have been talking with
them."

   "I've seen you in action," Harkness growled. The purpled mottling of his
face had deepened, but the swelling had gone down. "That's enough for me.
Shall we mark the homing signal and let them know we're coming?"

   Jack's gut tightened reflexively. He would like Amber to know he was
close to her, but he did not want to give the Thraks any more information
than he had to. "No," he said.

   Harkness' head swiveled about to look at him, one frizzled eyebrow
raised.

   "No," Jack repeated levelly, meeting the pilot's gaze.

   "Right," Harkness said, and looked back to his command. "Right." He
cleared his throat. "We're close to a sand planet."

   Jack had been on his way out. He stopped in his tracks as though he had
been shot. "Which one? How close?"

   "Opus. One of the last the Thraks took. I understand the nest ain't been
too successful. It's damn near abandoned. We might be able to find some
supplies if we go in."

  "No. No, dammit, that's probably where that warship's from. Let's scoop
up the lifeboat and get the hell out of here before they track us. Our call for
Needier coverage has been out long enough. They should be close now."

   "It's a gamble."

   "One I'm willing to take."

   The pilot chewed on the inside of his cheek before answering slowly,
"Then it's one I'll take as well."

   Jack looked at Harkness. Animosity was banked inside the bulky body as
though it were some kind of slow-burning fire. "I'll see," he said, "that your
freighter is re-outfitted."

   Harkness took the information with a nod. He was the first to turn away.
Jack waited another moment to see if the pilot had yet another bomb he
wished to drop in Jack's lap, but the pilot said nothing more. Jack ducked
back through the doorway and left the bridge.

   What was left of the transport had been thoroughly cleaned down, but
the stench of Thrakian dead seemed to have permeated everywhere. Jack
found himself snarling as he walked back through the hulk to the vast gym.

    If she had been here, Amber would wonder with Harkness why Jack
hadn't destroyed every Thraks he could get his gauntlets on. He didn't
know if he could explain to her that he did not want to send other Thraks
into a frenzy of vengeance, that his only goal had been to make occupation
of the freighter too expensive. Setting loose the second lifeboat had ensured
that the Thraks would cut their losses and go after their remaining search
party while they could. The Thraks were not berserker fighters. They had a
calculated strategy behind much of what they did, even if it was
incomprehensible to their enemies.

  They were, after all, Jack mused, alien.

   It was more surprising to him that there had been a sand planet one
could classify as a "failure." Had it been too close to the Dominion
territories? Had the Thraks been unable to complete terraforming? If so,
why? A defeat to the Thraks was a victory for the Dominion and the Triad
Throne, even if accidental. The trick was to find out what had happened so
that it could be duplicated. Was what had happened the reason the Thraks
stopped expanding so suddenly and sued for peace?

    He stopped before his armor and eyed it critically. He'd been unable to
strip and service it properly since leaving Bythia. Traces of warfare from two
engagements stained it where he'd been unable to cleanse it better. Jack
reached out and traced over the crudely painted over insignia on the suit's
chest plate. There would be a day, soon, he promised himself, when he'd
show that insignia again. When he returned to Malthen this time, he did so
with full knowledge of who had been responsible for ordering Dominion
troops abandoned on Milos.

   Pepys, emperor of the Triad Throne. He hadn't been emperor then, of
course, but the savage losses of the Sand Wars had been one of the major
factors propelling Pepys into power.
   And when Jack faced Pepys again, it would not be as a loyal Knight
reporting to his monarch.

   And Jack knew that Pepys knew it.

   Bogie awoke under Jack's feather-light touch as he brushed the insignia.
*Jack.*

   He did not respond to his alter ego. Bogie's mental strength washed over
him like an inexorable tide, probing, and then ebbing away into silence as
the being sensed that he did not wish to converse.

  The quiet left in Bogie's wake was shattered by a tone from the intercom
monitor.

  "Commander, it's not necessary to come up, but I'll feed this to you.
We've never seen anything like it."

    Again, Jack thought, as he went to the monitor and watched it flicker into
life with the computer's projection. And this time, as last, the vision chilled
his blood.

  His silence was his answer and after a brief moment, Harkness said, "You
don't recognize it, either."

   "No."

   Alij put in, "That sucker's big enough to inhale us and never notice it."

   "Moving how fast?"

   "It'll overtake us before we dock."

   Jack looked at the screen. The Thraks had nothing in space like that as far
as he knew, and neither had the Dominion. But the Thraks hadn't been to
war openly in twenty years. Who knew what they could have been
developing? He wet his lips. "What's their course?"

   "I don't think they plan an intercept." The intercom was silent a moment
before Alij added, "They don't need to blow us out of the water."

   "I know." Jack stood a moment, hating the feeling of being totally
helpless. "Leave the intercom open. I want to see the computer simulation of
that the second it becomes more than a blip."
   "Will do."

   Jack sat down and waited.

   He waited until the hour when the computer simulation came on and
showed him outlines of firing turrets. Then he went over and suited up,
unsure of what else he could do. Then he went to the bridge.

  Harkness noted his looming presence at the bulkhead, and gave a nod.
He said to Alij, "How close?"

   "Mark, one half hour."

   "How close are we to rendezvous?"

  The brown-skinned navigator gave Jack a nervous look. "Do you want
me to split hairs?"

   "If necessary."

   "It should be simultaneous. But…"

   "Yes?"

   "But I don't think they intend to ram either us or the lifeboat." Alij
laughed a little too sharply. “That's just a theory."

   Harkness gutturalized deep in his throat and spit into a cup at the side of
the control board. The pilot said nothing, deeply intent on the computer
simulation of a docking process happening at his control screen.

   "Why do you say that?"

   "Because, well, because we'll be making some minor adjustments in
speed and trajectory to match those of the lifeboat. And I don't see the
unknown making adjustments. If they continue on their course, and we
continue on the course Harkness has set, they'll just brush over the top of
us. We'll miss by maybe two hundred feet."

   The hairs prickled at the back of Jack's neck. He watched Harkness
simulate a docking.

   "Then we'll just have to wait and see."

   Harkness' lip curled then. The computer showed a successful interlock,
its picture flashing in triumph. He looked over his shoulder at Jack.

   Jack nodded. "Nice job, pilot. When it comes time for the real thing, don't
forget to account for the wash of the unknown's drive… if they miss us."

   Harkness blinked. Then he nodded in return. "Will do, commander." He
turned back to the screen. "Alij, you'd better be tracking very closely."



   Amber awoke to a prickling of every sense in her body, all over, like a
heat rash. No veil clouded her eyes as she looked up and then stood. Every
hair on her bare arms stood out and she rubbed her forearms gently for
warmth. Across from her, Colin awoke as well. He got to his feet agilely for
an older man who'd spent much of the last twenty-four hours cross-legged
in meditation. He patted down his blue overtunic and searched in a leg
pocket of his miners' jumpsuit for a candy. He broke it in two and gave half
to her.

   "What is it?"

   "I don't know," she answered. Around them, less sensitive people began
to come awake, still groggy in the bad air. The candy brought moistness
back to her dry mouth. Information had been scanty, and she knew it wasn't
entirely the fault of those who had taken over the running of the lifeboat.
Some of the equipment had apparently been in disrepair. They were
running blind and would stay that way until rejoined with the freighter or…
or until they ran out of supplies.

  The decking underneath her feet reverberated as though they'd hit a
bumpy road.

   Colin put his hand out and they steadied each other. Rawlins broke
through a mass of sleepers and waved at her from the other side of the bay.
He trotted over to join them.

  "Sergeant Lassaday says it could be a tractor beam or a docking
maneuver."

  Amber smiled at the word sent by Jack's bullet-headed sergeant. Colin's
hand on her shoulder flexed.
  "Can he tell for sure?"

  "No. The screens are out. But he'll swear by it."

  Lassaday swore by his nuts, Amber thought. She smiled widely at the
memory. A giddiness swept her. Then she thought, It's nothing but bad air.
Euphoria. I should know better. Aloud, she said, "Do you think it's Jack?"

  "I pray it is," Colin answered. He let go of her as suddenly the vehicle
shuddered under heavy and clumsy contact. Metal sounded.

   And when it should have been quiet, the bay continued to shudder and
echo violently. Denaro, the militant Walker, came to his feet. He'd been
shorn of his weapons belts for cold sleep, but his posture now told that he
could use hands and feet if nothing else. He was prepared to fight. Colin
snapped his fingers and Jonathan left his side with a quickness belying his
massive build. When he came to a halt, it was to overshadow the young and
rebellious Denaro.

   Like an earthquake with no end, the decking rippled under her feet. It
brought her to her knees, Colin tumbling down with her, and those still
standing screamed and lay down in fear. The bay was filled with cries of
panic which tailed off to a sullen, sobbing quiet.

  The side of the bay gave out a ring as though it were an instrument that
had been struck.

  Then silence.

   Amber knew the bulkhead was opening. She could almost hear it. Sensed
it with other than the five senses DNA had given her. She stood up, alone,
and headed to the bulkhead.

  If it was Jack, she wanted to be the first there.

  She prepared her mind.

  If it was not, she wanted to strike with the only weapon she had.
                                 Chapter 6
                                                                       «^»
Guthul was still cursing the cleverness of his enemy when his adjunct
entered his quarters. The adjunct's quivering face plates signaled his
excitement.
   "What is it?"

   "We have a sighting, general. I've been requested to bring you to the
bridge."

   The general stood. Even for a Thrakian warrior, he was impressive. He
arranged his mask into one of dominance and victory, no little feat
considering his defeat at the hands of the Dominion Knight. The adjunct
quailed as the general passed him, headed for the bridge nest.

   Guthul was aware of the attention directed on him as he loped into the
bridge and stood erect once more. He eyed the sensor screens. No one had
to point out the object of concern. It ruled their sector of space as he did the
control nest. His face plates shifted as he put on a subtly inquiring mask.

   "What is it?"

   "Our grids have been unable to identify. It is a dreadnaught of unknown
origin."

   Guthul homed in on the sighting as he came closer. His chitin rustled.
"Between us and the Dominion freighter."

   "Yes, general." “And between us and the Opus crèchelands."

   An audible gasp hissed through the control compartment. Guthul looked
about him in anger and surprise. "Had you forgotten? I have not. A sign of
leadership is to remember our defeats as well as our victories. We conquered
Opus… but our nests have failed. Still, the crèchelands deserve our vigilant
protection. Queen Tricatada expects nothing less from us. Adjunct."

   "Yes, sir."

   "Continue pursuit." Then, as Guthul swept around and prepared to leave
the bridge nest, he added briskly, "And be equally prepared to break off
pursuit if necessary. I'll not risk another defeat this trip."

   The adjunct brightened. "Yes, sir!"



   So much sweat pooled on Harkness' brow that Jack wondered how the
pilot could see. Leoni bent over and mopped his employer's brow, but a
new puddle beaded up as fast as he wiped the last one away.

   Alij looked to Jack. "They're almost on top of us."

   "Any sign that the turrets are moving into firing position?"

   "None, but… smaller weaponry is activated easier and faster. We may
not get that notice."

   "I know." Goddamnit, he knew. Knew better than the navigator. This
close the alien ship didn't need its big guns to blow them apart. And this
close to the lifeboat, Jack didn't want to engage in protective fire without
clear sign of hostile activity from the unknown.

   Alij had returned his attention to the screen and said, "Uh-oh."

   "What?"

   "I'm getting an echo from behind the unknown… that or—"

  "Or what?" Jack leaned into the bridge, shoulder armor scraping the
bulkhead. Bogie protested. *Watch it, boss. I don't like crimps.*

  "Or the unknown's so big it's been eclipsing another ship." Alij gave the
computer another set of coords, and the viewscreen shifted slightly. "Damn.
There it is."

   And this one the two of them recognized. The Thraks were right on their
heels.

   Harkness interrupted, "I've got it."

   Alij called out, "They're close enough to spit on us," but Jack barely heard
him, already on a run to the interconnective bulkhead as the transport
clamped its lifeboat back into position.

   The docking crew worked in deepsuits, and motioned him forward as the
bulkhead began to open.



   Rawlins reached Amber's elbow, but she shook him off as the bulkhead
creaked ominously with pressurization from the other side.

  "We don't know who's boarding. Get back," he urged in her ear.

   Amber swung on him. She didn't know what he saw in her eyes, but it
was enough to make him draw back slightly. "Get the others back," she said.
"I'm staying here."

   Lassaday was propelling the evacuees gently into the crowded bays
behind them. Rawlins hesitated, then went to join his sergeant. Amber
pivoted back around and waited. A trickle of sweat made its way behind her
ear and down her neck.

   The bulkhead eased open, revealing a flash of white, and it took no more
than that for Amber to be certain. "Jack!" she cried and threw herself
forward.

   The massive battle armor suit gathered her in as though she were a
fragile doll. Even as Jack caught her up, a rumbling and trembling began
and the lifeboat shifted suddenly as though not secure in its newly
reestablished berth. The bay filled with screams.

  "What is it?"

  Jack smiled grimly. "We're being buzzed," he said.

  "The Thraks?"

   "We don't know who," Jack answered. "And they're in no mood to be
asked. Let's hope this junker holds together."

    Amber held on tight, her hands clasped at the back of Jack's neck, so glad
to see him she forgot to be angry, and when she remembered, too
frightened to keep it up. Pressure plates groaned and creaked until it seemed
the freighter would split apart. Then, she realized, it had peaked and was
beginning to ebb.

  Gradually the rumbling and shaking quieted, and then all was silent.
Through the open bulkhead, voices called, and the din began again as the
evacuees realized they had been rescued a second time.

   Jack carried Amber through the doorway and into the main body of the
freighter. She thought she could hear his heart pounding in his chest, but
knew that was impossible. Flexalink armor and equipment was between
them. The odor of blood and sweat and ash seemed to be embedded in the
suit. She wrinkled her nose.

   "You've been fighting."

   "The Thraks boarded us shortly after we jettisoned the cryo bay."

   Amber looked at the tense line of his jaw, saw the pulse jumping, and
knew he did not want to answer the questions she needed to ask. But she
did anyway. "Why did you have us brought out of cold sleep? You knew
we'd expend supplies."

  "If we couldn't get back to hook up, I couldn't just leave you adrift.
Awake, you had a chance. Asleep…" his voice faded.

   Asleep, she'd have been locked into the nightmare Jack himself had
lived. No. He wouldn't have condemned her to that. She pinched the back
of his neck. "Well, next time you think of heroics, don't think of doing them
without me."

  "Unless you're thinking of enlisting, there won't be any way you can join.
There's a war on."

   "Mmmm." Amber caught herself as he swung her down outside the
bridge entry. She could hear Harkness' thickened voice giving orders.

  The massive pilot turned and motioned to Jack. "Commander, you'll
need to see this."

   Amber helped Jack shuck the armor and they left Bogie lying in the
corridor, seams open, as the control com screen filled with an incredible
sight.

   "What the hell is that?"

   "The unknown. It's just irradiated Opus."
   Amber caught her breath as she watched the corona flare out around a
planet, dominating the screen. She did not register its name, only its demise.

  "Who did it?"

    "We're pretty sure the unknown vessel, but not positive. The Thraks are
still in range, but we can't view them now, they're on the far side of the
planet."

   Jack wiped his hand over his face. There were reddened crimp marks
over his bare, sweaty torso where leads had been clipped on. His tanned
skin was streaked with dirt and ash, his sandy blond hair darkened to
brunette by hours of perspiration within his helmet. Amber was caught by
the way his presence dominated everyone on the bridge without effort and
without intention, and she caught herself thinking, He's twice the man
anyone here is, even as he said, "How bad is it?"

   "We don't know. We'll keep the readings, but we'll have to find an expert
dockside to examine the readings. One thing for sure… there's no Thraks
alive down there now."

  Jack watched the corona flare into a subtle aura. This was different from
watching a planet burn—he'd seen that, too. He did not know if he was .
watching homicide—or suicide.

   He could think of only one thing to do. He tapped Harkness' shoulder.
"Let's go home."




                                Chapter 7
                                                                    «^»
                                   Interlude
He came to her when the ship had quieted, to the tiny cubbyhole given to
her as private quarters. She had her caftan slipped down off one shoulder,
her bare arm out, as she applied a balm the nursing staff had given her. The
brilliant blue tattoos remained unaffected, but their heat diminished and
Amber was basking in the calm, when she suddenly caught her breath.
   She sensed him beyond the metal portal. His warmth washed through,
touching her, sending her thoughts into turmoil even as the bulkhead
opened and he stepped through, massive in the battle armor, smelling of
sweat and war… and something more, a musky undertone.

   He stopped, wearily, and looked down at her as she caught up the fold of
her robe and brought it back up over her shoulder. His tiredness showed in
the depths of his rain blue eyes, shadowed by the dimmed lights of
downtime. But her senses, heightened by her ordeal on Bythia, caught
much more and she came to her feet involuntarily, her hand out to him,
even as he said, "I'll leave if you want me to."

   "No." Her fingertips brushed his gauntlet. Bogie's senses as well as Jack's
flooded her. She shrank back at that—Bogie had changed so much she
scarcely recognized the sentience. Wisdom encompassed his ferocity and
though she knew he overrode Jack's emotions now, it was with Jack's
permission, for they were no longer parasite and host, but companions. So
much had happened to Jack on Bythia that she felt that she rather than the
alien Bogie was the stranger, the outsider.

  Jack pulled back, as if perceiving her hesitation, and Amber stammered,
"Don't go."

    He dropped his gauntlet back to his side, brushed the glove over his
helmet, and then stood there ill at ease. Amber closed her eyes briefly as she
felt what he did.

   He found the sight of her suddenly hitting him like a swift blow to the
stomach, stirring feelings he almost did not recognize. Her tawny hair was
disheveled and tumbled about her shoulders along the silken caftan and the
glimpse he'd had of her made him tense his jaw for a moment.

   She opened her eyes to see the tiny tic along his cheek.

  Jack cleared his throat. "I wanted … I wanted you to know why I did
what I did."

   She stood in front of him, glad the caftan concealed the trembling that
had begun in the hollow of her stomach. "I know why," she answered softly.
"Didn't you know that I would?"
   "Let me talk."

   "If you'll let me talk about what happened between us." Without trying,
she caught his thoughts again, musky flashes of emotion that seared her as,
suddenly, he wondered what the tattoos looked like under her robes. He
had an intense desire to trace the designs with his fingers, wherever they
might go. The wonderment surged through him and Amber's head jerked
up, and her eyes met his quickly, widening in amazement.

   She took a step back. "No. Please. Last time…"

   The sweetness of the last time surged through him, melding time and
place until he no longer knew if he was in memory or in reality. He shook
his head to clear his thoughts and got out, "That wasn't your fault."

   "It never is! But that doesn't mean that I can… that you and I…"

  "It doesn't mean we can't." He found himself moving forward. Amber
put her hand out to stop him.

  For an electrifying second, the three of them were one. One pulse raced in
desire. One heat rising to the inevitable as they moved into each other's
arms.

   Amber drew back slightly. "I refuse to make love to more than one man
at a time."

   Jack stopped, his mouth agape. She tapped his armored chest. "I think
this is one experience Bogie doesn't have to share with you." Deftly, she
began to strip him of the armor until he stood alone. Jack kicked his gear to
one side and reached for Amber.

    He held her so close to him now that he could feel her heart pounding
wildly in her chest, her nipples quickening through the fabric of her caftan.
"I'll have to leave you behind again, I won't have any choice. And I can't
promise you I'll come back to you."

   Her breath grazed his chin as she answered, "I know."

   "I think we've waited long enough."

  "God," she whispered and looked up at him, her neck arching gracefully
and a pulse beating in the curve of her throat. "What if I—"
   He did not let her finish her protest. His mouth covered her last words,
and she met his embrace with one of her own, and his body felt the sense of
her from her long legs to the fragrant strands of her hair. When she moved
back, it was to let her caftan drop to the deck. She stepped out of it, bared to
his touch.

   He hesitated a moment, drinking in the beauty of her young body,
breasts high and round, her thighs smooth beneath the blue patterns of the
alien artist, the hair of her pubes just as golden and fragrant as that about
her face. Wordlessly, she reached for the fastenings on his pants and he let
her undress him, feeling his hardness surge forward as she stripped his
breeches away.

   Then they moved close together, he tracing the feathery, erotic designs
upon her skin, and she following the bunching of muscles and tracks of scars
from other wars and other times until she gathered in his maleness and he
bent to trace his lips rather than his hands about her breasts… and from
there, he could remember little thought as their heat swept them away.



    He awoke, her silken body curled next to him. The room was still
darkened and her soft breathing soothed him. He could not sleep without
fitful awakening, haunted still by the nightmare of being trapped in dreams
without end. As great as his need for Amber was, having her did not cure
him. He lifted his head slightly to look at her sleeping next to him and knew
that even her love could not sate his need for vengeance.

   There wasn't a part of each other they had not caressed or claimed, and
he lay with his eyes half-open, consummated, yet somehow still lacking and
wondering why. Amber moved her head along his bicep, her cheek
brushing his arm, then turned and curved in another direction. Gently, he
eased his arm from under her.

   Amber had given him new life. Always, from the moment he had met
her. He was reluctant to leave her now, but, compelled, he continued to ease
his body away from her until he could stand.

   As he stood, enveloped by the musky smell of her balm and their
lovemaking, he realized what it was that drove him away. Amber had made
love to a man with only half a past, and not much of a future. Bogie had the
key to the other half, and Jack could not rest until it was restored to him.
With that past in his grasp, he could offer Amber a future of her own.

  And find a way to extract his revenge upon Pepys and the Thrakian
League.

   With the stealth Amber herself had taught him, he dressed and left her
alone.




                                Chapter 8
                                                                     «^»
It was an ill-kempt, sour-looking group that was cut away from the evacuees
upon docking on Malthen. Pepys watched his security force neatly separate
the ones he'd called for from the rest of the group after the old transport
landed and then cracked open like an old, rotten eggshell.
  As motley as they looked, unbathed, tired, the man he sought stood head
and shoulders above the crowd. Even without his armor.

  Pepys made a noise in his throat. He was unaware it had been heard
until a hand fell on his shoulder.

   "That is him?"

   "Yes."

    The captain was in dress blues, his own perhaps or someone else's,
poorly fitting, his muscles pulling against the seams. He'd put on bulk since
leaving for Bythia. Just a boy, still growing, Pepys thought. What would it be
like to be growing into your prime once more? As the World Police troops
quickly rounded up the man and the lithe girl by his side, and the group of
Walkers led by Colin into a second car, he saw Storm pause and look over
the docks.

  It was as though he were a hunter or a hound and he'd winded
something. "Look at that," Pepys cried fiercely. "He sees the staging. He
knows."

   "Knows what?"

   "Knows we're readying for war." The man behind him said blandly, "A
soldier's soldier."

   The camera work faded out as the vehicles pulled away toward the
palace.

   Pepys paced his inner rooms. He wore a shirt of flowing sleeves to hide
his spindly, birdlike arms, but his hands hung out like those of a gangly
adolescent boy, and he flopped them unconsciously when he walked. His
trousers and boots were plain, but of the finest material. Wealth gleamed
deep within their manufacture. He pulled up short to stare at his new
minister. Baadluster did not return the piercing look, he was in a world of
his own. The minister was homely, tall and pasty pale, with lips too thick
and ears too large, poking out from limp brown hair, but the man had eyes
of coal black that, once focused, could burn you to the core.

   Pepys erupted back into motion before Baadluster could focus on him.
He had needed a new minister, now that the Thrakian League had declared
war. Baadluster assumed those new duties overtly, and, covertly, those of
Winton, Pepys' head of the secret service, who had died on Bythia in Jack
Storm's hands.

  Literally, if the reports he had gotten were true. Jack had taken Winton's
head in his gauntlets and squeezed until it had exploded like a ripe melon.

   Pepys was unsure how to credit those reports. The Knight was an enigma
to him, to be sure, but he had never sensed a violent or brutal streak in the
man. Still, Winton, being Winton, had perhaps elicited that response.
Winton would have made a saint come undone.

   The Emperor of the Triad Throne stopped at that thought, and ran his
liver-spotted hand through his hair. The frizzy red strands rose with a static
electricity all their own as he did so. Pepys reminded himself of a legendary
Medusa, every hair on his head determined to snake about as though alive.
He kept his own hair because it pleased him to do so… gave him a
disarming and boyish look… kept his foes from staring him in his cat green
eyes and realizing the schemes that lived deep within them.
   He worried for a moment about what Winton might have told either Jack
Storm or Colin of the Blue Wheel before he had died. He had not sent
Winton off to Bythia to attend to either the Knight or the saint; the man had
been about his own machinations, but that did not make him less
knowledgeable about Pepys' intentions. And, then, of course, there was
always the question of how much Jack already knew before Winton exposed
himself and suffered the consequences.

   He told himself this was no time to worry about losing power.

  Pepys impatiently looked over the local bank of scanner monitors. The
emperor took a deep breath that spasmed somewhere inside.

   "I've cleared my agenda for him. I don't have time to waste."

   Baadluster appeared to wake, though his eyes had always been open.
"Perhaps traffic…"

   "Traffic!"

   "The man has returned from a planet caught up in civil war and out of
the hands of the Thraks to report to you. He will be here."

   Pepys looked up, into Baadluster's eyes. The minister met his gaze
levelly for a moment before looking away. Because he looked away, Pepys
did not have to hide his smile of triumph. But he said, "Of course, you're
right, Baadluster." He lowered himself to a chair built to suit his wiry, slight
frame. "We're agreed on this course of action."

   "Yes, emperor."

   "Do you think it wisest?"

   Baadluster considered him. The coal dark eyes stayed flat. Cool. "Not
wisest, perhaps," he said, "but best. And that's all we can do, is it not? Make
the best choice available at the time."

   Pepys' attention was riveted on the minister. "And what, do you think, is
the wisest?"

   "Kill them both. Though, in retrospect, that might make a martyr out of
Colin, which you would want to avoid at all costs, even if the evidence
pointed toward the Thrakian League as the murderers. A spiritual network
such as the Walkers have can endanger your own."

    Pepys said nothing aloud but his eyes reflected his thoughts. Yes, it
would. And I don't want that. He had never wanted that. Damn the Walkers.
They'd seemed harmless, but during the decades of Pepys' reign, they'd
been everywhere, looking for archaeological proof that Jesus Christ had gone
on to walk other worlds. The religious affirmation had yet to come, but the
sites being investigated had other, more tangible importance. The digs had
established outposts which had gone on to establish frontiers, all steeped in
Walker philosophy. Pepys could point at a half dozen major treaty
infractions with the Thrakian League over the last decade that involved
Walker sites. And when you had a saint who could actually work miracles,
as Colin had…

   "There'll be hell to pay, Baadluster, if we're wrong."

   Baadluster did not answer, but his black eyes fired up even as security
rang through to tell Pepys that Captain Storm had arrived.

   The Knight arrived alone, as requested, separated in the outer halls from
his companion. Colin would also arrive separately, later. The vibrancy of the
uniform faded his eyes to an honest blue. His sandy blond hair was
beginning to recede slightly above his brow. He was young, half the age of
the man he was destined to replace, but Commander Kavin had had implicit
trust in Storm's abilities.

   Pepys cleared a drying throat at Storm's appearance. Winton had had no
such trust. The man is one of our lost Knights, he'd told Pepys. I’m sure of it!
He knows what we did in the Sand Wars.

    Then where had he been for the last twenty-five years, showing no sign
of the passage of time?

   Where?

   In the hands of the Thraks, perhaps?

   Or one of the several factions working very hard to put Pepys and the
Triad Throne out of business permanently? Sweat broke out in the
emperor's armpits as he thought of the Green Shirts.

   He had not bothered to tell Baadluster that he and Winton had already
tried to have this man killed several times. Storm was too damn lucky to die.

   Pepys got smoothly to his feet. Jack still wore his insignia of captain, his
promotion to commander not official yet.

   "Emperor!"

    As Jack saluted, Pepys leaned forward and snapped off the insignia and
held the gold-threaded decorations in the palm of his hand. He felt gratified
at the mild surprise awakened in the Knight's eyes.

   "Commander," Pepys answered. "You'll have your new rank emblems
before the day is out. Bureaucracy is always slow to keep up with field
promotions."

   "Thank you, sire." Storm inclined his head.

   As he looked up, Pepys indicated Baadluster. "Commander Storm, I'd
like you to meet my new War Minister, Vandover Baadluster." He guided
the soldier to a pair of waiting chairs.

    The two men sized each other up. Pepys admired Baadluster for the
noncommittal expression retained by the minister. He might know nothing
of the soldier beyond the ordinary barrack gossip. Storm showed only a
mild curiosity.

   Jack turned back to his emperor. "How ready are we?"

   "Congress drags its heels, but we'll be ready. The Thraks have not yet
officially declared war, but they've been busy dismantling their diplomatic
posts. We'll hear soon. Or perhaps just slightly after." Pepys smiled
maliciously. With the Thraks, one could not depend on being told until after
the first strike. "We, of course, are doing the same."

   "In the meantime, Thrakian cruisers are still in the trade lanes, where the
Treaty allows them to remain." There was disdain in the new commander's
voice.

   Pepys looked at him with a long measuring glance, then said deliberately,
"I made that Treaty. I'll see it enforced as long as it still has life. If there is a
way to turn back after all this… if it can be done, I will see it done."

   A normal man would have flinched. Storm returned the Emperor's look
levelly and answered, "The Thraks have no such compunctions. Never have
had, never will."

  "Nor, sir, had you. Without your actions, we might not be in the position
we're in now!"

   Baadluster stepped between them with a movement so smooth it seemed
almost accidental. The minister forced Pepys to sit back in his chair.

  "My actions," Jack said, "have always been with the Triad Throne and the
Dominion in mind."

   "I know that," Pepys answered impatiently. "Else I would not give you
the Dominion Knights."

   Storm stopped in his tracks as though momentarily taken aback. Pepys'
gaze met Baadluster's with a gleam of triumph. The emperor knew the
soldier now knew he was going to be offered the command of the Dominion
Knights, and that he had not expected it originally. Pepys had him where he
wanted him.

  The soldier shifted his tall muscular form in a chair built for Pepys'
comfort. Jack placed his hands on his thighs and leaned slightly forward.
"And what do you want me to do with them?"

   "The Dominion Knights will be fully reinstated. We've stepped up
recruitment and training. I don't anticipate any problems from the
Dominion Congress accepting either our troops or my leadership of them."
Pepys gave a tight-lipped smile. "They may call us mercenary, but the
Congress knows what we can do. We both know this war won't be fought in
the sectors of space. We can try to put weapons' platforms into orbit outside
each and every target we wish to attack or defend, but that is a logistical
impossibility. No. Like the Sand Wars, this will be fought planet to planet,
without destroying the land we both covet, and we'll have no choice but to
follow the Thraks' lead. We need the infantry to fight this war, commander,
and the Knights are the best we have to offer."



   Jack watched Pepys, realizing the electricity with which the fine red hair
rose and fell as though on a tide, was a signal of the man's level of intensity.
He was intense now. Very intense. But not over Jack and Jack was grateful
for that, aware he tended to give himself away too easily even with Amber's
street savvy training. Jack inclined his head in slight affirmation of his
emperor's statement. "I accept."

    Pepys sat back in his chair. "You understand, of course, that your
command of the Knights will be secondary to my and Baadluster's orders,
and also probationary until you give me proof of your ability to win in the
field. I don't, however, anticipate problems in that area."

   "The Thraks were all but unstoppable before, sire," Jack answered
levelly. "They may prove so again, but I can guarantee our best effort."

   "Good! All I can ask. Our relationship with the Dominion is an odd one,
but we are all human, and that binds us together. We are woven like a net, a
fishing seine, and the Triad worlds are the floats that keep the net
buoyant… but the Dominion is the strand that makes the weaving. If the
strand comes undone, eventually we, too, will be left adrift." Pepys blinked
furiously and Jack was astonished to see dampness well in his emerald eyes.

   The emperor shook off his mood as Baadluster cleared his throat. Jack
looked to the tall, pasty-complected man who towered over them and who
had no chair to sit in. The new Minister of War returned Jack's gaze, and
Jack saw the heat smoldering in the depths of flat black eyes.

  He knew then that Vandover Baadluster could be as terrible as Winton
had been.

  "Commander," Baadluster said. "Please tell me, in your own words, what
happened after Bythia."

    For a moment, Jack felt a stab of panic, razor sharp. Technically, he was
now an officer stripped of rank. Pepys could do that to him, if he wished.
Jack had no illusions as to the strategies the emperor might employ, but he
let his breath out slowly, giving way to the rationale that this was not one of
them. Just the same, Baadluster noticed the flicker of his gaze toward Pepys.
And misinterpreted it.

  "Come, come! Don't look to him for permission to answer. I'm your
commanding officer now."
  Pepys, however, wore a pleased expression. "Don't badger him, Van.
He's my man, as he should be. That's what it means to be a Knight."

    Jack felt bile at the back of his throat. Pepys had no idea of what it meant
to be a Knight. The amputation scar of his little finger went livid as his
fingers pinioned his right thigh. If he had been able to bring alive out of the
Bythian disaster the man who'd told him that it had been the Triad Throne
itself which had ordered the fireburning attack on Claron, Pepys would not
be sitting across from him. No, Pepys had no idea of what it meant to be a
Knight. Jack hesitated too long in answering and an unfathomable
expression flickered across the emperor's face.

   Pepys lifted his chin slightly as Baadluster intoned, "He says it without
words, but he says it none the less. He wonders if you know what it means
to be an emperor."

   The faint sheen of sweat on Jack's brow turned icy.

   A silence fell on the room.

   Pepys smiled tightly. "And now, Minister Baadluster, you may leave us."

   The limp-haired man had been hovering over Jack. He straightened and
looked at his emperor. For a moment, Jack thought he was going to argue.
Then the thick lips thinned, and Baadluster turned and left the private hall.

   Pepys keyed his remote and the taping banks shut down one by one.
Jack watched the displays go dark, knowing the gesture was being made to
impress him, and knowing that nothing kept Pepys from recording secretly.
But he was supposed to think that Pepys would not stoop to that, although
Jack knew he would.

    The emperor waited for several long minutes, bright green eyes peering
at Jack over the steeple of Pepys' hands. Jack forced himself to wait coolly.

   "Why did you murder Winton?"

   Jack looked into Pepys' shaded eyes. "I did not murder him. I killed him
in self-defense."

   "A man in battle armor against a man without?"

   "Winton was not helpless."
  The emperor dropped his hands into his lap. "No, I suppose he was not.
He was not the sort of man who would ever be. He did not trust you,
Winton didn't."

   They stared into one another's faces. Jack thought of Amber and how
much she would relish this game of words and façades. He did not. He
shifted his weight in the chair from one lean hip to the other. "Why?"

   Pepys' hair crackled upward. "I'm sure I haven't an idea. He was in
charge of the World Police. It is possible he thought you were a security
threat."

   "I haven't been on Malthen long, your highness—but I've never heard
that the WP was shy when it came to arrests or trials."

    "No." Pepys gave a twitch of his lips and looked away briefly. "Your
interest in the firestorming of Claron always bothered him. You championed
it when you first came to me. The… incident of Claron was a regrettable
one. For reasons of security, what happened there can never be revealed,
and yet you don't strike me as one who would accept that as an answer.
Give me reason to believe that Winton was wrong about you."

   Although Jack's face did not twitch, his gut screwed tight. Damn Pepys
for making him trade off Claron's lease for new life against the greater good.
Damn him. It was the Thraks or Pepys, and Pepys could thank god that he
was the lesser of two evils at this point. He made a choice. "No."

   Pepys' face went whiter still, verging on gray, but his eyes lit up and he
leaned forward in the chair. "What do you mean?"

   "I mean, your highness, if my service as a Knight is not evidence enough
for you, I can't please you."

   "Can't or won't?"

   "My point is made."

   "But not mine. Do you like your commission?" the emperor asked
abruptly.

   "I appreciate it," Jack answered.

   The emperor thrust himself out of his chair and began pacing. "What am
I to do with you, Jack Storm?"

  "Send me wherever you want the Dominion Knights to be stationed.
Then let me do my job."

   Pepys turned at the edge in Jack's voice. "You imply, without
interference."

  "If necessary. You tried to keep Kavin on a short leash. To paraphrase, he
hung himself on it. He died fighting, not the enemy, but Winton."

  "I know that."

  "Then you should not have allowed it to happen."

  Pepys brought himself up. His pointed chin trembled for a second, then
dimpled as he fought to calm himself. "As if anyone could control Winton.
He plotted against everyone. Even me."

  "A dangerous man."

   "Less dangerous to have under one's nose than a galaxy away." Pepys cut
the air with the side of his hand. "I won't be judged by you."

  Jack did not respond.

 Finally, Pepys dropped back into his chair. "What happened after Bythia?
What do you know about the Opus incident?"

   "Only that the monitoring equipment aboard the freight transport was
primitive, at best. The Thraks had done their best to board us. I couldn't
allow that to happen. I think they intended on taking hostages. When they
attempted to overtake us, an unknown interceded and shortly after, our
readings indicate that the planet was irradiated."

  "The Thrakian League claims it was done by you."

  Jack could not keep the surprise from surfacing. "What?"

  "They've filed an official protest."

   "We've never operated like that. And Harkness' scow is incapable of such
an action. Did they mention the unknown?"

  "No. I have only your report that such a vehicle existed and, under the
circumstances, it sounds as though you are trying to smokescreen the
situation. General Guthul claims that the transport had jettisoned a lifeboat
and appeared to be on an erratic course, out of control, coming out of
hyperdrive. When he attempted to come to your aid, he was fired upon,
missed—and the weaponry used annihilated Opus." Pepys drummed his
wiry fingers on the chair arm. "He has support in the Dominion Congress.
He has just enough of the truth to give credence to his claims."

   "A Knight would never jeopardize planetary environment to win a
battle."

   "Yes." Pepys gave him a long, slow look. "Yes, there is that. And, small
though it was, you seized a victory for us. I won't forget that and I won't let
the Congress forget it either."

   "There may be other advantages to the encounter."

   "Such as?"

   Jack barely hesitated, then continued. "The Thraks stalking me seemed to
have difficulty sensing my armor. If there is an advantage to be had from
the encounter, other than beating them at their game, I believe it is the
discovery that there is a property peculiar to norcite which baffles their
sight."

   "Really?" Pepys' impatience faded abruptly into curiosity. "Are you
asking for permission to research and test this further?"

   "I think the project has merits."

   "All right then. Proceed. But obtaining Thrakian subjects for field tests
are your responsibility. Brace yourself for a long week. Baadluster has
arranged for a visiting senator to oversee the drills."

   "From Congress?"

  "Yes." Pepys looked perversely pleased. "May I remind you that politics
has been the death of more good soldiers than war?"

   "I'll try to be discreet, sir."

   "I'm counting on it." The emperor turned his back on him, and Jack knew
he had been dismissed.
   Jack left. He knew for certain they had been recorded, for Pepys had
feared to ask him the obvious questions. Who was he? Where had he come
from? And was he going to try to topple Pepys from his ill-gotten throne?




                                Chapter 9
                                                                     «^»
Over the years, Emperor Pepys had received St. Colin of the Blue Wheel in
many different ways. He'd been hustled in the moment he'd asked for
audience, and he'd been ignored for months. He'd been both paraded in and
hidden under cover. He'd been received with respect and scorn and, once or
twice, desperation.
   He'd even been met once by the secret police, their shackles ready.

   So he was prepared for almost anything when Pepys summoned him the
third day after his return from Bythia.

    Raised to conspicuousness from humble beginnings, Colin wore miners'
jumpsuits under his brilliant blue overrobes. He kept the jumpsuit pockets
filled with many things: credit disks to satisfy filching hands on the street,
religious tracts, a hand beam and even a handgun. Today the palace gate
screening discovered the gun, a WP man removed it, examined it critically
and gave it back.

   "What if I shoot him?" Colin asked mildly.

   "Then we'll know you did it," the guard answered sourly. "He's waiting
for you in the private audience room.”

   As Colin threaded his way through the magnificent, if cold, rose obsidite
corridors, he reflected that he knew the private audience room well. The
location of their meeting gave him not a clue as to Pepys' frame of mind. It
could not, however, have been good. Colin had been the Ambassador
Pro-tem on Bythia. He should have been summoned the first day back,
regardless of his age and need to rest.

   At that thought, Colin pounded to a stop and harrumphed at himself.
Age, indeed. Just a step past middle-aged.

   Of course, death throws a long shadow and he'd nearly met it months
ago.

   As he rounded the bend, he could see that the door to the audience room
was thrown open, and golden daylight from outside windows cast a gleam
across the flooring, making it the color of a glorious sunrise. He gathered his
thoughts and his life in his hands, and entered.



   The twilight of the catacombs embraced him as General Guthul listened
to the buzz of protest left behind at the end of his address before the
councils. They sounded as though they had just left the nest, he thought to
himself, even as he arranged his mask into one of triumph and confidence.
And they might well be outraged. He had just laid before the League a plan
of such outrageous action that they might as easily behead him for treason
as rustle their chitin in amusement.

   And, if he were very, very fortunate, one or two of them might have the
military background to call him genius. It was those one or two upon whom
he now staked his whole career.

   They clicked him back into the assembly much sooner than he expected,
shaking him out of his hum of meditation upon the whole, and he hastily
checked to make sure his facial planes were arranged properly before
returning.

   One or two nearest him took offense at his mask and rattled their bodies
angrily, antennae up and trembling. He took no note. They were
conservatives, always the first to rattle and the last to take action. They
seemed to consider taking alarm part of their contribution to the council.
The rest of his peers he found alert and resting on their forearms across their
slanted benches, awaiting his next words.

    "Continue, general. We have considered your speech and decided that it
is not the prattling of a deranged being. We have weighed it and found it
worthy, if unorthodox."

   Guthul pulled himself up, aware that he was a fine specimen of military
breeding, and he looked about the semicircle of the assemblage. "There is no
more to say," he husked. "I am done. Either back me or court martial me. I
demand my due and I demand it now. The time for hesitation is past."

   Another trilling ran through the council. "You suggest putting us well
within reach of the enemy if we strike as you demand."

   "Yes. It is the only way to draw out Commander Storm. The risk is great,
the advantage considerable if we can put the commander down now. I must
remind you, however, that if we attack on the Dominion fringes, where we
are safe to hit and run, we also put ourselves within reach of the Ash-Farel.
That the great and ancient enemy is upon us once more."

   Parthos, the newly recalled ambassador to the Triad, opened his face
mask and then closed it tightly, a shocking display of emotion and anger. It
generated the effect he intended as attention immediately swung from
General Guthul to the diplomat. As Guthul was a fine specimen of warrior
breeding, Parthos was an equally fine one of diplomatic genetic structure.
He snapped his lower mandible into place and the strength of its clack
echoed throughout the chambers. "I suggest we vote for Guthul's plan. I
stand in favor of it, knowing that if Guthul is to fail, he will pay the price,
and applauding that he is Thrakian enough to risk all."

   As Guthul heard the speech, he was very careful not to let the joy and
personal triumph he felt move his mask of leadership. But it was difficult.
Very, very difficult.

   Now he could contemplate squashing the Dominion Knight like the
plasmic worm he was.



   The samovar of tea had cooled, cookie crumbs had been swept away, and
Pepys' fine hair had crackled down to a moderate aura before the emperor's
emerald eyes fastened on him with their usual predatory stare. Colin put his
cup down. "Animal, vegetable, mineral, or friend or foe?" The emperor
rocked back, visibly startled. "What?"

   "The game we're playing today, my friend." Pepys caught the joke and
laughed before putting aside his cup. "Neither," he said. "You're here
because it was necessary to talk to you before removing you as
ambassador."

  "I removed myself, already."

   "So you did. But as my subject, it's necessary for me to formalize it."
Pepys stayed lolled back in his chair, watching as Colin rose and strode to
the window. The window held a rare view of a singular aspect of Malthen…
untamed land ranging over a sere group of foothills. Colin thought of
Bythia. He turned round.

  "You did me a great disservice, Pepys." The emperor nodded. "And
myself as well."

   "You urged me there, with several hundred of my most militant
followers to protect our findings. That gave you leave to send a like number
of your Knights, to keep an eye on me. But did you anticipate that my men
would be slaughtered and your numbers halved before we got out?"

   Pepys put out a freckled hand and played with the gold rim of his teacup.
"No," he said shortly. "Your men, yes; mine, no. I knew the Thraks were
playing a deadly game there. I did not know the Bythians were on the brink
of holy war."

  "On the brink no more. They blazed through my ranks like wildfire."
Colin sighed. He shoved his hands into his thigh pockets as he leaned
against the windowsill. "I know you. I should have seen it coming."

   "The militants were doing you no good, Colin. We weeded them out
before. I merely saved you the job of doing it again."

   "Militant or not, they were men with souls! Sometimes I think you think
very little of that."

  Pepys did not answer, through the movement of his finger upon the
cup's rim sent out a tiny belling. Finally the emperor looked up and he
smiled, a gesture that did not warm his eyes. "Very few men would talk to
me as you do."

   Colin ignored the warning. "Very few men have the resources to frighten
you," he responded. He stood up, removing his hands from his pockets, and
in one change of posture went from a benevolent, fraternal man to a man of
dignity and fathomless potential.
   The pupils of Pepys' eyes widened at the change. The emperor
straightened in his chair. He lifted his hand from the teacup. "I want
Denaro."

   "What is he to you? He's only one of a handful you failed to have wiped
out."

   "Give him to me," said Pepys.

   "No."

   "Then I'll take him for treason."

   "You couldn't prove the charge."

  "No, but I could tie up your time and attention doing so, and have him
anyway."

  Colin felt the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. "What game is this
you're playing?"

  "The game of empire. Denaro's as dangerous to you as he is to me. Give
him over and we'll both have done with him."

   Colin thought deeply. The sunlight at the window had shifted a fraction
before he finally answered, "I'll let you know." He headed for the audience
room door even though Pepys had not dismissed him. He heard Pepys'
voice, at his heels, as the door closed.

   "Do that."



   Denaro stood at attention before Colin, his muscular body bulging the
seams of his jumpsuit, belying all attempt of the humble cloth to make him
seem a simple Walker disciple.

  Colin sighed and looked down at the hardcopy Denaro had brought him.
The implications were obvious and the man's request not unreasonable.

   Not unless the prelate were to consider Denaro's militaristic tendencies
and the splinter factions threatening to tear the Walker religion apart.
Perhaps Pepys had been right in trying to arrange for the collapse of the
Walkers. God knew that Colin feared a holy war among the Dominion
worlds and other outposts of mankind far more than he feared anything else
in his lifetime. If he sent Denaro on his way to set up a dig, the hotblood
would be free to build his army as well as set up a frontier outpost to
support the Walker investigations. And then, there was Pepys' request.

    The emperor and the reverend had been friends once. Colin had seen his
friend grow apart and disappear into a mesh of alliances and entanglements,
a web where every word and action tied into another, pulling here and there
until he had become an emperor.

   And what had Colin stayed behind to become? A minister, thrust into
sainthood by a miraculous action he could not explain and had, only once
since then, been able to duplicate. If he had not become a saint, would the
Walkers have held together? A question he could not answer and yet asked
himself time and again. Should he, as Denaro and others insisted, pull
together the strands of their influence and make a genuine empire of their
doctrines or should he continue to hold those strands loosely and let fate
bear them where it would? He knew Pepys spied upon him as a rival.

  However, it was Denaro's chafing that occupied him at the moment.

   Colin rubbed at his weary eyes. He did not have the energy of his youth,
and the incident at Bythia had drained him far beyond expectations. It was
worth it to have healed the heroic Rawlins, but Colin wondered if he would
ever regain his own vigor. Perhaps it was not meant to be. Perhaps this was
the price God extracted from him for resurrection. If so, then the next would
be his last… if ever there was a next.

   The hardcopy report fell into his lap. Colin shook his head. "No, Denaro,
I do not think this outpost a fit assignment."

   The youth said nothing at first, but a nerve jumped along the thick
sinews of his neck. As the silence drew out, Denaro broke it. "Doubtless," he
said, "your eminence has some other position in mind for me." He showed
his surprise as Colin smiled kindly at his words.

  "As a matter of record, I do," the older man said. Lines of character
deepened in his cheeks and about his eyes. "Come with me."
                               Chapter 10
                                                                    «^»
Communion. Storm watched the troops moving below and moved as one
with them, and Bogie overrode his thoughts until the blending edge
between his personality and the alien's disappeared for a moment. He
brought himself back with difficulty.
  *We're ready, Boss.*

  "To fight? Nearly."

   The being responded with surprise. Jack shifted inside the Flexalinks,
saying, "First we must have an enemy."

  *Thraks!*

  "Maybe."

   Another thrill of surprise from the deep warrior voice echoing inside his
mind. Jack smiled widely in spite of himself, a grim smile. "We're waiting
for them to declare themselves."

  There was a split second of humbled silence, then Bogie rumbled,
*Thraks declare themselves the moment they crawl out of their crèche.*

  "Yes."

  *You fence with words.*

  "Sometimes it's all that keeps us from being as savage as the enemy."

   * Sometimes being as savage as the enemy is all that will allow you to
defeat them.*

   Jack made no answer to that, and Bogie's mindspeech lapsed as if the
being knew he wished to be alone with his thoughts.

   He'd had precious little time to be alone with himself the past few days.
Around them, the equipment shops and immense hangars being erected for
staging filled the training grounds with such a din of noise it was only
possible to find quiet with a helmet on and the mikes off.
    There was a muffled vibration behind him. He turned and saw Colin
entering the bridge, his grayed and balding head bowed against a wind only
the Walker prelate seemed to feel. Jack took off his helmet and closed the
observation booth windshield, baffling the sounds so they could talk. The
reverend carried a report under his arm, plastic edges ruffling as he walked.
He straightened, saw Jack watching him, and came to a halt, wearing a calm
if worried expression.

  "What brings you here," Jack said, "past security points that ought to
have stopped you."

   "I have friends in many places," Colin chided him. He looked down off
the bridge. Jack, following his gaze, saw Rawlins at the gates looking up to
make sure that Colin had reached his goal before re-securing the grounds.

  The two men looked at one another. "There's a story between you and
Rawlins," Jack said.

   "Perhaps. He saved my life. That sort of action often forms a bond." Colin
set his lips together and made it apparent he was not going to say anything
further.

   Jack looked back to the grounds. Below, armor flashed, glinting in the
Malthen sunlight. Colin seemed content to let him watch the drilling for a
few minutes, then there was a rattle of papers. Jack turned back.

  "What can I do for you, Colin? I've got an appointment in a few minutes."

  "Then I'll get to the point, Jack. Take Denaro in as a Knight."

   His newly fashioned composure as a commander broke. "You want me
to what?"

  "Accept Denaro into training."

  "As a Knight? Or as a Walker?"

   "Both. Denaro is willing to swear allegiance to Pepys. But I feel that…
that in the undertakings ahead of us, we are wise to have formally trained
personnel. Bythia would not have been the disaster it was if the men we'd
had posted there had been trained militarily as well as spiritually."

  "Pepys would never allow it."
  Colin looked past Storm's broad shoulders to the training grounds. "He
has already given me permission."

  Jack thought he knew a lie when he heard one, but he had never heard
Colin lie before. "Impossible."

   "No. Not really." Colin smiled. "I quote, ‘It's better to have your enemy
under your nose than a galaxy away.' He said you would find the quotation
familiar."

   Jack made a noise at the back of his throat. His armored presence
dominated the control booth, but Colin did not seem intimidated. Jack had a
sour taste burning in his throat. "If the emperor has given his permission,
then you don't need to talk to me."

   "No need perhaps, but I wanted to."

   "To explain why you're handing me a live wire?"

   "That. And," Colin handed him a copy of the printout he held, "this."

   Jack took it in his gauntlets, handling the plastic copies as deftly as with
his bare hands. He skimmed it. "Looks like a survey report."

   "It is."

   "Anyone else seen this yet?"

   "No. Walker surveys are quite confidential."

   Jack tapped a wavy line. "You're going to establish another dig site."

  "If finances and personnel allow." The Walker prelate paused a moment.
"And if I have the coverage I need."

   "You're expecting trouble again?"

  "You showed me the signs yourself. Look here, at this spectrograph.
These hills here…"

   "Rich in norcite."

   Colin nodded. "Probably. And that means…"

  "For whatever reasons, Thraks will probably be as interested in the site as
you are. At least they were on Lasertown and Bythia."
   "And it also means I'm not likely to find the archaeological evidence I'm
looking for. We may find… once again… something else."

   Jack looked at Colin. "But you're willing to take the risks."

    "I must. Those other sites may not be what we're looking for, but I can
no longer blindly ignore the evidence. There is a pattern here, there must
be. And if there is another sentient, space-faring race, I can't turn blind eyes
to it. Can you?"

   "No," Jack said. "Nor can I give you Dominion protection."

   "Not overtly. But I think I can guarantee you that Denaro will go AWOL
as soon as he feels he is proficient in a suit."

  Jack scrubbed his armor gloved hands through his dark blond hair. "I
don't need that," he said.

  Colin sighed and answered, "Neither of us do. But I can't think of another
way. With the Thraks about to declare war, we may be way out there all by
ourselves."

    Jack shook his head. "I won't let you go all by yourself. All right. Denaro
is in. Lassaday's in charge of Unit 3, it's just begun training. We'll install him
in there. But if he turns up missing, I don't want to remember we had this
conversation."

   "Nor I," returned the saint, with an unheavenly glint in his mild brown
eyes. He left when Lassaday climbed to the bridge.

  The sergeant looked after the reverend as he left. "And wha' did he
want?"

   "He blessed the recruits."

   "A practical man, that Walker." Lassaday rubbed his callused palm over
his tan, bald, and profusely sweating head. "I'd give my left nut to have a
thousand more like them."

   Jack did not let humor twitch the corner of his mouth as he looked at the
training grounds. The sergeant was too right. They needed a thousand more
like this. "Don't let the senator hear you say that."
   "A senator?" Lassaday's lip curled. "Jesus, commander, that's all you
need. If I were you, I'd weld him to Baadluster and let the Minister of War
take the heat."

   "I would, but it seems Baadluster's done just that to me. They're getting
restless down there. Better get back."

   "In a minute. I heard some scuttle."

  Jack took a moment to look closely at the veteran. He'd been through
Lassaday's none too gentle but capable hands for Basic. On the grounds,
Lassaday wore a silver mylar jumpsuit to catch the eye, but his
sun-darkened face wore a no nonsense look now. "What is it, sarge?"

    "I got the word there's a lot of subspace chatter going on. My son is into
it, posts to th' bulletin board all the time. It looks like the Thraks are
massing."

   "Really?" Jack smiled tightly at that. Would fortune smile on him twice
by tipping the Thraks' hand? "It would be nice to anticipate an attack before
they break out."

  Lassaday beamed. "Thought you'd like that, commander. Be there
waitin' for ‘em, a little reception committee, like."

   Jack nodded, and Lassaday left the podium, passing by a brilliantly
coated gentleman who was approaching the bridge. The man could be none
other than the senator, short and compact, with arms and shoulders that
looked as powerful as a bulldozer, fair-haired and with the florid complexion
of a short-tempered man. Well-muscled thighs drove the man across the
bridge to Jack's side where, though much shorter than a man in armor, he
was not out-massed.

   "Commander Storm."

   Jack offered a gauntlet. "Senator Washburn. Your aides?" He looked
around, anticipating a brace of aides/bodyguards.

  "Sent them away. Told them you'd either be responsible for me or you
weren't worth the price of scrap for your armor."

   Jack found himself with a genuine smile for the short, feisty gentleman.
"So that's the way of it," he said. "Good. I have no more time for you than
you have for me."

  Washburn's thick blond eyebrows wagged up and down. "Commander, I
have all the time in the world for you, but I appreciate the frankness. What
have you got for me?"

  "Team drills. This is Unit 1, the team I went through training with, and
we're all fairly seasoned now, but most of us had to be reequipped coming
out of Bythia, and new suits take time to get used to."

   "Any trouble getting the optimum out of your gear?"

   "No, sir. I think you'll be pleased." Jack waved his left gauntlet and the
troops waiting below went into motion.

   At the end of an hour's time, Senator Washburn turned to Jack. "I'm
impressed. But what makes you think this type of land war is what we
need?"

   "Senator, we all know maneuverability in space is greatly hampered.
Basically, we have one pass and that's it. We'll be slugging it out on land
because that's what matters to both us and the Thraks. We don't breed in
vacuum. On the whole, we don't nurture our young out there, nor grow our
crops or mine for manufacturing. We're still land-based and that's where
we'll be fighting because it's our land they covet. If we fight them from
space, we'll be polluting the very terrain we're trying to save."

  Washburn's right eyebrow bristled up. "It's the old Sand Wars
mentality."

   "Perhaps. Who says it was wrong?"

   He grumbled deep in his throat, and said, "My colleagues won't be easy
to convince. We were soundly beaten in the Sand Wars."

   Jack could say nothing back to that. A familiar ache of having been
betrayed and left without hope arced through him, but he did not let it show
in his expression. He remembered Lassaday's information.

   "Perhaps," he said, "I can arrange a demonstration."

   "That would be greatly appreciated, commander. And don't be shy with
the budget. Get yourself some new armor—that set looks a little worn to
me."

   Jack's lips twitched a little. "It has its purposes."

   "Don't stint yourself, commander." The senator gripped the railing,
leaning forward until his nose pressed against the windshield. He took a
deep breath. "God, I love a wartime economy."



   Baadluster's pasty complexion pinked. "You want to what?"

   "Follow the lead that the subspace call-board is giving us. I want to be
entrenched on that planet when the Thraks hit. I want to be waiting for
them."

   "We've got no confirmation that Stralia is targeted. We're still waiting for
an official declaration."

   "And that attitude gives them first strike capabilities."

   "Perhaps." Baadluster's teeth nipped at his too thick lips. "Stralia is under
our noses. Surely the Thraks would have better sense than to attack us
there, scouting activity notwithstanding."

   "I have a hunch otherwise."

   The minister stood there, his slender hands twitching at his sides for a
moment, before he pivoted to look at Pepys. He did not fling his hands into
the air, but he might as well have.

   Pepys put a hand up to his chin, somewhat disguising the amused set to
his expression. "Just what," he mumbled out of his half-hidden mouth, "do
you propose to do?"

   "If we go, we go now. Even though we're closer, we'll have no way to
beat them out of subspace if we don't. I'll take Rawlins as my second and
leave Lassaday here to keep taking the edges off Units 2 and 3. I'll leave
Travellini as my back-up officer."

   "The Knights could be ruined almost before they've been reinstated.”

   "Never. And Washburn intimated that the Dominion Congress doesn't
want to hire ineffectual, outdated troops. He all but told me they wanted to
see us in action."

  Baadluster hissed in disgust. Pepys waved him quiet. "How soon can
you be ready?"

    "By the time you have a transport ready for launch. The suits are already
in the shop being stripped down and repowered—that's customary after any
training exercise. We can be on a shuttle before nightfall."

   "Then," and Pepys' red hair crackled with the force of his words, "You
had better say your goodbyes. You just be sure to give me Stralia and give
them their victory."

   Jack saluted. "I'll do my best, your highness." He turned to go,
remembered something and turned back. "I swore in a new recruit this
afternoon. He'll stay behind with Lassaday."

  "A single recruit?" Pepys' eyebrow went up like a fuzzy red caterpillar.
"Who is it?"

  "A former Walker by the name of Denaro, your highness. Colin brought
him to me. Said you knew all about it. He shows a lot of potential."

    Baadluster's frustration seemed to boil over about then and Jack thought
it wise to retreat.



   Jonathan lumbered into the middle of Colin's afternoon meditations, a
harbinger of reality. Colin looked up at him, saw the knifelike frown creasing
his aide's ursine face, and dispensed with scolding him for interrupting.

  "What is it, Jonathan?"

  "Commander Storm is here. He demands to see you."

   "Ah." Colin nodded. "Give me a few minutes, then send him in." He
stood up and stretched, then reseated himself. He had thought to himself
more than once that the commander's name was not so much a name as a
prophecy and he thought it again now, knowing that Jack would be bristling
with indignation—and rightly so.
   The room shuddered slightly when Jack entered, though he was dressed
as a mere soldier and not in battle armor. Colin set his teeth. The resonance
of the meditation room would bear the shock waves of the commander's
obvious anger for days.

   "Jack. I've been expecting you."

   "You're damn right you have. How long did you think you had before I
found out about Denaro?"

   "Not much longer than this. All I needed, actually, was long enough to
get him sworn in," Colin said mildly.

   Jack halted in the middle of the room, in front of the burled wood table
and the chair where Colin sat. His light blue eyes had darkened and the
wind had torn through his straight hair, tumbling it about. The man had few
lines on his face… his shoulders broad, his frame erect, but Colin could
never shake his feeling about Jack—the eyes were older than his
mid-twenties body. He had a maturity about him that belied his youth.
There was a mystery buried somewhere in that man that Colin was not
privy to, and Colin wondered if he would live long enough to see it unfold.

   "I don't like being used, especially by someone I consider a friend."

   "And if I had told you, would you have accepted Denaro?"

   The commander hesitated. He frowned, the expression pressing lines
into a face that did not yet have them permanently etched in. "I don't know.
But you didn't give me a chance to make that decision, did you?"

   Colin stood up. "No," he said, regretfully. "I'm afraid I didn't. And you're
right, Jack. I should have. I should have known you well enough."

   "What happened?"

   "Pepys wanted Denaro."

   "Why?"

   The Walker prelate strode a few steps away, to look at a mood painting
on the wall. Its swirl of blue colors formed and dissolved in a constant, if
gradual, shifting. "I'm not sure why except that Denaro is a militant, and
Pepys is afraid. He wanted him where he didn't have to worry about him
anymore.

   "Maybe Pepys is right." Jack's voice was calm now. "Denaro has and
could cause the two of you a lot of trouble."

   "Could. Just as you could cause him a lot of trouble. I'm sorry, but it's not
in me to condemn anyone for what they could do. But I couldn't disobey,
either. After all, Pepys is my emperor. So I gave him Denaro in the best
way I could." Colin tired of the blue painting and turned. His blue robes
fluttered, giving Jack an eerie sensation that the older man was just an
extension of the painting's possibilities.

  "Denaro is safe from persecution as long as he's a member of the
Knights."

   "Yes. I think so."

   "What about when he leaves us?"

  "We'll have to face that when it happens. In the meantime, Pepys has a
war to run. He should be sufficiently—distracted—I hope, to forget about
Denaro."

   "Never," Jack told him. "The man never forgets an enemy."

   Colin paused, then said, "I'm sorry, Jack. I did not mean to add this to
your burdens. You're right. If you wish, I'll recall Denaro. We'll let Pepys
take whatever course he intends."

   "No." Jack made his way to the room's entrance. He stopped at the door.
"He's one of mine now, and he's going to be good. But next time, saint," and
Jack smiled crookedly. "Talk to me first. We might both be on the same
side."

   Colin returned the smile warmly as Jack gave a half-salute and left. The
older man's smile faded. Unlike Jack, Pepys did not know a good man when
he had one. It might be the death of his friend.
                                Chapter 11
                                                                     «^»
Amber stared around the immense compound, an uneasy feeling at the
nape of her neck, which she couldn't dispel. Since returning, the pace of their
lives had been frantic. The entire barracks was on alert, packing for shipping
out even as they trained. She chafed her bare arms as she waited, tracing the
feathery blue patterns drawn there. As long as the alien dye permeated her
skin, alien senses invaded her soul.
   She sensed the visitor before he reached the front portal, had it open, and
was waiting as the street savvy urchin darted out of the courtyard shadows,
beyond the view screens of the panning security cameras and within arm's
length of her.

   He skidded to a halt and tossed a palm-sized package at her. "Here's your
jammers," he said. His upper lip curled in a sneer.

  Amber suppressed her smile, knowing that she'd surprised him, but he
wasn't about to reflect it. She flipped him a three credit disk. "Thank
Smithers for me," she said.

   "Don't bother with it, lady. He's sending you the bill."

   "I'm sure he is," she returned, but the boy had pivoted and dived back
into the shadows, his grubby hand closed tightly about the money.

   She'd embarrassed him because he thought she'd seen him coming. What
would he say if he'd known he'd set off every sense she owned: smell,
touch, hearing and thought, as well as sight? Amber palmed the door shut
and stood a moment, her eyes half-closed. These were extensions of the
sensory perceptions Hussiah had given her. Would they wear off with the
tattooing? Or would she be driven insane first?

   Amber forced her eyelids up and ripped open the package the street brat
had delivered. Two jammers blinked in her palm. One discreetly placed to
the fore of the suite and one to the rear… even though the apartment had
been swept, she knew that the jammers would keep long-distance ears from
hearing them. With a wry smile, she paced the double suite and installed the
chips, knowing that Jack would never have thought of it.
    Paranoia can be good, she told herself, and returned to the front door, her
silken caftan flowing about her as she paced tensely back and forth until she
again sensed a visitor.

   His heat flowed out ahead of him like a swiftly moving fire. Amber
hesitated as she went to the door, knowing it wasn't Jack unless he was
furious—and Jack did not have that temperament unless he was in armor
and linked with Bogie. Then who—? She keyed on the viewscreen.

   A rawboned man halted in front of the door, brushing his limp brown
hair to one side with an impatient hand. His thick lips pursed as he reached
out. Amber instinctively disliked the look of the man, but she recognized
the cut of his clothing. One of Pepys' courtiers, probably. What would such
a bureaucrat want here?

   She opened the door cautiously. The caftan sleeve slid along her slim arm
as she did so, revealing the blue tattooing. His black eyes drifted toward the
sight, took in the phenomenon with a ferocity of interest that almost seared
her as he looked back.

   "I'm looking for the young lady who accompanies Commander Storm."

   "That would be me." She blocked the door with her form even though
the man hardly looked as though he would force his way past. Looked, but
not sensed. No. She felt his heat wash over her. Heard the race of his pulse.
Could pick out a stray thought even though he kept his mind locked down
well. He would do whatever he had to to get what he wanted. She braced
herself. "Jack is not here at the moment. He's working with the troops."

  "I know. If you would allow me… I'm Vandover Baadluster, the new
minister." She said nothing, but the man's dark eyes glittered as though he
knew what she'd been thinking.

   He waved a long-fingered hand. "May I come in?"

   He set her teeth on edge, but Amber inclined her head. "It's your street,"
she said, her words an echo from her past.

  "Street? Ah. Yes." Baadluster eased himself in. "From that standpoint, I
suppose it is, but the emperor would never want you to feel as though these
apartments were other than yours."
  Amber said nothing. Whoever he was, this man had not come here to
make her feel at ease on the palatial grounds. Nor had he come to be silent.

  Baadluster rocked back on his heels. "Have you settled in?"

  "As well as can be expected." She moved back uneasily, knowing that the
man had not come to her to exchange pleasantries. "I… am busy, Minister
Baadluster. If I can help you?"

   "Perhaps. I have been investigating the records of my predecessor,
Commander Winton. I was distressed to see that you were implicated in
several assassinations."

   Amber felt her skin grow cold and pale. "I was not found guilty.
Evidence suggests that the assassin who died on Bythia when he murdered
the Ambassador was the same man who struck here."

  "Unfortunately for you that evidence is never to be available to us again."

  "I can't be tried!"

   "No. And there is probably no chance you ever will be. But," and
Baadluster held the word in his teeth a moment. "But future transgressions
will not be so easily dismissed."

  "I'm not an assassin."

   He looked around the apartment for a moment. "Winton suggested
otherwise."

  "Winton was crazy."

   "Perhaps. It would have been easier to tell if Storm had brought him back
alive, wouldn't it?" He looked back to her. Then, so quickly she couldn't
evade him, he grabbed her wrist. His fingers felt like live coals on her skin.

  "You come from under-Malthen," he said. "You've no implanted ID. You
come and go past the security systems as if they don't exist."

  She wrenched her arm away. "Old habits die hard."

  "Indeed. Are you and Storm a team, or are you using him?"

  Amber palmed the door open. "Get out."
   "I've not finished our talk."

   "I have."

  Baadluster flushed, a purple mottling of his pasty flesh tones. "You play,
but I do not."

   She straightened and threw her head back, feeling her chin settle into
pointed stubbornness as she did so. "It would really be naïve of me to think
that we're on the same side, wouldn't it?"

  "Yes," the Minister of War answered. "It would. And it would be even
more naïve to think that Jack Storm will not suffer for his association with
you. Or you from his."

   "What do you want?"

   Baadluster curved his plumpish lips into a semblance of a smile. Amber
concealed a shudder as the nape of her neck tingled. "A word now and
then," he said, "might convince me of your loyalties."

  She stood for a long moment, running through the possibilities of what
Baadluster wanted, then fixing on it in shock. "Why?"

   Vandover smiled. "Because you will want to."

   Amber gathered her thoughts. Jack would not be surprised that they
were suspicious of him—they had to be, after these last few years. But
without proof, and with Jack in the position he was in, with war looming on
the horizon… he'd probably never been safer. She cleared her throat. "I
won't do it."

   "Of course not, my dear. I didn't think you would."

   Her stubborn chin dropped slightly.

   Vandover Baadluster smiled widely. "But it was worth a try, and neither
will you tell him I contacted you. Pepys is a liberal emperor, but nothing in
regulations says that a soldier's whore has to be allowed to stay with him."

   "I'm not his whore!"

  "No?" His brow arched. "Perhaps they have another word for it in
under-Malthen."
   Amber moved away from the portal as Baadluster neared it. "And I'll
give you this, for free." Her angry gaze met his amused one. "Just like me,
you aren't safe anywhere, either."

   For the briefest of moments, she thought he was going to hit her, and
fought every muscle in her body not to pull back until she sensed the
muscular heat of his arm bunching. But Baadluster did not move. The
darkness of his eyes seemed to flare but whatever it was he might have
done, Rawlins interrupted.

    So filled had her senses been with the man before her, she'd never heard
his approach, but the young Knight filled the doorway suddenly, his milk
blond hair tousled from the wind, and his fathomless blue eyes drinking her
in.

   "Amber. The commander has word for you." Rawlins blinked slowly as
he looked from her to the minister. "I'm sorry," he said, "if I interrupted
you."

  "No matter, lieutenant."

  Amber cleared her throat to say, "Rawlins, this is Minister Vandover
Baadluster, the emperor's newest adviser."

  Rawlins saluted.

  "Lieutenant. I'm finished here. For now."

   She held her ragged breath as the man inclined his head slightly and left
Jack's apartments. Even with the portal closed and locked behind him, she
could still feel the feral heat of his body and his thoughts.

  If she could have, she would have disinfected the room.

    Amber pressed her hands to her lips for a moment and found herself
trembling. Angrily she dropped her hands to her sides and clenched her
fists. They would never have dared approach Jack like this. Never.

   And because he wears armor, Amber thought. You won't jerk him around
because he wears the armor!

  Rawlins looked thoughtfully out the portal as he opened it to leave
himself. "Trouble?"
  "No."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes. What does Jack want?"

  "He'd like you to come out to the training grounds."

  She frowned. "Why?"

  "He wants to talk with you."

  A chill ridged up her spine. "Why didn't he use the com?"

   Rawlins would not meet her eyes as he said, "Some things are better said
face to face."

   Amber shivered as the coldness from the room seemed to gather inside
her. Rawlins sensed her withdrawal and moved back from the door. He
made as if to touch her comfortingly on the arm, but did not complete the
gesture.

  "It's our job," he said.

   "No." She returned his gaze, thinking of Jack and how far they'd come to
reach this point. "No, I think it's his destiny."




                              Chapter 12
                                                                  «^»
                                 Intercepted
Baadluster shadowed the emperor as Pepys looked over the subspace call
report.
  "Have you made a record of this?" he asked of the minister.

   "Nothing official. You won't be able to keep it down long. There's bound
to have been other messages that were gotten out."

  Pepys sighed. As he looked up, he rubbed his fatigued eyes. "It will be
blamed on the Thraks."

   "I think so. But there's no doubt in my mind from the description given
here that it's someone else. Perhaps even a twin ship of the unknown Storm
encountered."

   Pepys blinked his eyes back into focus. "Another planet gone. Hundreds,
no, thousands of colonists… so far out on the rim that we barely had
contact. Why?"

  "Shall I inform your officers?"

    The emperor sat there, caught by the stark realization that there might be
somebody out there bigger and badder than the Thraks. Were they waiting
around to pick up the pieces? Or did they even care if there were any pieces
left?

  "Your highness."

   "What? No. I don't want anything official said about this. Let's wait and
see if any other messages got out. Perhaps not. This… massacre… seems to
have been pretty efficient."

  "Your highness, I'd suggest the star fleets be notified, if not the Knights."

  "No."

   Baadluster drew himself up. "Very well. Good night." He withdrew, his
gangly shadow mingling with, then dissolving among the other long
shadows in the emperor's private chambers. Pepys scarcely noticed his
leaving.




                               Chapter 13
                                                                      «^»
Jack looked up from his reports as a flicker of movement outside his private
berth caught his eye. He keyed the tapes to pause and a faint hum of static
filled his ears as the audio dimmed as well. The shadow of movement
coalesced into Rawlins, waiting nervously beyond the privacy panel, and
Jack made a movement to let him in.
   "What is it, lieutenant?" Disapproval faintly edged his words. With the
ship nearing their destination, they had barely enough time to prepare
themselves for the coming drop. Rawlins should not be wandering around.

    The young man came to a stop. His milky white hair spiked back from
his high forehead, and his blue eyes seemed to beg Jack for reassurance.
Jack did not need to hear any words to read the unease in Rawlins' eyes.
Forty-eight hours would not be enough to prepare this man for war. Maybe
a lifetime wouldn't.

   Jack hated to go into battle with hesitation like that riding his men. But he
knew Rawlins wasn't a coward—he had never seen that in him before. So it
was something else that gave the young man doubts. Evidently Rawlins
thought Jack had an answer, or he wouldn't be here.

  But Rawlins stood poised, his fear unvoiced, as though speaking of it
would give it shape.

  "Come in, lieutenant. There just might be enough space for you to sit
down if you do."

   That thawed his second's vocal cords. "Yes, sir." Rawlins stepped in past
the privacy panel's track and squeezed his lean hip onto a chair, flap. "Did I
disturb you?"

   "Just going over the terrain. We'll stay in orbit on the far side, keeping the
planet between us until the Thraks commit to a landing pattern. Then we'll
position the drop. I don't know where it'll be, but I have a good guess based
on past performance." He had a damned good guess and he didn't need the
tapes to inform him. His communion with Bogie was feeding him a
storehouse of information. Now he had more than his instinctual gut level
hatred of the Thraks to fight them with. More than his nightmares of
locked-in cold sleep. More than Baadluster's vague stratagems. And he
could only pray it would be enough.

  Rawlins stretched his legs out restlessly. He looked up at Jack from under
dark brows. "It all depends on us, doesn't it?"

   "No."
   The brows went up in surprise. "But I thought—"

   "You thought we had something to do with gravity and magnetic
attraction, with rain and wind and fire and DNA? Come on, lieutenant. The
only thing depending on us is whatever sector of land I give you to hold
onto. That's it.

   "I've never seen a sand planet, sir, and I don't want to. Claron was bad
enough for me. But I thought that the Dominion… that Congress' support of
the war… the whole circuit… was in our hands."

   Jack took his tapes off pause and shut the whole system down. He took
his headset off. "I don't think any Knight alive is armored well enough to
carry that kind of load, do you?"

   "Well, no, sir. Not really."

   "Then you can relax, soldier, because you're not being expected to." Jack
leaned forward slightly. "What you are being expected to do is study your
briefs so that when I give you your assignment, you can carry it out."

   Rawlins' color came back, and so did the glint in his eyes. He nodded.
"Yes, sir. I can handle that."

   "Good. Now get out of here or you'll wish Lassaday had come along
instead."

   Rawlins grinned in tribute to their tough and feisty NCO. "Yessir!"

   Jack watched him go and sat for a long moment as the privacy panel
closed after him, leaving the berth in silence. As he finally moved to replace
his headset, he thought of what rested on his shoulders, and what didn't.

   Amber had had little for him in the way of goodbyes other than the
immense sadness welling in brown eyes flecked with gold. She had stood in
the curve of his arm for a long time after his words had died away, and they
watched the training grounds empty of troops eager for combat, until there
was nothing left but dust whirls and the spartan barricades. Because of
Bogie, he felt her presence through his second skin, every nuance of
movement and heat.

   He felt the sighing moving through her just before she said, "I don't mind
you going so much… it's just that I always get left behind. And I never
thought I'd be jealous of a pile of scrap… but Bogie's the lucky one. I may
share your bed, but he shares your soul."

   And with a faint whisper of a kiss, she'd left him on the command bridge
to make ready to go to war.

   She'd been right, of course. And that was one more wrong he carried
with him until he found the Thraks who could purge him.




                               Chapter 14
                                                                    «^»
No, no, you stupid son of a bitch," Lassaday bellowed, his voice breaking
into static over the com. “Keep that up and you're going to blow your ass
off! Now step in line and remember, the suit's carrying you, you're not
carrying the suit. Quit flexin' your muscles like some overgrown ape."

   Denaro fought the wild gyrations of his armor to a standstill as the
sergeant's rough voice washed over him. Beneath it, he imagined he could
hear the jeers of the other recruits. His heart thumped loudly with anger and
he took a deep breath, retreating into the meditations of the Blue Wheel to
compose himself.

    St. Colin had promised him a hard but rewarding road to travel. How
hard, the old man could scarcely have guessed. But, and Denaro steeled his
jaw, the empire would not get the best of him. He had been given his
mission and he could not fail in it. He was in exile until he mastered the
armor or it mastered him. Sweat dripped off his brow and down his bare
torso, where leads pinched uncomfortably to his skin. He took a deep breath
and, almost as if Lassaday sensed he had composed himself and was ready
to try again, the sergeant rasped, "Get the lead out, boy."

   The session over at last, Denaro stumbled into the tunnel corridors
leading to the locker rooms and the shop. Jostled and bumped around by
recruits more in tune with their equipment, he sagged against a wall and let
them run by him. He ached in more muscles than he thought God had ever
created as he reached up and unscrewed his helmet.

  Malthen air poured in, tinged with a smell of hot concrete and dirt, but it
was sweet compared to the sour aroma of his own body.

  "Rough day?"

   Denaro was startled, in spite of himself, and smothered a groan as a calf
muscle threatened to cramp. He half crouched down to rub it, realized he
couldn't get to it through his armor and settled for stomping his foot on the
ground several times until the muscle unknotted. He glared at the woman
who shared the corridor shadows with him, until he recognized the
commander's woman.

   His mother had taught him that the ungodly feared a fight and to "stare
the de'il in the eyes until He backs down." The commander's whore was no
exception and so he stared at her until she came out of the shadows and he
could see her better.

   He had stayed away from her on the evacuation transport. There,
Jonathan had been by St. Colin's side and it had been Denaro's job, in the
background, to keep the evacuees away from the prelate. He had been in
disgrace, the majority of his company overrun by Bythian snakeskins until
less than one man in twenty had survived. It was none of his business that
the reverend seemed to enjoy the woman's company. It was, perhaps, a
minor reflection of his humanity and flesh that he did. But Denaro did not
like to profess such a weakness himself and though he stayed rock-steady as
she glided within arm's reach of him, he could feel his nostrils flare.

  The thundering passage of the other recruits faded away and the two
were left alone in the corridor without even an echo to disturb them.

  The woman jerked her head slightly, indicating over her shoulder. "They
have an advantage over you."

   "Three weeks of training," he said warily. He knew the Devil was going
to offer him something and he wondered what it might be.

  Amber smiled. He saw then she was no older than himself. "Jack said
you had potential."
  The Devil himself! But Denaro felt a tinge of pleasure at the praise,
nonetheless. "Did he?"

  The girl-woman said nothing further, but began to circle him slightly
until Denaro had to crane his neck a little to keep her in view. She unnerved
him.

   "I've been with Jack a couple of years," she said. "You might say I've got
the theory while you're getting the practice."

  "Theory?"

   "On how the suit works. How it should work, how to mesh its power
with your ability."

   Denaro froze as she went behind him and then returned. The dim light
of the tunnel caught the feathery tattooing on her bare arms… she wore her
jumpsuit with the sleeves cut off as though daring people to look upon her
disfigurement. He ill shivered even as he made his mind up that he'd let the
imp tantalize him enough. He straightened and tightened his grip on his
helmet.

   She laughed, a breathy, mocking sound. "Denaro! I think you're afraid of
me." He shot her a look that lesser disciples of the Blue Wheel would have
quailed at, and she laughed at him a second time. Then, astonishingly, she
stretched out her hand, palm up as if offering peace. "I could help you
through the rough spots of the next few weeks," she said.

  "You? Why?"

  "Colin has been very good to me. Let's say I owe him."

  Denaro relaxed slightly. "St. Colin is a man of many virtues."

  "You can say that again."

   He scarcely noticed as she entwined her arm about his Flexalink sleeve
and began drawing him down the corridor with her. As the perfume of her
tawny hair dazzled his senses and blurred his vision slightly, he was deaf to
her last words:

  "And I've always wondered what it would be like to wear armor myself."
   The staging hold vibrated as the ship began to descend into an orbit.
Around the shop, soldiers in various stages of hook-up looked up briefly.
Their glances flickered toward their commander. Jack was aware of it and
ignored it as he continued donning his armor. Steadied by his presence, the
men went back to their tasks. Most of them had never made a wartime drop
before and it did not help that the few who had were keyed up. Jack tried to
ignore the shaking of his own hands as he wired himself to stay in the suit,
plumbing and all, for the next few days.

   The surging through his nerves was not fear though, it was adrenaline.
Pure, unadulterated. His pulse sang throughout his body as he outfitted for
battle. His ears rang with the buzz of his readiness, and with Bogie's tide of
ferocity which grew by the second.

   "Commander Storm."

   "Yes, Whitehead." Jack looked up. The fleet pilot's face filled the screen,
his helmet masking all but his wide nose and dark eyes. The pilot looked
unhappy.

   "We're approaching the far side as requested, commander, but we've
picked up a blip."

   Jack's skin tingled. "What is it?"

   "I'm not sure, sir."

   "Give me your best guess or relay the picture."

  Whitehead gave him a measuring stare over the com. "I'd say there's
somebody waiting for us."

   In a corner, one of Jack's men muttered, "Shit."

  Jack stood up and finished shrugging into the suit. "Give me the
overview."

   The pilot fed it in.

   The shadowy blip grew in size until there was little doubt.

   "It's a trap," Rawlins said.
  Jack felt himself growing cold. The Thraks were waiting for them. But he
smiled. "Good."




                                Chapter 15
                                                                      «^»
Good?" echoed Rawlins.
  Jack ignored him. "Whitehead, are they in orbit or maintaining a fixed
position?"

   "Doesn't look like they've got much drift."

   "Okay, then pull a right angle turn here. Put us in orbit, but keep them on
the edge of vision. I want to know the second they move."

   Rawlins was still in shock, his half open suit making him look like some
kind of exotic flower. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on Jack. "Sir."

   Jack said to Whitehead, "Give me a picture of those sectors we were
looking at earlier." With a brief glance over his shoulder, he said, "Thraks
dug in are a lot easier to find than Thraks being dropped in. We may not
catch them coming out of hyperdrive, but this'll do just as well."

    He scanned the data coming in over the screen. "Freeze it there." The
computer obeyed. "There's sand. Not much. But a Thraks never digs in for
a fight without some sand. They store their food in it, like a larder. This is
where they're dug in tightest."

   Rawlins thawed out, shrugged into his sleeves, and sealed his armor to
the neck. "Then that's where we hit."

   Jack shook his head. "No. That's suicide to hit ‘em there. We'll land here
and here," he windowed the screen. “And spiral inward. It won't be easy.
That's rough terrain and they'll hit us with everything they've got once they
see we've pinpointed them."

  "How do you know that's them? Maybe that's a desert or something."
Garner, dark bushy hair in disarray and with disbelief on his feral face,
moved across the bay. He and Jack had been at odds during Basic, but Jack
had won his loyalty once before, and Jack did not fear having the soldier at
his side now. Garner's face showed no malice, but he looked to Jack for an
answer.

  “It shows on the spectroscope. Believe me, it’s Thrakian sand. I know."
And he did.

   "Yes, sir," Garner acknowledged. "Then what's below it?"

   "Depending on how long they've been here… nests, an armory, and
possibly even catacombs. It doesn't take them long to dig in." Jack picked up
his helmet. He looked around the ship's hold. Fifty-nine men paused to
meet his eyes. "Whitehead, put me on broadcast."

   "Yes, commander. Tied in."

    He was now being watched on the two other ships by another 120 men.
Jack said, "We're ready for drop. The Thraks are here, waiting for us. But
they don't know that we don't care. We're ready for them. And we're going
to take them out. This is how we're going to do it. Listen carefully. Drop
time in twelve minutes." And he began to detail the drop zones, sector
assignments and ever-tightening spiral they were going to throw around the
heart of the Thrakian infestation.

   When he was finished, there wasn't a man who doubted they could do it.

   He smiled tightly, a grim smile for which he had, unknowingly, begun to
grow famous. "All right now. First team drop units, Red Wing, Blue Wing,
Green Wing, let's go."

   He made a motion and Whitehead cut the com screen transmission. The
pilot's face filled the screen once more.

   "Break a leg, commander."

  "Don't worry," Jack said. "I want you to watch that mother ship. Turret
movement or orbit change. If it flinches…"

   "I'll go in and burn its tail feathers for you." Whitehead bared his teeth in
anticipation.

   "Do that," Jack said. "But don't forget you've got to haul our asses out of
here when we're done."

  "Commander." Whitehead sounded mildly aggrieved. "That junk is no
match for a needier."

   "The general of that junk may surprise you." Jack said nothing else as he
locked his helmet on. The ship shuddered as Whitehead took it down to
where Jack wanted it. Team One went into the drop tubes. It would take six
passes for Whitehead to get them all down. Jack wanted to be on the first
one, but he was scheduled for the last, just in case the Thraks had changed
techniques.

   The Thraks hit them as soon as they chuted in. Jack was pleased. It gave
him a chance to blood his men right away, rather than have them walking
about the landscape all spooked until they met action. Wondering about the
enemy was more dangerous than facing them. His com was crackling with
messages as he plummeted in, cut the chute and let his power vault absorb
the shook of hitting.

   "Quiet down out there and get to work," he ordered, cutting across the
chatter. The com lines went quiet. Then Rawlins, with Unit 3, called out,
"Oh my god! Here they come!"

  And it was busy after that.

                                  ***

   He doubted if any of his men had really seen a warrior Thraks. The
Thraks that came in on the trading ships were really drones, mottled gray or
sable, impressive enough until compared to their bigger brothers. But a
warrior Thraks was bigger, more massive, his natural body armor far
denser, his ability to run slope-backed on all fours making him much more
agile than the drones. They were most insectlike when still. In movement,
they became vicious carnivores and Jack didn't want his men
underestimating them.

  "Red Wing. We're being flanked."

    "Then turn. Keep your grids on, and put your locators on memory. We'll
fall back into pattern later," Jack said.
   "Man down! Man down!" a voice shrilled, and cut off abruptly. Jack
waited. "Rawlins, Garner, Peres. Anybody know who that was?" A young
voice quavered back, “This is Simons, Commander. That was Joe Henkley.
He had trouble after the drop… something inside the armor broke loose…
he'd been trying to get it hooked back up."

   "All right, Simons. Thanks for the data. Keep your chin up and your eyes
peeled." Jack let the rosy glow of the holo bathe him as he searched for
movement. He wasn't disappointed. In two seconds, he was very busy, as
the choppy, green-brown terrain of grass, brush, and hillocks, suddenly
exploded with Thraks.

   They didn't go down the way they used to. Bogie sang in his blood as
Jack fired and ran, fired and vaulted, return fire ricocheting off the armor.
He saw one stumble down in the wave of chitin rearing up against him,
even as he turned and ran, drawing them after him into the arms of his
soldiers holding the sector behind him. Bogie roared his disapproval of the
maneuver until Jack turned and stood, flanked by Rawlins to his left and
another Knight to the right.

  He pointed his gauntlets and laid down a spray of fire. Another Thraks
tumbled, but a dozen more jumped it, throwing themselves over and
coming up mean.

   "Holy shit," Rawlins muttered. "What stops ‘em?"

   "This does," said Jack, and blew the leader's head off. It took a precise
throat-shot just below the mask to do it. But it could be done. He took the
legs off three more and said, "Let's go."

   Bogie roared his approval as Jack ran toward the Thraks, vaulted their
line and came down behind them, sending havoc into their ranks.

   From the chatter on the com, he could tell that his men were settling
down from their first startled reactions. He cut into the transmission, saying,
"Don't waste your fire. Now that you know what they're like, make every
shot count."

   Garner huffed back, "Jesus, commander, these bugs are tough."

   "Yes," Jack returned. "But you're tougher. Remember, Garner. We're here
to kick ass. We want ‘em to think twice about going to war with us."

   He began firing single shots until the Thrakian line either went down or
fled.

   Then, still smiling his grim smile, he set his locator to find his original
destination and resumed course. Ahead and behind him, flanking him, just
within hailing distance, his men did likewise.



   Third day. His mouth felt dry and the sweat trickled persistently,
maddeningly, through his chest hairs and down to his sweatsoaked trousers.
At his back, the chamois that was Bogie's regenerative form lay coolly
against his shoulders, absorbing heat and moisture there, and protecting
him from the chafing the field pack always created on an armored back.

   He almost hadn't ordered field packs. He was glad he had. Thraks had
been bred tougher. They fought better than they had in the first Sand Wars.
They'd taken their beatings and learned their lessons.

   But then, so had Jack.

    Twelve percent casualties weren't bad. And they were now targeted
toward the interior of their spiral pattern. From the attacks in response to
their raid, he knew he was right about the location of the nests and main
armory. Wipe that out, and the mother ship just over the horizon would
pull out in a hurry. Whitehead and the two other needlers and been doing a
little dance with the Thrakian behemoth, nothing serious, but most of the
bombing to soften up the Knights had been kept to a minimum. So far, so
good.

   Although, if he had it to do over, he'd have Lassaday here as well. And
Travelling. Holding 180 hands to get his troops through this was tougher
than he'd thought. His throat had gone dry and raspy sometime last night
and Bogie had mournfully informed him that morning that their water
supply was depleted. It seemed the old suit had developed a minor leak.
The recycler was keying in on the leak as humidity and drying it out almost
faster than it leaked, leaving Jack without water and with a paper dry throat.

   It made it difficult to give orders. He'd spread himself too thin, knowing
himself to be the only true veteran among the suits. There were
mercenaries, of course, who'd been through a variety of actions, but nothing
in a sustained, contained situation like they faced now.

   All in all, they'd done well. He was proud of them. Any minute now, the
Red Wing should hit the leading edge of the sand as the spiral tightened.
When they did, with Peres leading them, Green Wing and Blue Wing would
have to get their asses in gear for Thraks would literally erupt out of the
ground, determined to protect their headquarters. Not too long now.

   Jack licked his lips and wished he could mop the sweat off his forehead.

   Almost as if reading his thoughts, Peres said, "What's it going to be like,
again?"

   Jack checked his tracking grid. Peres should be southwest of him. That
put him facing into the wind. "Grit," Jack answered. "In the wind first, like
dust. Then you'll get close enough to see patches of it on the ground.
Eventually, you'll hit the dunes and from there, Robbie, you're going to be
too busy to be a tourist."

   A short laugh. Jack added, "And I don't want anybody slowing down for
souvenirs. I only need one body and I'll handle picking that up. Everybody
else concentrate on clearing the field. We blow the armory and get out."

   "Yessir." He heard a wave of echoes.

   "Anybody showing a red field?"

   "No, sir."

    "Good." Inwardly, he was greatly pleased that no one had exhausted their
power supplies though he had suspected there would be dead suits.
Although technically they could stay in the field much longer, in reality it
depended on how much firepower they'd expended. And how much
firepower they'd expended depended largely on how inexperienced and
scared they'd been. They'd done very well to get this far.

   Peres said, "There's grit on the wind, sir."

   "Good." Jack checked his gauges over. "Give a yell when you hit the first
patches. All Wings, all sectors. Listen up. When Peres signals us, tighten the
ranks. We're going in. Any of you with expended field packs, drop ‘em. I
want you lean and mean. Got that?"

  An echoing wave of assent.

  Ten minutes later, Peres' hoarse voice came over the com. Jack never
heard what he said, but he launched forward into a run, closing up the ranks
and bringing his spiral pattern into a stranglehold.

   He heard the whoops and cries as Thraks exploded out of the scrub
brush and dunes of sand, intent on protecting their last holding grounds.

   The Knights crossed the leading edge of sand that encroached on the
Stralian soil. The line of Thraks wavered for a moment and gave way. Jack
could not see far enough over the dunes, but in a few hours, he should be
able to meet with Peres as their deadly circle closed.

    He kept firing and striding, breaking the ranks of the Thraks before him,
his boots doing almost as much damage as his gauntlet fire. His left gauntlet
muzzle jammed, leaving Jack with scorched fingertips inside the glove as it
overheated. With a mild curse, Jack pulled out his laser rifle from his field
pack and cradled it, the first time he'd had to use the pack. He'd been saving
it for the coup de grace, but no matter. Nothing was going to stop him
today. He saw Rawlins following him in, and then picked up ground sight of
the rest of Blue Wing. Laser fire dazzled his sight as another wave of Thraks
reared from the ground and charged.

   Their bodies crunched when he strode over them. Flecks of green and
yellow ichor flew up to splatter the white armor. White. A deadly shade of
armor unless one were buried to the hips in white and beige and pink sand.

  Then, he became part of the landscape, unlike the sable and more
somber colors of armor the others wore. Jack's armor had always been
designed for war with the Thraks. He was going to win this one. He had no
doubts.

   Not even when the ground opened up right under him and he plunged
into darkness.
                               Chapter 16
                                                                    «^»
Shee-it, commander!"
    Jack's ears echoed even as he dropped and hit the power vault to land.
He landed, and went to his knees, Flexalinks complaining. It had been like
falling off a cliff. Even worse had been the plunge into Bogie's
thoughts—the berserker clawed at him from the inside. He swam in raw
panic. His breath rasped through his clenched throat as he fought to take
possession of his mind, of rational thought. Bogie weakened and Jack
immediately squelched the light sensors, not wanting to advertise his
position, and came to rights.

  *I'm blind, boss.*

  "Loosen up, Bogie. I'm not."

   Then he broadcast, "I'm okay. Nobody panic. I'm in an underground
cavern or catacomb. Maybe Thrakian, maybe natural, hooking into their
network. I'll take one or two volunteers with me, the rest of Blue Wing go
on to their rendezvous." His voice sounded normal, even cheery to himself,
no thanks to Bogie's fear that still attempted to claw its way out of him and
take over everything he knew.

  "Ah… commander?"

  "Yes, Rawlins."

  "What are you likely to run into down there?"

    Jack smiled tensely. "I'd say, lieutenant, I'm likely to run into a lot of
Thraks. On the other hand, if they're coming out after you, I may just run
into a lot of luck." Bogie's panic bled away as Jack began to examine his
surroundings. He stood cautiously, thinking to himself that the new suits
had automatic sounding equipment, with periodic readouts. His armor had
it, too, but he had to instigate the function. He'd been just too damn busy to
bother.

  *Getting old, boss.*

  "Not me," Jack answered him. "Just you."
   *Maybe.* The sentience's inner voice was weak. The suit's gauges were
swinging into low. Was Bogie feeding off the suit's power and causing both
of them to run short? *It's cold.*

   "And dark." Bogie would no more admit his emotional lapse than
apologize for stepping on a Thraks. Jack cut the conversation short, as he
relocated his original path and saw the cavern widen out in front of him
accommodatingly. All right then. He'd take the low road as long as it led
where he wanted to go. The berserker's mental shiver acknowledged his
decision.

   At his back, two heavy thuds announced recent arrivals. Jack panned the
rear view—one was Rawlins. The other a new recruit by the name of Aaron.
Aaron was a curly headed, snub-nosed kid with innocent blue eyes that
shaded the devilment hiding just under the surface. But Jack hadn't seen
anybody technically better with a suit, even if he wasn't as athletic as some.
Aaron made a lazy salute before casting about the cavern. He then dimmed
his lights to follow Jack's lead.

   Rawlins was an ebony shadow among the darkness. His visor glinted
briefly, then a low beam issued out.

  Knowing he couldn't ask for better men at his back, Jack went into the
unknown.



   It was like being swallowed whole, Amber thought, as she stepped into
the fawn-colored armor. It smelled, too, and she wrinkled her nose slightly,
thinking of sweat factories and other memories from her not too distant past
as a street hustler.

  Denaro's face had pinked. "There's no plumbing for—ah—someone like
you."

   Amber peered out at him over the neck rim as she finished sealing the
seams. She had to crane her neck to do so. She was tall, but Denaro was
vastly taller even for a soldier and the suit was greatly oversized for her. She
thought that, suited, Denaro would be bigger than Jack. "That's okay, Den.
I'm not going to be in here all day… right?"
   "Ahh. Right." The Walker shifted his weight from side to side.

   Amber waved a slim hand at him. "Don't worry, Lassaday won't catch
us. Besides, you've been authorized to log extra practice time."

   He cleared his throat. "Just don't… ah… dent it or anything."

   "You'll have it back in no time. Come on, walk through the tunnel with
me." Frowning slightly, Amber concentrated on slipping her feet into the
boots and her hands into the sleeves and gauntlets, where a mesh of
circuitry immediately gripped her fingers and, for the first time, she
understood a little about the gauntlet weaponry. Just like pointing a finger,
she thought. Strange that her first time using a suit would be in ordinary
armor, not Jack's where both Jack's presence and Bogie's could embrace her.
She'd been in armor before—under extremely cramped and difficult
circumstances. This was entirely different. A feeling of power swept her.

   "Are we powered up?" she said, aiming her right index finger at the
locker room wall. Before Denaro could answer, the laser rayed and a
pan-sized area blackened.

  Amber jerked her hand out of her sleeve in reaction and stood,
wide-eyed, looking at the sooty wall.

   "Yes," Denaro said, his voice anticlimatic. "On low power, but be careful."
He held out the helmet. "You'd better put this on. If you're spotted like that,
they'll know it's not me in the armor… but they won't be able to tell through
the visor screening who it is."

   "Don't worry," Amber said grimly. "We won't be spotted." She reached
for the helmet.



   Jack had never known Bogie to feel cowardice, but as he strode through
the earthen caverns, he could feel the presence quaking about him. The
chamois along his shoulders and the back of his neck fairly shivered,
sending harmonic feelings along the tiny hairs back there. "What is it?"

   *Cold, boss. Cold and dark.*

   Jack looked over his power gauges. There was a nearly imperceptible
drain. He wasn't expending that much energy in the suit. "Bogie, what are
you doing?"

  *I… don't know.*

  "Watch my power outage, okay?"

  There was no answer, but another tremor upon his shoulders.

   Behind him, Aaron and Rawlins matched his steady walk. Jack surveyed
the cavern as well as he could with the amount of illumination he wanted to
use. Dirt wall, unshored… as if a gigantic mole had dug it. Under their feet
was a layer of clay sediment, broken by small rocks and pebbles, all dry.
Perhaps an underground flood wash, of some sort. No rocks or minerals to
speak of. He could feel a deep-rooted vibration overhead.

  "What is it?" Rawlins broadcast.

  "I know what it is," Aaron's still high, very young voice answered.

  "Aaron?"

   "Yessir. That's the rest of Blue Wing. There's a rhythm, like someone
jogging."

  Dust and pebbles shivered down from the roof. "If you're right," Jack
murmured, "watch your heads. We're liable to have visitors."

    The cavern narrowed to two abreast width, then made a Y. Jack paused
at the fork, checking his map. The screen flashed him a direction, and he
went to his right, slightly off course by a degree, but then again—no one
had promised him a direct road.

  The vibration overhead paused. All three of them came to a stop.

   Jack tilted his head even though it did no good… the mikes were
directional… his stance was unconscious. "Fighting," he told the two. "Come
on, we're missing all the fun." Bogie's chill had transmitted to him and as he
surged forward, his teeth began to chatter. His sweat covered torso had gone
icy. He charged into the tunnel, certain that they were almost within striking
distance of the Thrakian nest.
   Amber skidded to a stop at the tunnel mouth. Her heart pounded and
her pulse sang. The Bythian tattooing—which had faded to a tenth of its
original intensity so it looked like a network of fine veins marbling her fair
skin—burned with her delirium as power of one kind spoke to power of
another. "Oh, my god," she murmured to herself, for she'd left Denaro in the
dust. "Jack must feel like a god." She leaned against the left seam of the suit,
heedless of the circuitry and wiring poking into her.

   Denaro came panting up. His dark hair stood all on end. "Milady!" he
cried, as if she were deaf inside the armor. "Are you all right?"

   "I'm fine. Don't get your bowels in an uproar."

   His ashen face now grimaced at her retort. He wiped his forehead with
the back of his hand. "I've seen a recruit blow himself away in a suit.
Perhaps you could use a little more theory, too."

  She ignored his sarcasm. "Don't forget, Denny, my boy—I'm the brains
and you're the brawn. Now what direction do I head this scrap heap in?"

   "The obstacle course is that way."

   Feeling invincible, she surged out of the tunnels and on to the fields.



    Feeling invincible, Jack spotted the light curving from the end of the
tunnel, alien though its illumination was, and knew he'd been right. "Use
everything you've got, boys," he said to Rawlins and Aaron. "Including
your boots. Stomp what you can't laser. Don't let ‘em tear your field packs
off, you'll need your rifle." He took his out of the cradle of his right arm and
lifted it. "Let's stir up a hornet's nest."

   He broke into a run for the fifty yards remaining, his momentum and the
power of the suit carrying him at an incredible rate. Thus it was that the
three of them broke into the underbelly of the Thrakian occupation force,
kicking through wafer thin cellular walls, ignoring the cocooned nets
hanging from the ceiling as they fired. Aaron let out a squawk of indignation
as one bundle swung into his helmet and Jack heard an "Oh, shit! That was
part of Fielding!"

   Rawlins ducked as a Thraks picked up what was left of a fellow warrior
and threw the blasted torso at him, ichor spraying wildly. "How the hell can
you tell?"

     "I'd know that hairy, tattooed arm anywhere! What is this?"

   Storm waded through bodies, kicking and shattering anything that
twitched as a chittering wave ‘of Thraks backed away from him. "Let me
give you a hint, Aaron," he got out as he laid down a spray of fire that
seared chitin and left a smell like burning hair on the air. "They don't take
souvenirs, either! This is their pantry."

  He thought he could hear Aaron gagging and added, "Keep going, boy!
Watch ‘em. Here they come at two o'clock!"

   The Thraks boiling away from them were unarmed and frightened. The
Thraks flooding downward from the other end of the tunnel were armed to
the masks and madder than hornets. They did almost as much damage to
the unarmed Thraks as the three Knights did.

   Jack swung his field pack around, grabbed two grenades, tore the pins
and chucked them as far ahead as he could. The concussion battered the suit
and the mikes, waving his ears ringing. Two blurs to one side of his helmet
told him either Aaron or Rawlins was following his lead.

   He got his heading. Bits of chitin filled the air even as the first of the line
to get through reached him. He set his rifle in his armpit and laid down an
even spray of fire. "Rawlins, Aaron. I want you to kick your way out and get
up there!"

     "What?"

     "Use your power vault and grenades, dammit! Get dirtside and do it now
."

   "Yessir!" they chorused as Jack set his teeth and boots. Provided there
was nothing alive at his back, he ought to be able to hold this tunnel mouth
indefinitely.

     Or at least as long as he still had firepower.

   The ceiling came down behind him and for just a moment he was
cloaked in a fine cloud of smoke and dust. The Thraks piling into the tunnel
drew back in wonderment.

  For just a second.

  Then, with a terrible clacking of mandibles and spurting of their rifle
muzzles, they plowed forward again.

  Jack smiled. It had obviously been a long, long time since any of them
had faced a Dominion Knight.




                               Chapter 17
                                                                    «^»
You ought to be proud of our boy," Pepys said, swinging about in his chair.
"He's handed us a decisive victory."
   Baadluster's upper lip tightened as though his teeth gave him some deep
and stabbing pain. He paced away for a second or two, then turned and
faced his emperor. "That he has," he said grudgingly. "And now Stralia's fate
will be decided quickly in the Appellate Courts. The sooner it is freed to be
colonized, the better it will be able to defend itself. Or had you overlooked
that piece of property?"

    Pepys shrugged indolently as he threw the report over one shoulder
where it slumped to the ground and lay, plastic sheets akimbo. "I gain more
in the long run for the Dominion to have confidence in me as a war leader
and provider of troops. My claim to Stralia was poor at best and fourth or
fifth in consideration. A wise man, my dear Vandover, knows when to cut
his losses and take what he can get. And look what our commander's given
us! Just look! Damn near one-handedly."

   "Then," and Baadluster drew near. An unhealthy pallor cloaked his skin.
"Perhaps you'll consider what I have to suggest. You face a full
Congressional hearing with regard to the budget and appropriations."

   "I do," Pepys agreed. "All it takes is enough of them to decide I have
them by the monetary shorthairs and we'll be providing no troops."
  "Send in your hero. If we work with him, we should be able to
overwhelm the Congress with emotion, sway the dissenters, and get the
budget through before anyone notices that we're going to own them
completely."

   Pepys' indolence faded rapidly as he straightened in the chair. He looked
keenly at Baadluster. "You're talking about giving him a public forum."

  "He's a soldier, not a politician. Feed him what you want him to say."

   Pepys tickled the corner of one eyebrow with a fingertip. "Storm," he
replied slowly, "is his own man. But it could work."

  "Surely he's not naïve enough to believe all we require of him is to fight
Thraks."

  "I think perhaps he is."

   Baadluster smiled. "Then we can't allow him to stay that way. There are
concerns he must deal with… building the troops and generating the
propaganda necessary to authorize their use. I have leverage I can use if
your highness finds it difficult to persuade him."

  "Leverage, Vandover?"

    The Minister of War towered over the emperor. Pepys waited for
enlightenment, but none came. He smiled tightly. "I see you've been busy
filling Winton's shoes."

  Baadluster gave a slight nod.

   Pepys sighed. "Well, then. I suggest you get hold of our hero. We have
only a few weeks to make preparations." He waved his hand, dismissing
Baadluster. The minister lingered a few seconds longer than was in good
form, as if to show Pepys that he did not have the control he wanted. Pepys
watched the lanky man's disappearing form until the closing portal hid it
from sight. Then he took a deep breath. He had stayed true to his adage that
it was better to have an enemy under your nose than out of sight, but he
wondered if he had done a wise thing. Rumors reached him now and then.
Rumors that Baadluster had belonged to a splinter faction of the Green
Shirts though Pepys had not been able to unearth recent activity. Had the
Green Shirts been too radical for Baadluster… or not radical enough? Pepys
closed his eyes, thinking that when he had been younger, he could not rest
until he had the throne. Now that he had the throne, he could not rest
keeping it.



  Lassaday stalked about the locker room. "Dammit, Trav," he muttered to
Captain Travellini. "Do we tell ‘em or not?"

   "We have no proof that anyone's been breaking in. The security systems
show nothing."

  "I know that! I'd give my left nut to know who—" he broke off as a
buzzer rang in, overriding his words. "What is it?"

   "Moussared here, sir. The racks check out."

  "Right." He looked to Travellini. The captain stood at attention, slender,
darkly handsome, a single wing of premature silver along one temple.
"Nothing there. But I know what I know, even if I can't prove it."

   "Then you'll have to tell the commander and let him take over, sarge."

   Lassaday's thick chest rose and fell in frustration. "Th' freebooters'll wait
for no one! By the time I get enough proof, they'll be gone, and our suits
with ‘em!"

   Travellini spread his hands out. "Our only other choice is to shut down
training altogether until we find out where the missing suit is, and who's
been breaking in. I don't think we can afford to do that."

   "Damn right. Well, th' commander's back tomorrow. I hear the emperor's
got a call in for him. I guess we'll be next in line, eh, Trav?"

    As the good-looking captain nodded assent, Lassaday slammed a locker
door in frustration and left, eyeing the security camera with an evil glare for
its failure.



  Jack hardly had two words for Amber when he returned. He went to see
Pepys first and then Lassaday cornered him, and when he came back to
Amber, telling her that he would have to leave with Pepys in a few weeks,
all she had with him was the night… and the night she shared with Jack's
nightmares.

    He rarely slept through. She knew that from years of association with
him and the one or two times she'd nursed him through injury and illness.
But she thought perhaps it had lessened, or even faded altogether, that
night-startling bolt from sleep into wakefulness, his eyes wide and his
breath shuddering in his chest. He did not fear death, she knew that. He
feared the inability to be allowed to live… his dreams deep scars from the
seventeen years he'd been locked helplessly in cold sleep. She tried to
soothe him back to rest, but their lovemaking had already spent his energy
and though he lay down beside her, she wasn't asleep when he got up and
left.

   She knew where he'd gone. Her slender fingers kneaded at the blankets
as his warmth faded from beside her. He'd gone to the suit, to Bogie, to
commune in a way he'd never reached out to her.

   Amber threw herself out of bed as if to follow, then stopped herself at the
bedroom door. She couldn't follow. She knew that. She turned her
restlessness into pacing, then stopped. Bitterly, she repeated what her hated
Rolf had often told her: "You can't lose what you never had."

  She returned to the now cold bed. She might not have him now… she
might never have him … but she would not let him face his destiny alone
much longer. At the back of her closet, behind a false door, hung a suit of
armor that she was very close to mastering.



    Lassaday grimaced. It sent rivulets of sweat running down his bald pate.
"I don't like yer leaving so soon, sir. Not with the trouble and all."

   "It can't be helped. I don't like it either." Jack looked out over the parade
grounds. The troops looked good, but he knew after Stralia that they had a
hundredth of the manpower they needed, and with the attrition rate of
training… he might never have the Knights at full muster. He disliked the
duty he'd agreed to perform for Pepys, but it had one advantage. The
Knights would gain the publicity they needed to gather new recruits. And
the Stralia incident bothered him more than he wished. He could not shake
the idea that the Thrakian League had been waiting expressly for him. Did
they think that the Knights were nothing more than an extension of himself,
now that Kavin was gone? If so, he must do everything in his power to
make sure they were not right. Lassaday, Garner, Travelling Rawlins and
the others must be able to step in. He was the last true Dominion Knight…
and it was in his power to correct that, to make certain that it did not remain
true.

  But it would take time, time he found hard to gather. The upcoming trip
would delay him even more.

   Yet he had also found evidence on Stralia that he could not ignore. The
Thraks had not just been waiting there for him… from the depth and size of
the catacombs, he was certain the Thraks had been based, on and off, on
Stralia for some years while the Dominion Congress argued the colonization
and ownership rights. He did not like the implication of the infiltration
which had taken place right under the noses of the Triad Throne and the
Congress.

    A buzzer sounded and Lassaday grimaced again. "Th’ bugs are ready,
sir."

   Jack looked down at the portion of the parade grounds that had been
sectioned into a blind maze. Shields thinly glazed with norcite were set in
place among the other walls.

   Lassaday sighed. "We've got a bloody fortune down there, sir."

   "I know." But it would be worth it if he could prove what he hoped to
prove about the Thraks. If they had a blind spot he could capitalize on, the
war would come to a quick and speedy halt.

   They'd brought three Thraks back and, so far, kept them alive. Now he
heard the portal doors opening, loosing the warriors onto the parade
grounds. Lassaday leaned over the bridge railing with him, knuckle-scarred
hands tightly gripping the bar.

   "What if this doesn't work, sir?"

   "Then we try again," Jack said. He watched as the Thraks stumbled out
into the white-hot light of Malthen's ever-burning sun. For a moment, he
thought he saw confusion on the masked faces. Then the Thraks fell on each
other with a fury that saw two tear each other apart. The third turned and
made a gesture to Jack and that was indisputable, despite the language
difference, and tore its own throat out and toppled, splattering ichor onto the
parade ground sands before anyone could stop the suicides.

   Lassaday growled deep in his throat. “Nasty beasties,” he said. “Well,
that’s the last of ‘em.”

   Jack stepped back, gorge rising in his throat in spite of himself. He
wondered if he would have exhibited similar courage under Thrakian
captivity. He swallowed hard. "There'll be another time, sarge. Store those
norcite shields where they can't be vandalized. We'll find a way to use
them."

   As he stepped down from the bridge, he tried not to let the failure bother
him. He could not be wrong about what he'd observed aboard Harkness'
freighter. He could not!




                               Chapter 18
                                                                     «^»
We're on final approach now, your highness."
   Pepys wiped off the fine sheen of nervous perspiration from his forehead.
He looked askance at his cabinmates, Storm and Baadluster. Storm looked
calm and composed, almost meditative. Baadluster's attention was fixed on
the viewscreen showing the descent.

   Pepys wrenched his thoughts from his nervousness and focused on the
screen. The cloudy luster about the planet faded for a moment, as if a wedge
had been cut into it.

   "The shields are down," Jack said.

   Pepys looked to the windowscreen. His air sickness fled in the moment
he realized that the center of the Dominion was wide open, vulnerable to
their descent. He smiled wryly then, thinking of all the times in his dreams
when he'd willed such a thing to happen for his attacking troops, and had
never been able to force it. The shields could be brought down, that was
true, but at great risk and expenditure.

   It was not surprising the Thraks struck only at outlying, ill-defended
planets.

   The shimmer returned. They were through. Pepys cleared his throat,
rapidly picking up composure as they returned to his element. His
battlefield, by necessity, was the Congressional hall awaiting them.

   Dreams of conquest here were disguised behind his politics. He took one
last look at his Dominion Knight and hoped to god he and Baadluster had
not underestimated the man.

   Baadluster seemed to sense Pepys' thoughts. He turned from the
viewscreen as the capital came into sight, its visibility partially veiled by
scattered clouds and a light drizzling of rain over portions of the immense
city. "Rest today, Storm," the minister said. "Tomorrow we go back to
work."

   Jack looked at the city, thinking that the Dominion capital was everything
Malthen was not. Clean. Beautiful. Unfettered. Green streaked the walkways
and park areas as if the forest had returned, unconquerable, to the
pavements. The domed rooftops of the many buildings glittered in cobalt
blue or in the green patina of weathered bronze. Pink and white tile. And
windows, everywhere windows, as if the restriction of mere walls were too
much to bear. He liked what he saw. He looked forward to the following
day.



    Pepys said, "Good timing. The Thraks have formally declared war. Now
let's see if we can get the Dominion to join with us in answering them."

   A shiver of anticipation ran down the back of Jack's neck.

  The chamber was huge. In hushed tones, Baadluster said, "It's said to
have been patterned after the old Terran Congress."

   Home World. A beginning so far away that, in the end, only it might be
safe from the Thraks. Jack felt himself squaring his shoulders back as he
stepped into the wing, awaiting his introduction.

    The senators and representatives were anything but quiet. Many sat,
listening to the speech being presented to them, but equally as many
conferred in groups, sitting or standing. There were young men and women
at com lines, taking notes or transmitting messages, calm islands in the
benevolent chaos. Overhead were the trade logos and city state banners as
well as world flags of the Dominion, the Outward Bounds, and the Triad
Throne.

   Jack sucked in his breath, calming himself, and rethought his decision not
to wear his armor. He missed the edge of Bogie's righteous anger but not
the subtle power struggle that underlay their communication. Diplomacy
was going to be difficult enough. He caught sight of Senator Washburn, a
prism of activity, settling a wing of senators in their seats, hovering over
each one and speaking confidentially before moving on to the next.

   He also saw Pepys, sitting in the visitors' gallery. The red-haired emperor
had worn his regal robes, and was outfitted as Jack rarely saw him, in red
stones and gold threads that made him look like a barbarian throwback. In
the midst of all his splendor, he looked a bigger man than he was. Five WP
men rayed around him in formation. Jack recognized three he'd had
dealings with under Winton's regime; he felt his lip curl in instinctive dislike.

  At Jack's side, Baadluster intoned, "I'll be leaving you now. I must join
Pepys. You're sure you're set? Have the speech with you?"

   Jack nodded. He palmed the disk lightly, thinking that he still did not feel
comfortable with the contents hammered out by Pepys and Baadluster.
Senator Washburn stood up straight and looked at them. Their time must be
close. Baadluster hissed something under his breath and faded away from
Jack's side.

    Jack's tension left with the minister. He looked across the hall, wishing
that he could somehow find and isolate Amber's face in the ocean of faces,
but knowing he could not because she had been left behind. As he saw the
security and broadcast cameras panning the hall, he knew she'd not have
felt at ease here. Anyone appearing here would be forever stored in too
many master systems. As he looked up into the domed roof and eyed those
cameras, a thought occurred to him and began to slowly expand.
   One of Washburn's aides came up behind him. "Almost ready?"

   He looked at her. Expectancy shone from dark eyes set off by warm
brown skin. He nodded.

   She took his hand. "Just feed the disk into the podium as you step up.
The speech comes up on that transparent screen down there… the words
are color-coded to be invisible on the broadcast. Looks spontaneous, but
isn't. You can move your eyes slightly, the screen moves with you to a
certain degree. Unless, of course, you have your speech memorized."

   He nodded again.

   She smiled widely. "Say something," she said. "The senator will have my
head if you've lost your voice from stage fright. Destinies are decided in
here."

   "Damn all Thraks," Jack rumbled in amusement.

   The aide laughed. "Good enough for me."

   The audience hall began to applaud and the noise moved in waves,
baffling off the acoustics of the chambers. At first, Jack thought they might
have been heard, then he saw that Senator Washburn had gained the
podium and was preparing to introduce him.

  The thought that had begun grew until it seized him, and he scarcely
heard Washburn's speech leading up to his introduction.

   The aide pushed at his right elbow lightly. "That's it, you're on."

   Jack stepped out of the wings and moved toward the podium. A hush
rippled across the floor following applause for Washburn's words. What has
Washburn promised them in me? he thought briefly, as he stepped onto the
dais. He felt a catch deep in his throat, a momentary flutter of nervousness
that he shrugged off. The AV equipment responded to his weight in front of
the podium and flashed READY, awaiting his disk to be fed in.

   The audience had quieted, awaiting him, and as he hesitated, they began
to clap again, as if urging him to relax and deliver his words. He looked
across the floor, where Pepys' planned splendor caught his eye once more,
and then a grim determination settled over him along with a deadly calm.
   He held up his right hand, four-fingered like a badge of courage, and
knew the cameras were broadcasting close-ups of him, and the speech disk
winking in his palm. To hushed murmurs, Jack flexed his hand and the disk
folded into an unusable mass. He tossed it to the foot of the dais.

   Instantly, the air became electric. The audience knew whatever they were
about to hear was not a prepared speech. Uncontrolled. Alive. Anticipation
snapped toward him, and he knew he had better not disappoint them.
Baadluster half rose to his feet in the visitors' gallery. Pepys dragged at his
sleeve and brought him back to his seat.

  "Congressmen and representatives, ladies and gentlemen, and honored
guests."

   His voice brought quiet to the chambers. Even without the sound
system, he would be heard clearly. No one, short of an assassin with
Amber's powers, could stop him now.

   Joy filled his voice as he began to speak.

   "I have been introduced to you as a commander in the Dominion
Knights, the battalion newly reformed by Emperor Pepys. I'm his sworn
man, a soldier who wears battle armor. Many of you will listen to my
testimony with bias, believing what you have already been told is the truth.

   "You've been lied to."

  Voices raised in pandemonium. To one side, Jack could see Washburn
pounding a gavel for silence. Pepys sat up straighter in his booth, his
auburn hair a crackling halo about his grim face.

  "I swore to Pepys, but before him, I was sworn to another. A man whose
name since his death has come to mean defeat and shame. I'm an honorable
man, but I can hear you asking how can a man be loyal to two masters? If
you're not, you're all damn fools."

   "But I know where I stand because I never swore to the man, but to what
he offered."

   "First let me tell you who I really am."

   "I was born on Dorman's Stand."
   Another burst of noise and disbelief. The senators still standing about in
the back galleries began to move closer, finding seats. He could see an aide
racing across the upper balcony, in pursuit of what, he wondered briefly, as
the audience calmed yet again to hear him.

    "You heard me right. There's been no human born on Dorman's Stand in
the last twenty-five years. It fell during the Sand Wars. It's a sand planet,
lifeless for our people. But I was born there, and I remember the way it used
to be, and I grew up there following in my father's footsteps until it came
time for me to believe in another man." A fleeting, wry smile, passed over
his lips. "I was a raw recruit then."

  "I enlisted as a Knight under Emperor Regis."

   This time, there was no wave of noise. Instead a deadly silence fell over
the people before him. He caught sight of their faces and knew he had them.

  "I'm probably the last living true Knight still in commission."

   Baadluster and one of the WP men abruptly left the visitors' gallery, but
Jack felt a keen edge of joy, for it was too late now.

  "I enlisted to fight the Thraks, thinking we could stop them. I was sixteen
and and you must understand what it was like to be me then."

   He took them back, among the finely threaded memories Bogie had
given him, because he had no choice. Otherwise they would never believe
him. He was unsure if they believed him now. He only knew that no one
stood any longer, and that even the aides at the com lines had turned to
him, listening, their lips and fingers stilled.

  "And so, I swore to Emperor Regis.

  "And so it is that I'm here today. For if we had not been betrayed on
Milos, if the Knights had not been left without backup, we could have held
Milos. We could have stopped the Thraks then and there.

   "But Regis wasn't secure in his power, evidently, and there were factions
working to unseat the old warrior. We Knights became the pawns in a petty
struggle and Milos was the mortal blow."

  An incoherent shout interrupted Jack. He paused and looked toward the
wing from which the sound had issued, but no one followed it up. He took
the opportunity to press his fingertips along his brow, mopping up a few
drops of sweat he hadn't known had rested there. He took up the unseen
challenge.

    "How do I know? Because I was there. I was one of the thousands
scheduled to be left behind. The fleet was ordered out and the Thraks swept
in. I was one of only a few hundred to make it to the three transports that
somehow managed to come in. All three of them were hit heavily by
Thrakian fire while trying to lift off."

  His gaze swept them now. He challenged them. "I can see you
remembering. Facts, you might tell me, easily scanned on any library
computer. Perhaps. But I lived them.

   "Two cold ships never made it past the League offenses. A third did… so
heavily crippled it went adrift, its cargo locked in cold sleep. Eventually, its
damaged systems could no longer function. Backup systems faltered. Those
asleep died.

   "Seventeen years later, the ship was found and one man remained
alive—alive, but not untouched."

   Jack held up his scarred hand. "I suffered frostbite. Cold sleep fever. And
they tell me I could have been saner. I lost an entire lifetime while the
Thraks took the planets they wanted, and Emperor Regis became a defeated
old man who fell prey to art assassin.

   "I spent four years in the Knights. Seventeen asleep. And the last five
years learning the truth.

   "The truth, ladies and gentlemen, is that the Thraks have no regard for
your right to life. The truth is that we once had the means with which to
stop them. To teach them respect for dealing with us. And we have those
means again. I swore, not to Regis and not to Pepys, not to an emperor.

   "I swore for peace through war.

   "I stand by my oath.

   "And I ask you to give me back the means with which to achieve it."
  With those words, Jack stepped back.

   There was an absolutely stunned silence. He dared to look at Pepys,
knowing that both the expressions on his face and the emperor's would be
covered by close-ups. The emperor sat motionless in his booth.

   Haltingly, the applause began. It grew in spurts, hampered by the sound
of the audience getting to their feet. They stood in waves until not a man
was left sitting.

  Not even Pepys.




                                Chapter 19
                                                                       «^»
A goddamn pacifist."
    Jack sat down wearily, throat dry after hours of interviews following the
Congressional speech. "Why else would you make war?" he said quietly and
tried to ignore his emperor pacing before him.

   Pepys came to a stop. His face went through several expressions before
settling on a frown. His mouth likewise opened for retort, then closed. He
looked to Baadluster.

  "All is not lost," the minister said. "They're still debating out there."

   Pepys shook his head, his frown obscured by a cloud of fine red hair, and
stalked away again, his ceremonial robes practically afloat. He cast a look of
loathing at Baadluster as he passed him.

   He stopped at the far end of the room as though he had needed to put a
distance between himself and Storm.

  "I am your emperor," he said, his voice modulated with effort. "Why did
you not tell me?"

   Jack looked up. His eyes of rainwater blue met Pepys' cat green ones. "I
thought you already knew."
  Pepys made a gesture with his hand, the side of it cutting air as though it
were a sword. "How can I trust you?"

   "Or I you."

  "Don't fence words with me! You weren't found by one of my ships or I
would have been told."

  "I'm a Dominion Knight," Jack said. "That should be enough. I am what I
am, and I do what I've been trained to do. No more. And no less."

   "That's all I get? That's all? I could have you removed as commander."

    Jack inclined his head. "If that's what you want. But I don't recommend
it." He stood up. Under the lines of his dress blues, his frame carried the
powerful muscles it took to wear and use a suit of battle armor. "Now you
know me for what I am. Remember that I have always known you for what
you are."

   Pepys' body had been seething with indignation under his ceremonial
robes, but the tone of Jack's voice froze him in his place. Baadluster cleared
his throat as inconspicuously as he could, yet the emperor shot him a hard
look and the minister shifted away from him slightly.

   "Are you threatening me?"

   "No," Jack said, as he moved closer. "But I think it's time we understand
one another. Winton feared me, but for the wrong reasons. The Thraks
didn't have me. If I was in the hands of the Green Shirts, then they couldn't
accomplish what they wanted to. It had already been done, my emperor, by
seventeen years of cold sleep, locked into a debriefing loop. I have lived and
relived an eternity of betrayal. I know who I hate." Jack paused. His hands
flexed. "Give me the freedom to go after the Thrakian League."

  Pepys had been holding his breath. He relaxed now, nearly
imperceptibly. "And then?"

   "Reclaim Claron. Winton had it firestormed to rout me out. He duped
you into okaying his actions because of the survey showing Thrakian
infestation."

   Baadluster said, "What kind of accusation is this—" but Jack gestured,
cutting him off.

   "Winton used freebooters. They can't be controlled."

  Pepys sighed. He pulled out a chair and sat down, suddenly. "I bear the
onus," he said. "All right. Terraforming for Claron. However long it takes,
whatever the expense."

   "In exchange for what?"

  "Your silence? No." Pepys took a deep breath. "I am, in spite of all you
might suspect of me, still the emperor of the Triad Throne. You can't prove
what Winton ordered, I know that, but that does not mean I condoned it.
Then or now. Let's just say I'm doing what I am doing to gain your loyalty."

  A tiny muscle ticked along the line of Jack's jaw. He straightened. "I am a
Knight. You either already have my loyalty or not. I can't be bought."

   "No," Pepys answered him, smiling tightly. "Perhaps not." Anything
further he might have said was interrupted by Senator Washburn bursting
into the room. He was followed by a slender young man in the uniform of
an aide.

    "This is my son, Brant," Washburn blurted. He inserted his square,
massive frame between Pepys and Baadluster. "Jack! Jack, my boy, I
couldn't have done better myself!" He turned to Pepys. "Brilliant!
Absolutely brilliant! His tongue would snap if he tried to lie! And a pacifist
at that."

   Pepys said irritably, "What is the news, Washburn?"

    "What else could it be? Pepys, you astound me. No wonder you sit on
the Triad Throne. If you'd given us a warmonger, we'd be out there arguing
still… probably until the end of the session. But when you gave us a
peaceful man who knew the time had come to fight—well, you lasered the
opposition in their tracks."

   Baadluster interrupted. "We have the appropriations?"

   "Yes! Yes! We have a probationary war, gentlemen."

   Jack watched them from across the room. He had won the battle for
Claron, but he felt curiously hollow inside. It was not victory enough.
Amber would probably have agreed with Washburn's assessment of his
tongue and lying. He had learned long ago not to lie if he could help it.

   So he simply had not told all of the truth. Pepys seemed reassured, but
he would not be if he knew Jack's thoughts. First the Thraks. Then the
emperor.




                                Chapter 20
                                                                      «^»
Drop in twenty minutes."
  Jack rubbed the back of his neck and tried to ignore the computer voice.
He keyed back, "Just get us in there."

   The fleet pilot came on with arrogance in his voice. "You think this is
easy?"

    "I think," Jack formed his words deliberately, "that the bulk of the enemy
is dirtside and if you want to fight a war, you've got to get us where the
action is."

   The warship waggled, and every man in staging found it hard to keep his
footing. A buffeting followed and Jack knew that last burst had been close.

   The pilot made a noise of contempt and closed off the com line.

   The man suiting up nearest Jack paused. He frowned. "They never give
us any respect."

   Jack shot back, "Just do your job. We get in there, clear the sector so the
shield crews can be dropped and get pylons built and the shields back in
place. That's what we're here for. Do your job and the respect will follow."

  The soldier's face paled a little under Jack's harsh tones, but he nodded.
"Yes, sir."

  Jack lapsed into uneasy silence. He looked across staging and realized he
knew very little of the men fighting with him this run. Who would watch his
back? Garner, across the bay, his spike of blue-black hair standing up
defiantly, had his back to his commander and was instructing a green recruit
on the niceties of a first drop. Jack could not hear what was said. He touched
the cherry picker that held his own suit.

  *Boss. Are we ready?*

  "Nearly."

  *It's been a rough campaign.*

   "I know." This was Jack's third drop in five days, but they were going to
regain Oceana and get the shields back up, dealing the Thrakian League
another severe loss.

  They can be beaten. A step at a time, but they can be beaten!

   Jack opened up the seams, picked up a probe and began to test circuitry,
automatically, out of habit, even though Bogie had been fully powered and
tested twenty-four hours ago. He frowned. There were minute power
shortages. Bogie had been pirating again. Jack rubbed his temples. The
finding strengthened his resolve to get new armor fitted when they returned
to Malthen. His old suit was no longer reliable… and there was another
being fighting him for control of it. He couldn't tell Bogie yet nor could he
predict what the sentience would do if he found out Jack would no longer
share the suit or companionship with him.

   Would it be the death of Bogie? Jack knew that the possibility existed, for
the sentience was struggling now to regenerate as he had never had to
struggle before. Perhaps the being was more closely related to a parasitic
Milot berserker than he realized. Perhaps it needed more than Jack's
warmth and sweat.

  Perhaps it needed to begin feeding.

  Jack jerked the probe out of his suit irritably.

   Across the way, Fostermeir, his NCO for this drop, began the
countdown. "Gentlemen, suit up! And let's not forget the dead man circuit,
boys. We don't want any Thraks pulling armor off the casualties to take
home and have fun with."
   Premonition prickled at Storm. Well, Jack thought…



  "…there's no time like the present." Denaro straightened, his helmet
under his arm.

   Amber shook her head. "I can't go with you."

   "You damned well can't stay here. We may have five thousand recruits
roaming around now, but I can tell you that they know there's been rogue
activity. It's just a matter of time until you're caught."

   Amber's mouth curved just a little. Denaro glared at her. He threw his
shoulders back.

   "All right, all right," he said. "I've been a pain in the ass. I have my duty
to St. Colin and the Blue Wheel. And I'll admit I thought you were a
she-devil at first, come to tempt me with all your wiles. But I'm a soldier
and you're a soldier, and the emperor's army is no place to be caught. If
you're going to fight, fight a war that counts. With someone honorable."

   "Jack's honorable."

  His jaw moved, then the man said, "From what I've seen of him. But
Pepys is not, and a Knight has to be the emperor's man. Come with me."

  Amber hesitated. Then she said softly, "No. I won't leave him. But you
needn't worry… no one will find out from me where you've gone."

   Denaro stood poised one second longer as if arguing with himself, but his
lips clamped tightly on the words he might have said, and he ducked out of
the locker room, leaving Amber alone with the words she might have said.

  She stood alone with the echo of receding footsteps and wondered if,
when Jack came home, he would come home to her.

   Or would he really be coming home to his obsession with the armor and
his fight against the Thraks?

   Since the day of his speech to the Dominion Congress, her loneliness had
been incalculable. It was as though a ten-meter metal plate had dropped
between them. She had finally moved out of his bed, into the second
bedroom in the apartment, and he had not even noticed.

  Or worse, if he had, he had not objected.

    "Ah, damn," she whispered, and the strangled sound of her own voice
startled her. What was she lacking? What was it that she couldn't give Jack?
If she could only find out.

   She hung her helmet on its hook, thinking that it looked more than ever
like a disembodied head, and began to strip her armor from her body.



  "Red Wing down! My god, they're all gone."

  "Pull yourself together, Garner."

  "Jack! They're gone!"

    "I've registered the hit, mister. Now pull your team together and get out
of there." Jack moved his chin and took a sip of water that did little to ease
the ache of loss he felt. The Thraks were getting used to fighting them again.
They were taking a terrible toll.

   He moved forward, tall buildings blocking his soundings and his
readings on the target grids. Broken concrete and twisted beams prevented
him from getting a fix on either his men or his enemy. Tile and fallen brick
obscured doorways. Window shards lay scattered on the ground, sliver
sharp and jewel bright.

   This had been a city once, before Thrakian bombardment reduced it to
rubble. Jack moved through it and tried to keep the devastation from
moving him to despair.

   Bone shards were almost as prevalent as glass shards. Evacuation had
come too late for some. Ruins of transports and hovercars lay on their sides,
gutted with fire, lanced with skeletal remains. He was all right as long as he
did not remember they had been human. The countryside was scarred even
worse: the Thraks had spent days knocking out the power systems and the
shields. Days before the Knights could get here. Days and nights of
aggression against a planet unprepared for the act of war. He did not look
down as he strode through an alleyway, his mikes echoing the sound of his
own steps back at him.

   His gauntlets tingled at his wrists, reminding him they were powered up.
Jack halted just before the intersection with the main tube. He had a hunch
the Thraks that had taken out Red Wing were now realigned out there,
waiting to ambush Blue Wing.

   He looked at his mapping grid. "Fostermeier, Blue Wing, count off, with
street positions."

   "Yes, sir, approaching corner of Tenth and Galway."

   "Garner, angling up eighth toward Galway."

   “Peaches here, in the alleyway intersecting Mendoza."

   "It's Aaron, sir, and I'm scaling a foundation… I think I'm near First
Street."

   And on down the line, as they all approached Galway.

   He called it a hunch. Amber would call it intuition and curse him if he
paid no attention to it.

   "Don't enter the tube. I think we'll run a little interference first. Back off."

   "What is it, commander?"

  "I think they're in the subway junction under the Galway Main tube.
Thraks like to go underground."

   Jack felt the rightness of it the moment he said it. Yes, of course, the
subway system! Like home to the Thraks. The moment Blue Wing entered
the main street, they would boil up out of the subway entrances just like
they boiled up out of sand.

   The question was, what was he going to do about it?

   Static buzzed in his ear. A faint transmission fed in. "Commander Storm,
this is Gold Wing."

   "Who's that? Where's Captain Bosk?"

   "He's down, sir."

   "Dead?"
  "Well… he wasn't, sir, but the dead man circuit got him when they pulled
him out of his armor."

   They wanted armor. And they wanted it badly. That confirmed Jack's
fears. No longer would the Thrakian attitude of natural superiority be on
Jack's side. The Thraks were going to find out all they could about the
enemy they were facing.

   "Commander?"

   The young voice pulled his attention back. "Who is this, mister?"

  "Lieutenant Vega, sir. We're on the outside of the city, near the open
country. I remembered the lectures you gave, sir. There's sand around here
somewhere, there's grit in the wind."

   Already. Jack made up his mind. "Hold on, Vega. We'll be backing you
up just as soon as we can pull out of here." He toggled onto his main
frequency. "Fostermeier, I want a river of flame down there."

   "What?"

   "Fossil fuel, whatever you can find. Or, a volunteer with all the grenades
he can handle."

   "That's a death sentence, commander."

  Jack felt the sweat trickling down his back. "Not necessarily, sergeant. I'll
do it myself, if I have to."

   Aaron came in over the com. "Ah… commander? I'm presently standing
on the first floor of what appears to be a brewery. The storage tanks are still
intact."

   Alcohol? Not a very hot burn, and difficult to start, but their lasers ought
to be up to it and it was better than nothing. "Garner, get over there and
help him. Peaches, you, too. I want to funnel it down in flames. The rest of
you men, home in on me. We're going to be decoys. And Fostermeier, if
anything happens, I want you to take the rest of Blue Wing out to Vega's
position. Where there's sand, there's the main infestation. It'll have to be
taken out. All right, let's go. We're on a timetable for the construction crew
drop. I want those shields back up before they can bring their mother ships
down!"

  They formed a wedge. They marched, the shocks from their armored
boots vibrating through the asphalt and pavement. Jack smiled grimly. He
knew that the Thraks knew they were on their way.

   He only hoped they couldn't count that well.

   Garner came on. "We're set here. Shit, Jack. This stuff is 120 proof… but
we can pour it right on top of ‘em. We've stopped the storm drains, the
street will be full in a second."

   "Then it'll burn well. We're almost in position. On my mark… now." Jack
right-angled, making his way toward the brewery.

    A fighter streaked overhead, leaving a sonic boom in its wake. Jack
craned his neck back, helmet cameras catching its blurry image. At the edge
of the city, explosions erupted, and he could see a dark cloud of smoke and
glowing ash rise crimson against the destruction.

   "We've got no time left, they're bringing in the big guns."

   "It's on the way," Fostermeir said.

   Jack strode out onto Galway. Two degrees to his left, he could see the
cavernous mouth of the subway stairs. He was in a concrete canyon, with
nowhere to run if his tactic failed.

   Amber liquid washed past him, curling about his boots, and swirling on
down the street, blue alcohol flames nearly invisible. It spilled down into the
subway, where it burned hotter and he could see the gout of flames turn
orange and roar back up from the mouth of the underworld. Thraks filled
the stairway. Jack braced himself and began to shoot, cutting them down as
they attempted to hurdle the wall of blue and orange flame.

   Something slapped at the armor. He staggered back.

  *Boss, they're using projectiles. I suggest we not make a target of
ourselves!*

  Beside Jack, Fostermeier blossomed. He dropped, visor down, into the
dwindling river of fire.
   With an angry whine, something slapped at Jack's armor again. He felt
the pinch of crimped Flexalinks along his upper arm. "Sergeant!"

  *He's gone, Boss.*

   Jack hit the power vault, clearing the NCO's still form easily. The alcohol
flames, quickly spent, guttered out. He scanned his screen, saw another two
of his men down in the street. A field pack lay burst open between them.

   With two strides, he reached them. Jack plucked out three grenades. He
turned and headed for the subway entrance.

  *I don't think I'm going to like this* said Bogie.

    "I think you're right," Jack answered. "Garner! Head for the outskirts,
now, and that's an order! Home in on Vega and go for the nest." He keyed
the start sequence on the grenade and, even as he walked into the field of
fire, he wondered when Bogie had gotten a sense of self-preservation.

  Something slapped him high in the left shoulder, hard enough to pivot
him around on his boot heel and leave him staggered. He righted himself
and keyed the second grenade, then lobbed them both.

   Smells flooded the suit as if he'd cracked his helmet, yet he hadn't.
Sounds followed—an ear-filling chittering of Thrakian alarm. A wall of
Thraks reared in front of him as Jack punched in the last code. He rolled the
grenade across their front, hit the power vault, and was in the air and behind
them when the shock wave hit.

  He could smell the explosion. The scorched chitin. The hot ash. As he hit
and landed, a racking pain skewered his left shoulder.

  "Damn," he said. "I'm hit."

  *No kidding, boss. You're leaking.*

   Projectiles. The norcite coating on his armor had taken him farther than
Fostermeier and his other two men, but he wasn't completely invincible.
Jack got to his knees and then stood up. The constrictions of the armor
prevented him from surveying the exterior damage.

    From the inside, it felt gooey. He started to look down and thought better
of it.
   "Get a patch on it, Bogie, and let's get out of here."

   The chamois which always lay along his back and neck, edged over to his
shoulder. Jack felt a gentle warmth begin to drive away the icy pain. He
turned and panned the street. It was empty.

   He broke into a jog, the battle suit eating up the distance. The throb in
his shoulder kept time with the jolt of his boots.

   He wasn't going to go unless he could take the nest with him.



  Bogie settled gingerly over the torn flesh. He was cold, always cold now,
and the power reserves of Jack's armor no longer fed him the energy he
needed to maintain a status quo, let alone to regenerate.

   Blood welled up around him, soaking naturally into the porous nature of
the chamois. Bogie refocused from the battle they fought to his own inward
nature.

   He tasted life. He knew the flavor. It sang in him, gave him heart.

   He knew that Jack was dying, even as he sensed that he had begun to
live again, for the first time in long, cold months.

  It was the blood. The crimson fountaining up from the damaged flesh. It
had to be.

   He stemmed the life flow. He dared not taste it again.

   He dared not.

   Jack's pulse thundered in his senses. He could heal Jack somewhat, set
the edge of puckered flesh next to the edge of puckered flesh and begin the
healing. Clot the bleeding, scab the wound.

   And he could carry Jack to safety within the shell of the battle armor, if
there was safety to be found anywhere on this planet.

   Or he could touch life himself and grow again.

   His soul trembled.

   The chamois quivered. Tiny cilia erupted. Hairlike. Feather light.
Questing for the life font it desired. No, craving was not strong enough! In
every particle of his newly reforming body, Bogie had to have what he had
tasted.

   Bogie pulled back from the wound, not trusting himself. Jack neither
knew nor cared as he cried out hoarsely, "I have the sand targeted. All
Teams, all Wings, home in on me, we're going in!" even as he staggered
forward.

  Jack's destiny was moot, Bogie decided. He let the cilia creep forward in
quest of whatever life might be left.




                                Chapter 21
                                                                       «^»
Amber woke screaming, her voice clawing its way out of her throat, her bed
covers thrashed and wet with sweat—or was it tears?—about her. She
shivered into silence, her throat as lacerated with her terror as if she'd tried
to swallow a power blade. Her chest heaved for air, and then she knew.
   "Oh, god. It's Jack!"

  She threw aside the covers and, in pitch darkness, stumbled out of the
bed. There was no time, no time to waste at all. She opened the com lines to
Colin and prayed for a speedy answer.

   It was the middle of the night, but the Walker prelate answered on the
second ring. She recognized his meditation chamber surrounding him. His
eyes were tired, he was still fully dressed, and she realized he'd been
working late.

   "Amber. What is it?"

    "It's Jack. I know it is. Oh, god," she got out, before a paroxysm of fear
stilled her.

   "Where is he?"

   "I don't know! Fighting somewhere. But I think he's dying… or dead."
   St. Colin closed his eyes briefly, as if in remorse, then looked back at her
through the screen. "He's a soldier, dear heart. He knew the risks."

   "He can't! It's not his time yet. Not without me. He can't!"

   "What do you expect me to do?"

    And in that moment, hope seized her nearly as keenly as the fear had.
He had not said, there's nothing I can do. He'd asked, what do you expect me
to do, as if he could do something. With one hand, she swept her disheveled
hair back from her face.

   "What can you do?"

   He winced. "A prayer, perhaps?"

   "I'm not religious.

   For a long moment, he closed his eyes again, before looking deeply into
hers. His deep sable eyes were pensive. "I'm helpless, Amber. If I were with
him, perhaps… but he's far beyond my limited capabilities."

   "I can help."

   "You'd have to be with me. Do we have much time?"

   She snatched at the remnants of her dream. "I don't know—but it's better
than nothing. You stay—I'll get there."



   Colin keyed off as she broke the connection and his screen went dark. He
sat back in his chair. He'd been up most of the night in his meditation
chamber, not worrying, barely thinking, merely attuned to the elements of
the room. Renewing himself. Perhaps even readying himself. When the
natural time for sleep came, he had used a light trance instead, waking when
Amber called. Did I know? he asked himself. There were those Walkers who
would insist he had… the ones who called him saint. But there were others
who would disagree, the same Walkers who would have felt that Denaro
had defected. He knew there might be trouble at any moment, precipitated
by the militant's actions. It was only logical to stay alert.

   And there were a precious few who would say, what happened,
happened. Why question it? Simply accept it as you find it.

   Colin rubbed his temples, thinking that he preferred to side with the last
group. He knew he had erred in speaking with Amber. A deliberate or an
unconscious error? Was it recognition of some unvoiced feeling that if he
could save any friend he had, he would save Jack? Perhaps. What was done,
was done. He slipped back into his trance and it seemed like a matter of
moments before a sleepy, rumpled Jonathan was escorting Amber into the
chamber.

    Her very presence resonated in the chamber. She wore her Bythian
caftan and had tied her tawny hair back in a knot, but tendrils of it had
escaped to frame the tense lines of her face. She barely waited until Jonathan
left, then she crossed the room and grabbed his hands. Her fingers were
chill.

  "He's still there," she said, and her voice was husky. "But I'm losing him."

  He made her sit beside him, and then he said, "You think I've promised
more than I have."

   Amber looked closely at him. "I think you have promised all that you can
do."

  He knew she had caught him. He was silent for a long moment. "Very
well," he said. "Do you know why I am called a saint?"

   "I looked you up once," she answered, with a mischievous grin that was
far more like the old Amber he knew than this worried young woman who
sat next to him. "You were rumored to have raised the dead."

  "No rumor," he said, feeling uncomfortable. "But he'd just died in my
arms. Doctors do it all the time."

  "But you were at a Walker outpost."

   "Yes. Relatively primitive conditions, and don't ask me how I did it
because I don't know. I just know that, suddenly, I was filled with this
outrage that he should have died, and I was determined that he shouldn't
suffer the indignity of his broken body… he'd been in a cave-in, trying to
reach a group of school children who'd gone in to see some artifacts just as a
minor quake hit. They were frightened but safe, the area they were in had
been shored up well. He was killed in an after-shock. I was very young
then. I was angry that someone so good should have died so horribly." Colin
looked away from her then, filled with the memory. "I remember holding
him very tightly as I prepared the body for his widow to see. The
esophagus had been packed with dirt. I cleaned him out, straightened
broken limbs, and washed him. Then the outrage hit and I held him tightly
one last time, thinking—and I've never told anyone this—thinking how
pissed off I was at God that it had happened."

  "And then he began to breathe in my embrace."

  Colin took a deep breath himself and turned back to Amber. He had not
quite told her all of it, but some things were between himself and his God.

  "And so that's why they call you a saint."

   "I presume so. It cannot be for holding my temper in check. Amber, I
cannot guarantee it would ever happen again. It would be a mockery to do
so. God heals, not I. I can't guarantee God's manifestations."

   She pushed the silken sleeves of her caftan up in determination. The light
blue tracing of her tattoos seemed alight. "Maybe not. Now tell me what
happened to Rawlins."

  His jaw fell. "What do you mean?"

   "What do I mean? What do you think I mean? The two of you walk into
an ambush at the Thrakian embassy and the two of you walk out alive? The
only thing wrong with you was broken ribs. I knew something had to have
happened to Rawlins. He was in a daze for a month, and now he follows
you around as though you had a psychic leash on him. We all have our
histories on Bythia. I simply couldn't figure out what yours was."

  Colin shook his head. "He took a chest shot meant for me. I healed him.
He… was not dead."

  "But dying."

   "Perhaps." He felt very old, suddenly. "Amber, I'm not the man you took
adventuring to Lasertown. I'm not even the man who went to Bythia. It… it
takes a toll, perhaps one I can't begin to pay any more."
   “That’s why I’m here. Please. You’ve got to help me try. Together.”

   Colin looked at her. Night pressed in about the room, even though there
were no windows. He could feel its presence, very close. Her heat warmed
his right side, but nothing could keep the iciness of a soul at ebb tide from
his left. "All right," he said quietly. "Take my hands and see if you can find
your way to him."



    Amber took the older man's hands in hers. She could feel the age in his
skin. Wrinkled. Not elastic like hers, springing back after each touch. And
the pads of his hands were callused and broad, like a man who had worked
with them each and every day of his life. She wondered at that even as she
felt the tiny drum of his pulse under her fingers. Anchored by his
steadiness, his age, and his wisdom, she flung herself into the void in search
of Jack.

    She expected cold. She received nothingness, a stretching of herself until
she felt vast and incredibly transparent, a sprinkling of mortal dust that the
first solar wind could scatter irretrievably. She had to make the effort to pull
herself together before she mingled forever with the infinite possibilities of
the universes she encountered. She was a kite, soaring, and Colin was the
flier, far behind her, yet connected by a tenuous string of simply being.

   Her perception of herself and Colin was so altered from what she'd
expected, that she had no idea of how to look for Jack. Would he be dust
also? Or a rock, like Colin?

   No, she thought. She remembered him from her first impressions, locked
in his white armor, hot with vengeance. He was a sun. She knew that and
went in search of a planetary flame that burned as brightly as any solar disk.

   Condensing herself, she trailed across worlds in a track that had no
signposts, no maps, no indication of where she had been or where she was
going. She found a flame or two, tasted them—not Jack… not even human.
She flew onward.

   There was a tug at her string. She looked back and saw Colin's anchoring
of her self grow a little weaker. Time had no meaning. How long? she
thought. And then, how far? He reeled her in until she hovered, not in her
body but close enough to see out her eyes and once more feel the touch of
flesh upon flesh. Her ears were filled with song, a thousand notes and
vibrations, some discordant, most melodious.

  "Here," Colin was saying, and his voice was so thin, so far away, she
could barely catch the sense of it. "Amber, can you hear me?"

  Her lips opened. "Yeeesss," she whispered.

   "Jonathan's located the current campaign. Star maps will do you no good,
but I have something. This was made for me by a Walker congregation
from Oceana. Use it to home in on."

   He pressed something into the palm of her hand. Her impression of
touching it was double-layered: the faint, gritty impression of rock and cloth
upon her palm, and a closer, much more intent impression upon her
ethereal body. She grasped it and flung herself away again, this time with a
lodestone for her direction.

   To that, she added pain, for, previously, she had forgotten to look for
war, and although every planet she touched echoed with strife, she looked
for immolation.

   She reached a world and slowed, uncertain, felt a gigantic brush of
another body past hers, and saw, was seared by, the impression of an
immense warship coming to, turrets swinging around, and the planet below
trembling under the blast it received.

  She quailed from the uprush of death and pain and fear, alien though it
was, for the planet being destroyed was not inhabited by humans. She
heard their cries in her mind and tumbled away, letting the backlash of the
weaponry sweep her away.

   Quiet hovered behind her. The warship thundered out of orbit and left,
the planet wrapped in an aura of radiation. Amber held her lower lip
between her teeth as she took one last look back, over her shoulder.

   Sand, she thought. A sand planet but sand no more. Its atmosphere
rippled in a prism of color.

  She had no time to wonder. The lodestone in her hand jerked to the right,
and she soared, and found another solar system.
    The white flame she sought guttered low. Fear coalesced in Amber's
ethereal body as she drew near, and found a physical world, torn by battery
placements and shelling and laser fire—all scars that would heal quickly,
unlike the world she'd seen irradiated. Below her stretched a cityscape, half
in ruins, flames licking at it, gray pavement streaked with crimson. Beyond
it, she saw countryside, its green trampled, ground broken, trees snapped
and flung aside. Men in armor ranged it, moving quickly. She saw the sand
waiting on the horizon, sand and the abhorrent touch of Thraks.

   Drawing in upon herself, she swooped down, no longer having to search
for Jack. She was air and he was fire, and he sucked her in as though she
existed only to fuel him. Her last gasp was to reach for Colin.



    Colin felt the sharp jerk on his soul. It nauseated and frightened him
because it felt as if something was trying to suck him out like a raw egg from
its shell. Amber's chill hands convulsed within his, and then he was gone,
his mind ripped out of his body, and he found himself confronting…

   It was not death. He knew death. It was Jack and something different,
something primitive and feral, something desperate to do anything to
maintain its life… yet something with an ultimate form that shimmered on
the edge of Colin's senses like a golden curtain of intelligence and
benevolence. He was reminded of an embryo's selfishness in its mother's
womb, launched toward a life it could not possibly comprehend yet.

  Amber enveloped him. Can you help? Dear god, hurry, I’m losing it…

    Colin sensed Jack's wound, but the second presence fended him off,
would not let him near, and, worse, this thing knew and understood the
plane they inhabited, the spiritual self. It could and would destroy Colin on
this plane. He approached again, and was rebuffed so solidly it made him
gasp and pant in his physical form and his senses whirled, torn between
what he experienced in his two selves. He was fading from Amber's grasp.
All he could do was offer the second presence a glimpse of the life awaiting
it, before their contact exploded and he and Amber were flung across the
galaxies.
                                  Chapter 22
                                                                          «^»
Jack staggered and went to one knee, jarring himself inside the armor. A
lead broke loose from where it was clipped to his torso, and he swore. But
the sharp pain did some good. It broke the lethargy riding him. His
shoulder sent a jag of agony throughout his body, broke sweat out on his
forehead, and raised bile to the back of his throat. He righted himself. He
listened for Bogie to goad him onward, but the sentience was
uncharacteristically silent.
   Around him, return fire kept him pinned down. He checked his target
grids, uneasily aware that he'd been about to walk right into a crossfire and
wondering what his mind could have been on. That's when he knew just
how badly he'd been tagged. He was losing it…

   "Jay-sus, commander, you've been hit!" Garner hit the dirt field next to
him, ducking his helmet behind a barrier of mud and rock thrown up by the
earlier pounding the installation had taken.

   "How close are we to getting in?"

   Garner's helmet swung to face him. Through the sun-screened visor, Jack
had difficulty seeing if there was humanity within. But Garner's voice held a
trace of his fierce, biting humor.

   "You and me and Aaron, and three or four well-placed grenades should
do it. They'll be facing a fatal distraction… if you can do it."

    "Don't worry about me." Carefully, Jack reached around to unsling his
field pack. He left it and the laser rifle within it lying at his feet as he stood,
keeping the outcropping between him and the main nest.

   "Commander—"

   "No more weight than necessary," Jack said. "Take what you need and
leave the rest. If this works, there won't be enough left of the Thraks to
matter. If it doesn't… the team coming up behind us can use it. Where's
Aaron?"
   "He hit the dust over there." Garner pointed. Armor could be seen lying
amongst charred and broken ground, grass clumps still attempting to wave
feebly despite damage and trampling, like a forlorn banner.

   Aaron's young voice came in faintly over the com. "—Com trouble, but
I'm ready when you are—"

   "Ready." Jack keyed his grenades. "On your feet. I want to see if you
guys are good enough in armor to keep up with me." He surged out of
hiding and charged the Thrakian battlement.



    Bogie felt the renewed heat of Jack's blood. He lay against Jack's skin,
listening to the thunder of his pulse as the man launched himself against the
enemy.

   And within the armor, Bogie fought another war. He felt the touch of
something he could not identify, something…celestial. It offered him so
much more than mere life. It gave him a view of the being he might grow to
be out of the baseness he was now.

   But not a being sprung out of blood.

   No.

   And as Jack threw himself at the nest, laser fire rippling off his armor,
Bogie drew back his cilia, denying himself. He did not have the strength to
heal Jack the way he once could have. Instead, he worked at stemming the
flow by blocking here and here… doing what he could to make sure the
man who nurtured him might live.

  But there was no way either of them could block the barrage from the
remaining Thraks.



   Jack flung his grenades, hit the power vault and somersaulted in midair,
away from the resulting explosions. The burst flung him, as he'd intended,
out of the line of return fire. He heard Garner yell and Aaron bite off a curse
that sounded much too vehement for his youth. Then the mikes went dead,
overloaded by the following blasts. He landed, and a shock wave tumbled
him over. Garner landed well. A laser blast blossomed in the middle of his
chest plate. Crimson and ebony blocked out his rank insignia and Garner
crumpled slowly.

   Sound bled back in. Jack stood. He heard the ricochet whine even as the
projectile slapped him again and he felt the pain tear through his right
thigh. Damn, he thought, as he went to one knee, and twisted around. I'm
never going to get out of here in one piece!

   Then, all was was silent… except for a piercing screech that became
louder and louder. He looked up and panned the darkening sky. A Needier
whipped in overhead, lower and lower. He saw the canopies hitting the air
below it.

  The shield crew.

  Jack withdrew his right hand very slowly from his gauntlet and sleeve
and wiped his face. His skin was clammy.

   Static crackled. "Thank you, Commander Storm. All clear now, shield
crews dropping. Stand by for pickup. Acknowledge."

   Jack cleared his throat, his thoughts still fuzzy. "This is Commander
Storm. Please repeat."

   A laugh. "What's the matter, Jack? That last salvo scramble your brains?
There's nothing moving down there but Dominion armor. Get your shit
together and make the rendezvous point. I understand there's a few of you
guys need the doctor."

   Jack blinked. He realized then that the dancing lightning of laser fire had
ceased around him. He pulled Garner to his feet. The man came up, air
burbling in his chest. Jack assessed the damage. He reached into the armor
and made Garner place his own hand over the wound to staunch it. It wasn't
sucking air, so the man just might make it. Jack felt a surge of fierce joy as
Aaron helped him brace Garner from the other side. Once more they'd
beaten the Thraks at their game. He heard the Needlers screaming
overhead. "Let's go home."
                                Chapter 23
                                                                    «^»
                                   Interloper
The warship swept in before the tertiary alarms even had a chance to go off
and the factories had no time to download for red alert. Young Brant stood
at the con tower, unable to believe his comp readouts.
  "It can't be in under the shields."

  "Affirmative. Unidentified aggressor, bearing six-zero-niner—"

  "Shit," he muttered and hit the manual alarms.

   Later, the records would show he was a full thirteen minutes ahead of the
tertiary system.

   Brant then opened the general com lines. The armory factories could
blow half the planet up if they went, and there was no doubt in his mind
that the incoming wasn't friendly. As he opened the lines, he said to the
computer, "I want a Thrakian ID."

   "Negative," the comp replied smoothly. "The unknown is not Thrakian
according to data bank."

  "It has to be!" Brant stood on one leg and then the other. "Answer the
com, dammit! Answer me!"

   A low thunder began to rumble. His fair blond hair stood on end. The
tower vibrated.

  "ETA fourteen minutes," the comp said. "Air to land missile approach."

   "What?" Brant's voice went up half an octave. "Oh, shit, oh, shit! Answer
the com!"

  A light came on, but the screen stayed dark. "Good afternoon, this is
Washburn Industries. If you wish to talk to personnel, key 1. If you wish
payables, key 2. If you wish—"

  Brant screamed into the receiver, "We're under fire! Emergency!"

  Then he ran for the underground silos. Behind him in the tower, the
comp said smoothly, "ETA seven minutes."

   And another comp replied, "If you wish to talk to customer service, key
5. Thank you for calling Washburn Industries."

   Brant erred. The unidentified assailant did not take out half the planet.
But the predominant continent in the northern hemisphere suffered severe
casualties. Washburn Industries, along with two grenade factories and
Beretta Laser Rifles, were pulverized.

   Even the underground silos.

  Only the "black box" remained intact to tell the story after the first
impact.




                                Chapter 24
                                                                      «^»
You can let me walk across the quad. I'm not going to break in two,
goddammit."
  Amber said scornfully, "An overnight at the hospital and you think
you're healed. If you don't behave yourself, you'll be sleeping in the quad.
Colin, talk some sense into him!"

   The Walker stood, Jack's arm draped about his shoulder, looking as
though he was bolstering the man's weight while Amber wrestled to set up
a four-wheeled cart. The early morning breeze ruffled Colin's light fringe of
hair and he took a deep breath. Malthen might actually have rain today, he
thought as he inhaled. He no more supported Jack than Amber did at the
moment and the two men exchanged a glance.

   Face pink, Amber straightened. "There. You sit. Or you go the hard way,
facedown on a gurney."

  Jack made as if to shrug, then winced and thought better of it. He sat
down in the small cart and adjusted the handlebars to a comfortable reach.
He started the cart. Colin and Amber did not find it difficult to match its
pace as he drove across the palace grounds.

   "You know," Jack said, "the medics didn't say this was necessary."

  "The medics," Amber retorted. "The same medics who also released
Garner this morning? Just before he collapsed?"

   "That's different. Garner spent the trip back in a cryo tank. They thought
he'd healed more."

   Amber stretched her long legs and strode out in front of the cart, bringing
Jack to an abrupt halt. She looked down at him. "I hear one more complaint
out of you, and I'm going to tell Pepys and Baadluster you're out early, and
you can spend the day with them."

   "Now that," Colin observed, "is a potent threat."

   Jack smiled wryly. He held his hand up. "I surrender."

   "Good. Now point that thing in the right direction and get going."

   Colin caught up with Amber. In a voice pitched so that Jack could not
hear it over the hum of the cart's motor, he offered, "You shouldn't be so
hard on him."

   Her nose was pinched white, belying her attempt to smile. "I know," she
answered. "But when a miracle can't even save him… when you know
there's nothing you can do, that you're absolutely helpless…" She stopped at
the edge of grass that was brown and brittle, as desperate in its need as she
was in hers. "I've just got to knock some sense in that thick farmer's skull of
his. I know what it's like inside that suit… you think you're unstoppable.
Well, he's not. And the sooner he realizes it, the more chance I've got that
he's going to keep coming back to me."

   Colin took her words in with a deep sigh. He reached out and took her
hand, pulling her along with him as he hurried to catch up. "That's why, my
dear, so many of us believe in God." At the outside walk to the officers'
apartments, he took his hand from hers and gave her a chaste kiss on her
cheek. "I'm going no farther. This is a sensitive area at best, and I want no
more friction with Pepys than necessary."

   Amber threw a look over her shoulder to make sure Jack was waiting for
her before he stood up. She looked back. "Have you heard from Denaro?"

   The old man smiled. "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it? I'll talk to
you two in a day or so." He gave a graceful half-bow, then turned and left
them.

  Amber helped Jack stand. If he noticed her new strength and firmness of
muscle, he said nothing. What he did say was, "Where's Bogie?"

    "In the shop. There was a lot of damage, Jack. I went in yesterday after I
left you. But he's okay. Just, I don't know. Different."

   Jack paused, leaning his weight on her shoulder, his warm breath grazing
her face as he talked. "I think he's dying. I can't give him what he needs to
grow anymore."

   "Jack!"

  "I don't know what to do. We could turn him over to one of the
university labs, I guess."

   "We couldn't! He'd die anyway without us. And what lab could you
trust?"

   Jack's silence confirmed her fears. She shouldered his weight a little
better. "Come on. Let's not stand out here and talk about it." With her free
hand, she checked the security seals. All were intact.

   He made himself smile. "You just want to get me in bed."

   "Keep thinking positively," she shot back, and palmed the door open. He
found it necessary to lean on her more than he'd thought as his newly
healed thigh and shoulder weakened on him. Inside the apartment, he took
a few short breaths to quell the pain and dizziness as Amber left him long
enough to lock the door. She left all the shades down and the lights off and
he blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

  "Can you make it, to a chair?" She thumbed at an unresponsive light
switch. "Damn light sensor's broken."

   A third voice caught them in the dimness. "Don't bother, Amber. I can
see just fine."
   When Amber had pulled the shades, Jack could see the golden mesh
ocular piece glinting at them. The rest of the face had changed… harsh
angular lines biting into heavy jowls. The tousled black curls were going a
dirty gray. The intruder rested a handgun on his thigh lightly, its red charge
button shining at them. But Jake knew the man well. Long ago deserter and
underworld scoundrel, Ballard.

  He clenched his fist even as he fought to stay upright, solid, menacing.
"How did you get in here?"

   Ballard glanced at Amber. "She knows we have our ways. She bought
jammers a few months ago. Simple enough for me to slip in a microchip that
made your home easy for me to unlock. Thought I might need it." He held
up a thick hand. "Before you tear me apart, Storm, let me say that I had
nothing to do with what happened last year."

    Jack had little reason to believe him. "The terrorists carried an unusual
calling card. Your prosthetic eye." Sour memories of threats and beatings
filled his throat.

   Ballard made a noise, half scorn and half as if painful remembrance.
"That bastard Winton set them up. Me, too. He tore my eye out, then sent
me on my way." He smiled without any warmth. "I didn't think I'd be able
to get another one put in. But Winton also paid me well. I found a good
surgeon this time. I hid out until I heard you'd killed him on Bythia."
Ballard shifted in the chair.

   "What made you crawl out from under the rocks this time?"

   "The war." Ballard waggled the gun. "I was taking libation in a bar,
looked up, and there you were in Congress. You did us proud, Jack. I was
the first to call you what you are, the last remaining true Knight. I want you
to remember that. I want you to know that I knew who you were, and even
with my eye gone, I didn't tell Winton. He had his suspicions, but he never
had the truth from me."

   Jack shook his head. "You deserted and took your armor with you. Don't
be proud of yourself now."

   Ballard hawked deep in his throat, turned his head slightly and spat on
the rug to his right. "Listen, hero. If it weren't for scum like me and Amber,
you wouldn't have survived two weeks in Malthen."

   Jack moved then. He launched himself across the room so quickly that
Ballard could not react, wrapped his fist in the front of the intruder's short
jacket and shook him as if he were not even human. The gun fell to the floor
and Amber snatched it up.

  Ballard's teeth rattled. He blurted out, before Jack could say a word, "I'm
wrong there. Amber's not scum, never has been. Dammit, man, let me go. I
came here to help you."

   Jack staggered back on his heels as he gave Ballard one last shake and
dropped him.

   The chair cracked as it took the man's weight and Ballard sat, panting. He
brushed a limp curl off his gold screen eye.

  "Say what it is and get out."

  "All right. Amber—" the man's good eye flickered visibly toward her.

  "She can take care of herself."

    Ballard shrugged. "It's not good, Jack, getting her involved. All right."
Gingerly, he reached inside his short jacket. "I brought you something." He
flipped the recording disk in the air and Jack caught it.

  "What's this?"

   "This, my Knight, is something you should know about. Rumor has it
that the new Minister of War makes Winton look like a saint. There are
more things in heaven than you or I can dream about," and Ballard smiled
crookedly. "Thank me for it later. If you need a witness, let me know."
Ignoring Amber, he got to his feet and lumbered toward the door.

   Amber trained the gun muzzle on him. Her finger began to tighten on
the trigger sensor. But Jack waved. "Let him go."

   She gave Ballard a poisonous look as he reached the portal. "Don't ever
confuse me with yourself again."

   Ballard paused, a massive wreck of a man. He reached out and chucked
her under the chin. "No. I won't make that mistake again. I owe you a
sincere apology, little one." His gaze flicked over Jack once, quickly, then
back to her. "Let's just say that a small and jealous man can make bitter
remarks." Amber wavered uncertainly and he took the opportunity to leave.

   Jack held the recording in his palm. "Let's see what the hell this is."



  The recording faded into silence. Amber looked up from her kneeling
position on the floor. "What's going on?"

   Jack stayed in the broken armchair. It had gone lopsided after he'd
dropped Ballard's mass into it. He drummed the padded arm beneath his
hand. Three fingers and a thumb, drumming, a discordant noise. "It means
that whoever it was got in under the primary and secondary alarm systems
and past the shields. The computer had to have been right: they couldn't
have been Thrakian. It took week's worth of pounding to break the shields
on Oceana before they got to go dirtside. No one I know has the technology
to circumvent shielding as if it wasn't there." The face of the war was
changing before his very eyes.

   "Then why weren't you told?" Amber countered.

   "I don't know. It could be they don't trust me since Denaro defected. I
could kill Colin for getting me involved in that." He stopped drumming his
fingers and, instead, rubbed his thigh as if the deep gnawing pain he still felt
from the wound could be eased that way. "It sounds to me like the same
outfit that got Opus."

   Her golden-brown eyes widened. "Them?"

   "I think so. Don't get me wrong—it could be freebooters, there's none of
them above a little looting during wartime, when the majority of the fleet is
distracted elsewhere—but there's no one, no one, with that kind of
technology yet." He stood, still a little wobbly, and made an effort to hold
himself tall. "I think that we're facing brand new players, and we can't begin
to know the rules or stakes until we know who or what they are. Ballard
says he can get me witnesses. Contact him. I want to meet with them. I
don't think there's a way in hell we can trust Pepys or Baadluster to tell us
the truth if they even know it."
                               Chapter 25
                                                                    «^»
Pepys looked at the report. "Another one," he said, wearily, and rubbed his
eyes. They had lost their emerald brilliance from fatigue. His freckled face
was puffy.
   Baadluster stood at the window, looking out to where a light rain
attempted to clean Malthen's air, water its greenery, and purge its
technology. He held his hands clasped loosely behind his back and, perhaps
intentionally, perhaps not, his voice sounded a little smug as he answered
the emperor. "No one else has seen this yet, not even the Dominion Security
Council. If you wish me to arrange it so… no one will."

   Pepys looked over a copy of the transmission one more time. Then he
said, "What about Washburn?"

    "We may have to take him out to keep him quiet. That was his son
making the recording." Reluctantly, Baadluster turned away from the sight
of the rain.

   One carrot-colored eyebrow arched. "Surely someone would notice the
absence of four major defense industries."

  "Accidents happen. We could release news of a Thrakian strafing."

  "On a shielded world?"

   "A traitor let down the forcefields," Baadluster said blandly. "Washburn
or his son. It would not matter, to the dead." He turned back and missed
Pepys' shudder.

  The emperor took a deep breath. Then he said, "Whatever is quickest
and easiest to arrange. Do it neatly. I want no connections to be made."

    "Don't worry," said Baadluster smoothly. "If anything comes back, it will
lead to the Green Shirts. Now, as to the other matter we spoke of, I believe
it's time to come off the defensive. I think we should look to beating the
Thraks on their own territory."

   "When?"

   "I think we can have the new recruits up to it in two weeks."

   Pepys stood up and stretched his wiry body. "What about the new
recruiting centers?"

   "Up and operational. Commander Storm appears to have a certain
amount of charisma. They're still lining up for enlistment. We'll have all
three centers fully equipped for basic training by the end of the week. Five
thousand more graduates in six months."

   That brought a smile to the emperor's face. He stepped to the window,
deliberately blocking Baadluster's line of sight. It was, after all, his view. "I
never thought I'd see the day the Dominion willingly donated ground to
me, to my troops. I wonder if they'll like the flower that grows from that
seeding!" He laughed. "All right then. We can afford to take the offensive.
What about our new commander? Will he be well enough?"

    Baadluster stood behind the emperor. The man was small enough that
the minister could easily see over his head. He had, in fact, a better
panorama than Pepys did, and he knew it. His too thick lips thinned cruelly.
"If not, he would never admit the weakness. One way or another, he'll
accomplish what we want him to. And if we're lucky, the Thraks will rid us
of him."




                                  Chapter 26
                                                                         «^»
Jack fingered the Flexalinks. He curled a fist and pounded the shoulder
plate, unhappy with the feel of it. It might have just been his imagination,
but he felt the give in it. The weakness. The edges of certain links here and
there retained their crimping in spite of having been pounded out.
   *Good as new, boss.*
   He did not answer Bogie. The armor was not as good as new. Could no
longer be repaired as good as new. And, he knew from previous outings, its
obsolescence impaired his leadership. Leadership, hell, it impaired his very
survival.

   "Ever think of moving, Bogie?"

   *Huh?*

   "Never mind." He dropped his hand. What could he do? "Still cold?"

   The sentience was slow in answering, then, *Yes.*

    He slapped the armor sleeve. "We'll think of something." He turned to
leave. The shop was quiet. It was mid-shift, in the middle of the night, and
he'd left Amber alone in the bed once again to come here. Soon, even in
mid-shift, the shop would be filled as staging began for the operation to
invade the Thrakian League. He approved of Baadluster's decision and that
filled Jack with the faintest of misgivings, but he could not deny himself the
sweetness of a strike at the Thraks. He turned away, and was caught by the
edge of Bogie's thought.

   *What is life?*

  Jack said ironically, "You ask me? Maybe I should haul St. Colin in here
and let you grill him."

    *I am serious, Jack. When you were injured, I… tasted you. I tasted your
life, and it was warm.*

   The sentience had to mean blood, not life. Jack thought of the Milot
berserkers and how they were born into existence. He shuddered. Was
Bogie then, if not an actual berserker, a parasite as he had once feared? Did
he fight the possibility of being first possessed, then consumed, every time
he wore the armor? He fought the revulsion the idea brought to him.
"You're alive, Bogie. You're thinking and aware."

   *Only through you. Take you away from me, and I am nothing.*

   That was what Jack feared most. Did the alien sense the inevitable choice
Jack was being forced to make?

   Jack took up some tools and sat down, helmet in hand, while he worked.
The feeling of having something to do while he talked settled him. Finally,
he said, "That will change when you've grown."

   *I can't grow any more. What will feed me? Blood feeds you. What will
feed me?*

   "Blood isn't the only thing that feeds me. I breathe air. I like the feeling of
sun on my skin. A bottle of good beer and a medium-rare steak now and
then. I need to feel good."

   *You need Amber's love.*

   "That's one of the things."

   Bogie was silent for a long time. Jack finished checking the circuitry he
was working on. He did a minute bit of soldering and cursed when he
burned his fingertip. He ought to let the technicians handle this, he thought
to himself. It's too bad Bogie wasn't a seed. He could just transplant him. Or
a seedling that could be grafted somewhere. He looked up. "Other things
grow differently. A seed takes sunlight and water. Photosynthesis. It grows
that way."

   *Explain.*

   Jack tiredly brushed his hair from his forehead. "I can't explain. Listen.
Feel." He reached out and held the armor's gauntlet and remembered his
family's agra station on Dorman's Stand. The rows of growing things. The
ATH moving down, harvesting, its bulk and its roar. Roots being pulled
from the soil. The smell of dirt and heat.

   There was a lingering moment when Bogie tried to hold onto him even
though Jack was finished and was attempting to pull away.

    With a shuddering sigh, he broke contact, and saw the white-hot rays of
first sun under the shop door. Half the night had gone in what had seemed a
few moments. He stood. His injuries had stiffened and he moved to stretch
them, carefully, mindful of the weeks of healing still to come. The gauntlet
moved after him, curving for a grasp on his arm. Jack paused and let Bogie
touch him, aware of the effort it took the sentience to animate the battle suit.

   *Let me feel the sun again.*
   Jack felt the wash of heat against the shop's garage door. "Feel it
yourself." He braced his good shoulder against the equipment rack and
shoved it across the begrimed concrete flooring, until they were up against
the door. He palmed it open and heard the servos begin to whine.

   As the door rolled up, Jack blinked. The sun, almost too harsh for human
eyes, flooded his senses. He tugged the rack after him and wheeled it
outside.

  *I never realized,* Bogie said. Wonderment tinged his rough tones.

   Jack felt the new day wash over him. Recent rains had cleansed the air
somewhat. No brown tinge hung over the cityscape, cloying the horizon,
and the pink tinge of sunrise had already burned away. It was not as
beautiful as Dorman's Stand, or even as beautiful as Oceana had been,
destroyed though it was.

  But it was, indisputably, alive.

  *What a fool I was,* breathed the alien sentience.

  Beside him, Jack felt the sleeves move as, haltingly, Bogie held his hands
up to the sunlight.



  *This is life.*

   It was not the celestial brilliance that had brushed him when he thought
of bleeding Jack. But it was of the same stuff, and it flooded him, fed him,
warmed him.



   "Sunlight?" Jack said. "But you've been out in the sun—" he stopped
short. What was different? Why did Bogie feel energized now?

  They stood in the wash of the sun's rays. Jack still held the helmet in his
hands. He reached over and screwed it down.

   Almost immediately, Bogie gave a muted cry of frustration. The rending
sound echoed in Jack's mind.

  *Gone!*
    Jack reached over quickly and took the helmet off. He grinned. "Not
gone, Bogie. There's solars in the helmet… their job is to absorb the energy
and channel it into the suit batteries. All you've got to do is learn how to tap
into the circuitry. You've been doing it—I've got power drainage every time
we go out, but what you're getting isn't solar energy. If that's what you
need, there's no reason why you can't bypass the solars. We only need that
if we're on extended field maneuvers. I'll work with you on the rewiring."

   *I can have the light.*

  "All you need. It'll just take a few days. Can you wait that long?" His
answer was a shout of fierce joy.



   Amber waited until the sound of Jack's leaving had faded from the
apartment and his warmth from the blankets before she got up. She would
not sleep much more this night and there was no profit in tossing and
turning. She dressed quickly, pulling on a dark blue jumpsuit and glove-soft
leather boots. She had dreams of her own to pursue in the middle of the
night. Raking a brush through her hair, she tied it back in a love knot and
made a face at herself in the mirror. Soon, very soon, she'd show Jack what
she could do. Then he would sooner leave his right arm behind than leave
her.

   Outside, the courtyards were half-illuminated by the security lights and
she stayed in the shadows, working her way toward the training grounds.
The closer she got, the harder her task got. New recruits swelled the
facilities. Temporary dorms and lockers were being installed and Pepys had
had a hundred acres of abandoned housing razed for a new obstacle course,
just outside the wall of the old grounds.

   Amber paused to catch her breath. The excitement of the deception set
her pulse racing. It was a flaw in her, a fatal flaw, that she would always
have to walk a tightrope, live on the edge, to have this feeling. Even loving
Jack did not give it to her.

   Excitement gave way to poignancy and she was standing there,
hesitating, when a hand gripped her arm.

   "Milady Amber. Out late, are you not?"
  She looked up into the pasty white face of Vandover Baadluster. Her
heart took a fluttering beat, then steadied.

  "When I can't sleep, I walk."

   "Understandable, but not wise," the Minister of War said as he steered
her away from the shadowed outside walls. "The new recruits are many,
and a rowdy bunch. I've been told rape is just as distasteful to a one-man
whore as it is to a virtuous woman. I suggest you not make yourself a
target."

   His words took her breath away. She stood, momentarily speechless,
feeling her nostrils flare in sudden hatred for the man. He sketched a bow.
"Besides," he said, "we suspect sabotage. We've been monitoring activity
and tonight have set a trap for the unwary Knight."

  She kept her expression steady. "Sabotage?"

   "There's been an intruder. He's been discreet and he knows the security
systems well enough to bypass them, but there's no denying there's been
unauthorized activity among the ranks. If we're very lucky, he's just an
industrial spy gathering information on the armor for another
manufacturer."

  "And if you're not lucky?"

   Baadluster pursed his thick lips. "Then we have a traitor on our hands.
Commander Storm's latest reports show the Thraks have regressed to
projectile weapons, a strategy unwarranted unless the enemy has made an
extensive study of the armor."

  A trap set for a traitor. Amber shivered as she realized she might have
walked into it.

  Vandover made a consoling noise at the back of his throat. "You have
nothing to worry about, milady. But one would suggest a return to your
apartment which is, undoubtedly, more secure."

  She tilted her face slightly as she looked up at him. He knew that she
knew that he meant he could not make any recordings off the security
monitors. "Thank you, Minister Baadluster, for your concern."
   "Not at all." He touched her again, a fleeting gesture that stopped her in
her tracks. The harsh dome of light accentuated his homely features even
more, and his dark eyes were like burning embers. "You might reconsider
the offer I made to you earlier. Commander Storm is in an awkward
position, whether he acknowledges it or not. His friendship with St. Colin
borders on treason itself and though we cannot associate him with the
defection of Cadet Denaro, he does himself harm by thinking himself free of
blame."

   "Jack was not even on Malthen when Denaro went AWOL."

   "No. But his induction of Denaro into the Knights borders on collusion.
You are aware, are you not, that St. Colin had been ordered to turn the man
over to Pepys for investigation of suspected treason? That the two of them
instead buried the man as a recruit, knowing the emperor could not at the
time afford the scandal such an investigation would cause. So that now,
months later, Denaro has taken irreplaceable equipment and vanished. No,
my soiled beauty. Your commander has not made wise choices in his
career."

   "Jack doesn't play your kind of politics!"

  "No? Then what kind of politics does he play at? A Green Shirt perhaps?
How do we know where he spent those seventeen years of his life?"

   Anger made it difficult for her to breathe. She felt her eyes narrow.
"Pepys has a fool for a Minister of War."

   He stepped close to her. She could feel his heat as if it were an open
flame. Her Bythian tattoos telegraphed danger to her, but she stood her
ground.

    "You have one chance," he told her, quietly but firmly. "And one chance
only. And that chance is that Jack is as naïve as he is brave. Tell me. Tell me
of who he sees and what he does so that I may guide him in the months
ahead, because, webbed lady—" His stare pierced her as if he could see the
faint markings on her skin beneath her clothing. "—I am no fool and neither
is Pepys, and you know that. Confide in me or Jack will be so tangled in the
schemes of others that there will be no possibility either of you can survive."

   She wished then, with all of her heart, that Hussiah had not taken from
her the art of killing. If she had any way of shaping her thoughts into an
arrow and aiming them into the core of Baadluster's being, she would do it.
Him she would kill with even less conscience than Jack killed Thraks.

  Baadluster read her expression and took a step back. "One day, milady,
we'll meet again, and you will remember that I offered this opportunity to
you, and that you refused it."

   "You give me nothing! I can't spy on Jack."

   He bowed his head. "It is late. The grounds are secured. I suggest you
return to your apartment. We have work to do here, and you are detaining
us."

    Amber turned on her heel and left as swiftly as she could without making
it apparent she was fleeing him. She only had the satisfaction of knowing
that Baadluster's trap would be empty tonight for it had been meant for her,
and he himself had told her of it.

   Later, in the cold bed, she curled up in the silken caftan she'd brought out
of Bythia, and, feeling her skin crawl with mystic patterns, she cursed
herself for having lost the ability to kill. Not only that, but as the patterns
continued to fade, they took the last of her psychic talents with them. Soon
she would have nothing left… nothing to bind her to Jack and Bogie. No
weapon of her own to help them fight in their struggles to live. She had only
her wiles left. And the clandestine training as a Dominion Knight.



   Pepys was awake when Baadluster returned empty-handed. The
emperor sat in his easy chair, sipping tea from a fine bone cup that was
reputed to be over one thousand years old, and he did not refrain from a
mocking smile even though Baadluster gave him a look indicating he
wished, among other things, to smash that ancient cup.

   "No quarry?"

  "No. But we know there is trouble. Even Lassaday admits it, and
Lassaday is Storm's man, as loyal a soldier as the commander has."

   "There's no indication that the commander is involved."
  "No."

  "Good. Then let it be."

   Baadluster glared at him. "Let it be? I have been reduced to catching
spies and then you say, let it be?"

  "The strike at Klaktut is far more important." Pepys put the teacup down
and mopped his upper lip.

   This brought a halt to Baadluster's ill-tempered pacing. The minister
locked gazes with the emperor. "Then I can return to strategic planning."

  "Of a certainty. After you place a call to Queen Tricatada."

    Baadluster protested angrily, "We are winning, Pepys. You cannot throw
it all away by telling the Queen we plan to hit one of her major nests!"

    "No. No, I don't plan to tell her what we're doing." Pepys stood and
smoothed down his clothes, preparing for a morning of judgment hearings.
"With her embassies and consulates shut down, our network of information
is greatly hampered. It appears that we both are under attack from a third
party, and I'd like to know what she knows of that."

  "A Thrak would never tell you."

   "No." Pepys smiled. "Like anything else, Baadluster—it's what they don't
say and how they don't say it that's really important. Go put in the call.
When it's completed, come and get me from the chambers."

  Vandover made a sardonic bow as Pepys left the room.




                               Chapter 27
                                                                   «^»
The Rusty Bolt had changed little through the years of Jack's acquaintance
with under-Malthen, except perhaps to get mangier. A sallow faced lump of
a man smelling of ratt sidled through the privacy curtain and looked at Jack,
the whites of his eyes gone yellow like a hard user with his liver about to
give out.
   Showing rotting teeth, the man said, "I'm supposed to say ‘Ballard sent
me.' " He put his hand palm up on the table and Jack pressed a hundred
credit disk into it. The man looked at it, then pushed a small circuit card
across the table. "That's for Amber. Ballard said she ordered it."

   "Talk. I haven't a lot of time."

  The man shrugged and his rotting teeth showed wider. "Neither have I,
man. Ballard says you're supposed to hear about what happened to
Washburn Industries."

   "So tell me."

   "Gone. Pulverized. Enemy incoming hit it, and internal explosives did
the rest. I was supposed to be on shift, but I took a long lunch break… about
two days earlier." The man shrugged.

   "So if you weren't there, how do you know?"

   "I wasn't there when it happened, man, but that doesn't mean I wasn't
there. I got my scooter back in commission and reported back to work. Like,
I was the first one to find the ashes. I got there even before the firemen.
They had to come from half a continent away. Too hot otherwise."

   Jack stared. The man had to be dead in his boots… and he knew it.

   Another shrug. "Either this way or th' ratt. I prefer th' ratt."

   "So would I."

   The informant nodded.

  "How did you get out? They must have cordoned off the area pretty
damn quick."

   "So fast I blinked and missed it. And then Washburn came in. Never saw
him leave though. Heard he killed himself when they found his son's body
in th' lower silos. His son's supposed to have been th' one let the shields
down for the Thraks."

   "Is that what you think?"

   "No way. That kid was so straight, he was a real pain in the ass. Besides,
I know better. I saw it."

   "Saw?"

   "That's right. It evidently hung around, scouted us before it left. I saw it
planing over the Wide Windy… that's a desert area outside the defense
state."

   This was what had been hinted to Jack. He pushed a drawing over the
table. "Like this?"

   The sallow-faced man looked at it for a split second and shook his head.

   Jack pulled another sheet from his short-jacket pocket. "Or this?"

  Blackened nails tapped the second picture. "That's her." The man sniffled
and rubbed at his nose. "Gotta go, all right?"

   Jack nodded. The man stood. Jack hesitated and then pressed a second
credit disk into his palm.

   He looked at it. "Five hundred credits?"

  "You earned it." That was enough money to buy enough ratt to O.D. The
two men looked at each other levelly.

  The second broke contact first, unable to meet the rainwater blue gaze
holding him. "Thanks, man," he mumbled. "I mean it." He wove his way
out of the Rusty Bolt and Jack watched him go.

   The Thrakian ship he'd put aside immediately. The second drawing was
a fairly accurate computer rendition of the unknown that had gotten Opus.
So whatever had happened at Washburn Industries was known, only Jack
hadn't been told about it. He was staging Operation Nest short of rifles and
grenades, plagued with inexplicable back orders, and he wasn't going to be
told the truth. Storm didn't have to worry about Baadluster or anyone else
getting his hooks on the informer—he wasn't going to last any longer than it
took him to get another load of ratt.

   On the other hand, it was better than the lingering death that had been
facing him.

   Jack pushed his dirty glass aside, got up, and left the bar.
   He traced the last of the tattooing over Amber's soft skin. She lay quietly
under his touch, her eyes closed, not immediately responding to the news
that he was leaving in the morning, news that no one had known for sure
until an hour ago. Her pupils moved slightly beneath the transparent blue
veining as she responded to his caress. Even there, he thought. That
snakeskin bastard had touched her even there.

   "How can you go, knowing that?" she asked, finally.

   "I have to go. With Washburn dead, our backing in the Congress is very
tentative. We have a ‘probationary' war. It's the one thing I agree on with
Baadluster and Pepys. I have to show how effective we can be against the
Thraks."

   She arched her back as he drew his fingers down across her stomach, her
loins and then her thighs. "You're being very effective right here and now,"
she murmured.

   He slapped the flat of her stomach lightly. "You're upset."

  "Of course, I am! Every time I take a deep breath, you're being taken
away from me. And, dammit, Jack, you're making it harder to follow."

   He smiled at her as he lowered his body over hers, pinning her to the
bed, and she gasped a moment in pleasure, then thrashed her head to one
side. "Don't you change the subject."

   He began to move, very slowly, inside her. "I'm not," he said softly. "You
are. I was talking sex."

   He watched her bite her lip as he prolonged his movement.

   "How can you go to war if you're not even sure who the real enemy is?"

   He entered her again, deeply, and she took an intense breath. He kissed
her. "I think," he said into her ear, biting her earlobe gently, "that this is a
poor time to be discussing it. At the moment, I only care about who my
lover is."

   Amber sighed. He could feel the anger dissipate from the silken body
cradling him. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders. "Who am I," she
answered, "to disrupt peace negotiations?" And she pulled him closer.



    Two weeks in hypnosleep with subliminal isometrics. No cold sleep this
trip out. The engagement was too important. Cold sleep made them
sluggish. Dull. Occasionally you'd find your best man was susceptible to
cold sleep fever. No. Jack was taking no chances with any of his three ships
this time. He was even going to allow himself to be put under after one last
computer simulation. Operation Nest was too important to allow anything
to interfere.

   He ran the simulation through and sat, the illumination of the screen
playing upon his face as he watched. Three thousand troops, though only
five hundred of them were seasoned, but it was enough, and his Wings
spearheaded the drops. Hit and run. A devastating blow to a major Warrior
crèche. It worked. It was perfect. Jack sat back unhappily. Nothing in life
was ever perfect.

    Amber was the one with the psychic ability, but he'd never been one to
discount the feelings he had from time to time. He couldn't put his finger on
it. Maybe it was the unidentifieds that showed up from time to time, though
he saw no way the assault on Klaktut could be tipped off. They would come
out of hyperdrive, so close that a hair's miscalculation would mean
disaster—turn the corner and they were there. The Thraks wouldn't even
have a chance to react.

   He sat back in the chair, searching through the meager memories Bogie
had been able to give back to him. He found one and held on to it for a
moment: his father, looking out the screened-in porch, while a field full of
crops was being destroyed by clouds of hail. "It's like this, son," he'd said,
and pulled Jack close. "You do all you can. Right fertilizers. Mineral balance.
Natural herbicides. And then you plant and watch it grow. But sometimes,
no matter how much good you do, something bad happens."

   "What is it, Dad?"

   "Flood maybe. Or brush fire. Or a plague of insects you can't possibly
fend off. We call it an Act of God. Watch for it, Jack. It'll happen to you
someday. All you can do is withstand it and get ready to start over."
  An Act of God. Jack watched the computer simulation and wondered if it
was too late to program one in and study the contingencies.

   Unfortunately, there was no telling what kind of Act it would be.




                                Chapter 28
                                                                     «^»
Jack stood wearily in the hallway. He'd not even been given a chance to
bathe or get out of his armor. The stink of war and death hung palpably
about him. Bogie throbbed against his shoulders and he thought, not for the
first time, that soon there would not be room for the two of them inside the
white armor. He carried his helmet in the crook of his left arm and his
shoulder wound pulsed, a reminder that he had not completely healed. He
looked down at the aide.
  "Last time I was here, I spoke in appeal to a joint session of Congress.
What's it called this time?"

  The young man flicked a scornful glance at him, then looked back at the
doorway for a signal. "It's called a Congressional Hearing," he said, briefly.

   "Ah." Jack rocked back on his heels in fatigue. He dared not close his
eyes. If he did, the nightmare might overwhelm him.



  "Retreat! Retreat! Make your rendezvous point at all costs. Those
Needlers are losing their asses coming in for you!" Jack cleared his throat,
knowing his hoarseness made his commands bleed out over the com lines.
Around him, the sky was rimmed with laser fire, an aurora borealis of war,
and around him lay armor laden corpses that would never rise again.

  A total rout. If he had not known better, he would think that the Thraks
had known they were coming.

   *Three o'clock, boss.*

   Jack pivoted wearily and laid down a spray of fire. The tingling at his left
wrist told him power was ebbing. Not expended yet, but he was at his last
stand. It might not have been so disastrous with seasoned troops, he told
himself. Perhaps.

   A shuttle settled just out of his range, the land burned to obsidian glass,
fused by previous landings.

   "All right," Jack yelled. "Get on, quickly, that's it, let's go!” He watched
the wave of soldiers making toward the shuttle, some running and others
staggering, and a handful carrying comrades. He watched the horizon for a
sign of incoming salvos, but the air was still and silent for now.

   The shuttle filled, labored to a takeoff and was gone.

   He took a deep breath. As long as he had power enough to fire and
strength enough to stand, no one alive was going to be left behind. He no
longer had any doubt that they had difficulty targeting him and when he
returned, he would insist that norcite be glazed over every piece of armor in
operation. If he returned.

   *Incoming,* Bogie whispered in his mind.

   "Hit the dirt, boys," Jack screamed.

   The world splintered apart around him, but they missed the landing
point, and another shuttle hesitantly hopped down.

  He could hear Lassaday's guttural, "Hut, hut, let's move your asses or the
Thraks will have ‘em for you. Let's go!"

   A glad noise shuddered through Jack. He had not known, until that
moment, whether the sergeant was still alive. He got out, "You, too,
sergeant, or I'll have your balls in a sling."

   "Commander! That you, by god?"

   "It is. And those were orders."

   "Yessir!"

   Jack braced himself. "How many more out there, sarge?"

   "A hundred more, coming up the hillside. Let me stay out, commander…
see if we can take some of… some of them with us. We've got room."
   "No."

   There was a flat silence on the com, then Lassaday said, "But, Jack…
they're human."

   "No. Not as far as they're concerned, Sarge. Now move it out!"

   "Yessir." And this time, the belly of the shuttle muted the transmission
and Jack knew the NCO had gone aboard the next to last shuttle out from
this Thrakian hell.

    It was not the sergeant's fault the new recruits had gone to pieces on their
first mission.

   Nor even Jack's.

   No amount of war intelligence had mentioned or could have prepared
them for the sight of Klaktut.

   Jack had expected a sand planet, totally metamorphosed for the needs of
the Warrior crèche. But Klaktut was not sand, except in those isolated nests.
The rest of the planet was verdant, agraformed, domesticated. And humans
were among the primary domesticated stock, facing the Knights dropped in
for battle, staring as dumb-faced as any animal as the battle armor strode
across their fields.

   But that hadn't been the worst of it. As the fighting grew desperate and
the Knights inexorably spiraled in to take out the major Warrior crèches,
human flesh had formed the last ditch walls between the crèche and the
invaders.

   Jack could not blame the boys who'd signed on for honor and glory when
they broke at the sight.

   It filled his gorge also. He'd always been told the Thraks took no
prisoners.

  It redoubled his determination to get every Knight off Klaktut alive that it
was within his power to do.

   And, in the long run, only the retreat was a victory.

   Jack thought, swaying with exhaustion as he waited in the corridors of
Congress, that he would not even be allowed to savor that. Perhaps he
should have allowed Lassaday to bring back one of them so that the inquiry
he faced would have some idea of the horror of those days.

   His stomach swam. He'd never made hyperdrive so fast, barely
forty-eight hours after being docked with the shuttle. He'd slept the sleep of
the dead in his armor. Luckier than some on board, who'd slept and not
woken up… dying of their wounds, but at least not left behind to be buried
in some alien soil.

   Or worse.

   It was naïve of him, he reflected, to expect to be commended for his
efforts. With Washburn dead, a major source of support for the probationary
war was gone. Still, he'd beaten back the Thrakian attacks. It was only their
initial invasion on the League's own turf that had gone sour.

  The Congressional aide touched his armored sleeve. "It's time,
commander."

   He moved forward.

   No applause this time. He heard dimly, as he moved forward, a
muttering that followed him like a hungry and discontented mongrel
nipping at his heels. He moved to where another aide, a young lady who
would not meet his eyes, indicated he should sit.

   No podium. No telecast audience. As he sat and looked across the
chamber, he saw Pepys and Baadluster standing in the visitors' gallery,
where they talked as if unaware he had entered.

   A man stood. He had hair of silver and skin as dark as the void. When he
stood, the room quieted.

   "Tell us, commander, in your own words, what happened."

   As he was still hoarse, Jack moved the mike sensors a little closer, and
then he began to speak.

   He told the truth. He did not play for sympathy or support. He thought,
perhaps, that they ought to know that in war there would be winners and
losers. But when he finished, when they had asked their myriad of
questions, he realized that he was wrong.

   It showed in their faces. They no more understood defeat than they had
really understood his victory.

  Jack swallowed painfully and hoped for an end to the questioning. He
watched as Pepys took a seat on the dais.

   "Thank you, Commander Storm. I yield the floor to Emperor Pepys of
the Triad Throne, our noted ally and warlord."

    Pepys stood. Jack was aware that there was movement to the rear of him,
in the audience room doorway behind the dais, where he had originally
waited months ago to make his appeal to the joint session. A cool breeze
touched the back of his neck. His muscles stiffened. He winded a scent on
the breeze, a smell of old enemies, and wished that he'd had time to take his
armor off, or at least cleanse it of its stench.

   "We can be thankful," Pepys said, "for Commander Storm's skillful
handling of the retreat. We can be thankful, as well, for his quick assessment
of the situation. As few lives were lost as possible. As for the invasion itself,"
and Pepys bowed his head,

    "I will bear the hubris. It is mine and mine alone. And because it is, it is
fitting that I am here today."

    In a fog of exhaustion, Jack wondered what it was Pepys was leading up
to. Why should he apologize for an offensive maneuver that could have, if
successful, put a major dent in the Thrakian war effort?

    "It is well, in these days of nearly instantaneous communication, that
more sensible heads than mine prevail. While Commander Storm has been
in transit to Columbia, a major decision has been discussed and reached.
Congressmen and representatives, ladies and gentlemen. The past few days
you have all seen and discussed the evidence that there is another aggressor
in our space."

  Jack lifted his head. By god, he had told them! Jack would have liked to
have heard what was said, certain that he had not had all the evidence.

  "I did not, therefore, refuse to discuss alternatives when first contacted by
Queen Tricatada. I brought my reservations here and tabled them in these
sacred halls where not only laws are made and upheld, but differences are
met and melded. Because we kept open minds, we learned of the Ash-Farel,
the ancient enemy of the Thraks, and the peril that faces us all."

   The hair prickled at the nape of Jack's neck. He took a deep breath, and
readied to turn in his chair as he heard footsteps behind him.

   "Ladies and gentlemen. It is not only my wisdom but your own which
has led us to this landmark moment. May I present our new allies and their
representatives—Queen Tricatada, her warlord General Guthul who will
become supreme commander of our allied forces, and the new second in
command to Commander Storm, Admiral K'rok!"

   As Jack staggered to his feet and stood, facing the Thrakian contingent,
the huge Milot soldier stepped forward slightly and gathered him, armor
and all, in an immense, furry, and smelly hug.

   "I be glad to see you, Knight Jack," the Milot traitor grinned. "Now you
be saluting General Guthul and I be saluting you!"




                               Chapter 29
                                                                    «^»
The giant Milot dropped Jack back to the dais and stepped back, saluting
smartly as he did so. The scent he had winded had not been his imagination
and it threatened to overwhelm him now.
   At Jack's back, the Congressional session had gotten to its feet,
applauding. The sound was ironic to his ears; how many months ago had it
been for him?

   Behind K'rok, General Guthul stood, his mask horrific and dignified, and
Jack had no doubt it was stylized with all the nuances of meaning a
Thrakian war commander could arrange. Behind them, a lesser Thraks
stood and Jack recognized the implants in the soft wattle of throat exposed
by an inferior mask. An interpreter.

  He then looked to the Thrakian queen. He'd never seen one before, nor
any Thraks he could identify as female, though there must be many as the
Thraks were incredibly prolific.

   Did they even know the natural life span of a Thraks?

   She stood, a brilliant and deep cobalt blue, irridescent wings coiled at her
back, her body a pearshape meant for breeding. Her mask was streaked
with color, although Jack could not tell if all the streaks were natural
coloration or if some were cosmetic. Her height topped that of Guthul,
making her a phenomenon even among Thraks.

    She carried a scent, too, a dark and musky scent that stirred Jack for a
moment until he realized he was responding to it. She stared at him, her
faceted eyes like sapphire jewels, distinctly feminine—and totally alien. She
trilled something and the interpreter stood forward.

  "My queen says you have been a worthy adversary and now she hopes
you will be an equally brilliant ally."

   Jack inclined his head. He had been so worthy an adversary, he had
scared the Thraks into suggesting alliance—and Pepys had been
backhanded enough to accept! He closed his lips on any reply he might
have made. He—all of them—had been betrayed. There was no answer he
could think of to make to that. K'rok put an arm about him and drew him
around to face the Congressional audience.

  Quietly, in his ear, K'rok said, "My sorrows, Jack. This be a bad way to
conquer an enemy."

   Jack straightened in his armor. He put on a smile and answered back, out
of the corner of his mouth, "I'm not done fighting yet."



    Lassaday rubbed the dome of his bald head in frustration. "A week of
alliance, ser, and them bugs have done everything but move into my bed!
They've got more out of Pepys and the DC than if they'd beat the pants off
us!"

   Jack overlooked the parade grounds from the bridge, listening to his chief
NCO vent his frustration. Lassaday was right. Not only were the Thraks
back in the chief star lanes, and the inner planet trade lanes, but they were
in the fleet and now Jack was expecting his first Thraks battalion to join the
Knights. They were infiltrating with greater success than if they had
conquered.

  He didn't like it any better than Lassaday. Worse, it had been kept from
public knowledge. Amber knew something troubled him, but had been
unable to nag, wheedle, or even seduce it out of him. Pepys and the
Dominion Congress planned to make a public announcement in another
week, when all facets of the alliance had been sealed.

   But Jack worried at it as if trying to get at the marrow. He knew of no
fleet officers invited aboard the Thrakian vessels—the atmosphere and
dietary demands "too complex" to allow that interchange. Thraks were more
adaptable, they'd been told.

   Nor had Jack had any of his officers assigned to League Warrior crèches.
Again, humans were not compatible with Thrakian conditions. But he was
expecting two dozen Thraks, hand-picked by Guthul himself, to arrive in
less than forty-eight hours. Modified suits were to be molded to them and
they were to be trained, if possible. When Jack thought of all the raw recruits
and wounded Knights killed by dead man circuits to avoid just such an
eventuality, his gut clenched.

   Lassaday said, "Sir? Sir?"

   "I'm sorry, Sarge, what was that?"

   "I said, ser, that we've isolated that wing of the barracks like you told us."

   Jack smiled at that. Amber had provided him with jammers, but she had
nearly burst from the effort of trying to find out why. The Thraks would be
unable to broadcast information unless they used official channels. He had
no control over that, but he knew Pepys. The emperor might have sold out,
but he had no intention of going around bare-ass naked in front of the
Thraks. Pepys would be manipulating the official channels. Jack nodded.
"We may have to have guests, but nothing says we have to make them
welcome."

   Lassaday saluted smartly and said, "I didn't hear that, ser!"

   "On your way, sergeant."
   Lassaday brushed past Amber and Colin on the way down. Sensing
trouble from the purpose in the Walker's stride, Jack left the observation
railing and went into the privacy booth.

  Colin followed him in, Amber on his heels. She gave Jack a worried look
and sat down in the corner to watch for intruders.

   "To what do I owe this visit? Rawlins let you in again?" There was no
point in telling Colin he'd breached some heavy security. The man had eyes
and he'd probably seen for himself. If he hadn't, there was little doubt in
Jack's mind that Amber had pointed it out to him. She sat now, with a
faintly guilty look on her face, and he wondered if she'd disliked
compromising him. He hoped so.

   Colin sat down, folding his brilliant blue robes about him. Today, his
miners' jumpsuit was a faded charcoal. To Jack it brought the grayness of
Lasertown to mind. He had not thought of Lasertown much—it was as if the
months of shanghai and enforced servitude had been pushed out of
memory—but K'rok had brought it all back as if it had been yesterday. The
Thraks had invaded the dead moon mining colony to take over the norcite
mining operation as well as a Walker dig site. What he, Colin, and K'rok had
seen embedded in the dead moon's surface before its destruction by
Thrakian agents defied description to this day. Colin stayed silent, watching
Jack's eyes, as though sharing in the same memories. He waited respectfully
for another moment before speaking.

   "We have a history together, you and I."

   Jack smiled. "You must have some problem to start dredging all that up."

  Colin smiled, too, a crooked expression that belied the age of a man
edging past his prime. "It was a place to start."

   "Why don't you start with what's bothering you?" Jack gazed out over
the parade grounds. "My time here is short."

   "What's going on? The base is locked down, and so is the city. I've been
told by a few of my aides that the spaceport is all but impossible to get in or
out of. Have we been beaten and nobody told us yet?"

   Amber stirred. She put her chin up and pushed a wave of tawny blonde
hair back off her shoulders. "He won't tell you. If he won't tell me, he won't
tell you."

   Jack wondered briefly why she hadn't used her psychic sensitivity to
ferret out his secrets, but said to Colin, "No, but we might as well have
been."

   "I know some of it. I've been saying eulogies all week. The Knights took a
beating. Almost half of them didn't come back."

   Amber gasped. Jack looked at her. She hadn't known. He made a
diffident gesture, not denying what Colin had said.

   "What can you tell me?"

   "You should be asking your old friend Pepys."

  Colin snorted. "Pepys is as much an enemy as a friend. I had hoped
never to say the same of you!"

  "I can't tell you," Jack said, "officially." He made a movement that Amber
understood. She got up and quickly checked the room's security screening.
He waited until she was satisfied and sat back down.

   "We didn't get beat in the war. We lost a battle, yes, badly, yes. But we
didn't get beaten. We were sold out."

   "What?"

   Jack said bitterly, "It appears to be a trademark of Pepys. At any rate,
we'd hurt the Thraks badly enough that they came to him with a suggestion
of an alliance."

   "An alliance?"

   "Against the unknown aggressor."

   As Amber made a noise of triumph, Colin appeared to deflate and sagged
back in his seat. He put both hands to his face briefly, an eternal gesture of
grief. It was touchingly effective.

  Then he lowered his hands. "I should have known." He got to his feet
and began to pace about the privacy booth. "I should have known."
   "How could you? I didn't begin piecing bits together until after it had
been done." And Jack told them about the disastrous drop on Klaktuk, and
ended with the Thrakian League triumvirate's appearance before the
Dominion Congress.

  Amber had gone ashen. Colin stopped pacing, his tired face alert, as if he
dared the years to slow him now.

  "I never thought Pepys had that kind of nerve."

   "He may not have any choice. You said we had history together. Well, so
do K'rok and I, at Lasertown."

   "He took over the mines. He used the Milot berserker to keep you
laborers in line." That was Amber, her voice high and unsteady.

   "More than that. He was as intensely interested in the Walker dig site as
the Thraks were. He told me that, in his years as an officer after Milos had
been conquered, he'd come to the notion that the Sand Wars began because
a bigger, nastier enemy than the Thraks was pushing them out of their
traditional breeding grounds. That they swept through our worlds because
they were running from an enemy they couldn't beat. He was convinced an
artifact from that enemy might be found on the moon."

  "We found nothing," Colin said, "but the body of a beast."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. K'rok disappeared while the site was being
destroyed. I don't know what else he might have found or where he might
have gone. I thought he might have been destroyed, too. But the Thraks
gave their enemy a name: the Ash-Farel."

  "So K'rok was right."

   "I think so. He's been made my subordinate officer. He'll be my second
in charge of the Dominion Knights."

  Colin scratched his chin reflectively. "Do you trust this Milot?"

    "Not as far as I can throw him which, even wearing a suit, won't be far.
Since the Thraks have allied with us, they expect us to operate on the basis
of ‘an enemy of my friend is my enemy also.' "

  "Convenient," Amber muttered.
    "More than convenient. The attitude is the whole purpose of the alliance,
I think. That, and the deep infiltration of the Triad and Dominion systems
which they could never achieve before. When the wraps come off this
alliance in a week, Colin—you'll think we've been invaded successfully."

   "That bad?"

   "Worse."

   "Then I've come to the right man." Colin straightened. "You remember
the report I showed you."

   "Vaguely."

   "I've got Denaro there starting the basics of a dig. We discussed it, and
we discussed my fears regarding the operation. If we've allied with the
Thraks, Jack, they've given no indication of it on the outer rim. We've been
harassed to the point of open strafing. I came to ask you to send an
independent detachment to cover my people before I have a slaughter on
my hands."

   Jack felt pain in his expression. "If you'd asked me two weeks ago, I'd
have had the authority. Now General Guthul is over me. I'd never get
orders past him and Baadluster. How recent are your transmissions?
Hostilities should have ceased."

   "Oh, Jack." Amber sank down.

  Colin shook his head. "I talked to Denaro last night. The Thraks are bold
and nasty, according to him."

   Jack spread his hands. "There's nothing I can do."

   Amber got to her feet and went to the door. She paused at the portal and
looked back over her shoulder. "The Jack Storm I knew wouldn't have let
that stop him."

   He looked at her. The scorn on her beautiful face pierced him. He felt it
wrenching his gut somewhere just behind his navel. Hadn't he told himself
a variation of that ever since he'd left the dais on Columbia without even an
attempt to kill either Tricatada or Guthul? He felt a spasm in his left eyelid.

   "There's more to it than you know, Amber."
   "I know you," she bit off. "And I know that if you have doubts over the
Ash-Farel and the Thraks, that they're well-founded. I have never seen you
hesitate to do the right thing, no matter how hard or difficult it was. Until
now."

   Colin put his hand on her elbow. "Amber, dear heart—"

   She shook him off. "Don't dear heart me! I'm not your little street girl
anymore! I'm a woman. I sleep with him and I love him and goddamn it, I
can't even look him straight in the eye any more! So don't tell me what to
do. Tell him." With a strangled sob, she bolted out the door of the privacy
booth.

   Colin looked at Jack with a stricken expression. "She didn't mean it."

   Jack swallowed. It was difficult. He returned, "I think she did. And she's
right. I don't have much time this afternoon because I'm waiting for a
contingent of Thrakian warriors to come in. They'll be blended in with my
Knights. I'm supposed to give them armor, for Chrissakes."

   "I didn't know."

   "No one does. I haven't even had the heart to tell the rest of my men yet.
They died in droves on Klaktut. They saw things no one should ever have
to see. And now I have to go and tell them that the enemy is now our ally."
Jack broke off. His chest felt tight. He hadn't even worn his armor since
they'd come back, unable to take the mental punishment Bogie had given
him. Bogie felt that he'd surrendered on Columbia without even a fight.

   But he'd told K'rok he wasn't finished. He just wasn't sure of the right
time or place.

  He looked at Colin and saw the Walker watching him. Watching him
with a speechless pity etched on his handsome yet aged face. "Dammit,
Colin, don't look at me like that!"

  Colin shook his head. "Amber's right," he said, wonderingly, and made a
move toward the door.

  Jack said, "I could only send ten. And they'd have to leave tonight. No
word, no warning."
   Colin smiled. "I can pilot a corsair."

   "What?"

   He shrugged. "I'm a man of hidden talents."

    Jack thought rapidly. A corsair was much faster than a needier—in and
out of hyperspace—quicker because of its smallness. A thirty-man crew was
its capacity. Ten or eleven of them, with armor and field packs, would equal
that mass.

   "And," Colin added smoothly, "I don't know about the alliance yet."

   "No." Jack felt himself smiling in return. "You don't. It would be difficult
for me to withhold troop protection from you without telling you my
reasoning."

  "And," the Walker added, "you could go along to make sure diplomacy
doesn't get out of hand." Jack nodded. "Find a corsair and it's a deal."

  "Good." Colin opened the portal. Amber stood beyond. She grinned.
"When are we leaving?"




                                 Chapter 30
                                                                      «^»
To give her credit, she didn't look surprised when Jack answered, "There's
no ‘we' about it. You're staying here. We're taking a corsair. There's room
enough for me and Colin and seven Knights."
   She brushed her hair back from her face and said nothing as Jack pressed
a button, then bellowed, "Lassaday! Get up here!" and turned back to her.
"No arguments?"

   She looked to Colin. "Even a saint needs a bodyguard."

   The older man smiled wearily. "Ah, my dear. You've done a better job
protecting this old husk in the past than I have—but I bow to Jack's
decision. This is one trip it won't be easy getting back from.""
   "Since when has that ever stopped me?"

  "Since now." Jack's eyes darkened and she stilled her tongue, knowing
when she'd gone far enough with him.

   Lassaday came panting onto the bridge. "Yes, sir?"

   "What's the last word on our new recruits?"

   "Th' bugs, ser, are in quarantine now. They'll be waitin' for pickup just
after darkfall."

   Colin said, "I'll go get ready."

   Lassaday let him pass and looked at his commander with a quizzical
expression.

   "Can you get along without me for a few weeks?"

   "With that stinking bear of a humanoid and those bugs?" Lassaday made
a face as Jack looked at him, then said, "If I have to."

    "Good. I need seven volunteers, a suicide mission, seasoned only—and
men who can keep their mouths shut. And no one, such as yourself, vital to
keeping a chain of command here at the center." Which, Jack reflected sadly,
left out Lassaday, Travellini, and Rawlins.

  "I'd give my right nut to go with you," Lassaday returned. He sighed.
"When d'you want them?"

   "We leave at dusk."

  The sergeant crossed his bulky arms over his chest. "What's up,
commander?"

   "Our renegade Walker saint is about to embark on a mission which will
seriously jeopardize our new alliance with the Thrakian League. Since I
cannot reveal the treaty to him at this time, I have no choice but to
accompany him in hopes of settling whatever grievances may occur without
serious diplomatic breaches."

   "Ah." Lassaday smiled widely. "I sincerely hope you get a chance to kick
ass, ser."
  "Me, too, Lassaday, me, too."



   Jack looked the ground shuttle over. Colin sat next to him, muffled in a
work jumper that neatly hid his Walker robes, which he had politely
declined to remove in favor of being inconspicuous. Now, dressed as a port
traffic director, he was in danger of being drafted to dock vehicles, but at
least he was somewhat disguised.

   The ground shuttle vibrated as seven Knights in full armor got aboard.
Jack checked them out.

  "Aaron."

  "Sir!" His voice betrayed the tension his young face hid.

  "Garner." No surprise there, the grizzled streetwise veteran hardly
missed a chance to follow Jack into the tough spots. "Feeling fit?"

  "Guaranteed, sir."

  "Tinsdale."

  "Sir."

  "I asked for experienced men."

  "I was a mercenary, sir. One of the few you missed when you took out
General Gilgenbush's fortress satellite a few years back."

  Surprise flooded Jack. Those were survival days when it was just him
and Amber against the system. "Is this a grudge, cadet?"

  "No, sir. I hate Thraks damn near as much as you do."

   Jack had to live with his qualms. If Lassaday had singled out the man,
Jack had to trust the sergeant.

  "Maussaud."

  "Sir."

  No problem there. He'd gone to Bythia and back with Jack.

  A lean Knight in deep blue armor sat. Jack didn't recognize the battle
suit. He pointed. "Sound off, cadet."

   "Skyler, sir." The voice was a trifle hollow.

   "Experienced?"

   "Lassaday sent me, sir."

   Jack fought a smile. "All right then." He saw two gray suits move into the
other bank of seats on the shuttle.

   "Rodriguez, sir."

   "And Patma."

   Jack nodded to Colin. "There's our lucky seven."

   The prelate returned a shaky smile. "Let's hope so."

   *And me you get as a bonus,* Bogie remarked.

    Jack looked down the back of the ground shuttle. "We're stealing a
corsair. We're going in under the pretense of taking out the twenty-four
Thrakian recruits who've been sent to us under the new alliance exchange
program. That will get us in past security. What will get us out is keeping
your cool and following my lead. Colin is unarmored. Protect him at all costs
if any trouble breaks out. But I don't want any heroes. Understood?"

   The affirmatives echoed. Jack put his helmet on. He sat down to drive.

   WP security took a long look at Jack. Finally, he removed his helmet to
look the man in the eye. The sentry was framed by needlers and corsairs at
his back. Jack sorely wanted to walk over him and be on his way. "I was told
quarantine was lifted."

  The man shifted unhappily. "Yes, sir. You understand, commander, I
have to be careful."

   "I understand that you're holding us up. You've got the port screwed
down and locked tight, but the longer you hold those Thraks bottled up
here, the more risk you run that someone's going to see them. I got the
impression we've been trying to avoid that." Jack leaned on what he knew of
World Police procedure.
   Unhappiness etched deep into the WP man's face. "You got that right,
Commander Storm. And that one ton Milot is eating us out of the cafeteria.
All right. Berth 41."

   Jack eased back into the driver's seat and pulled the shuttle around the
security post.

    He waited until he was out of earshot before muttering, "Good. Berth 41
is out in no man's land."

   Colin was scanning the printout Jonathan had given to him before
leaving.

   Jack looked over at it. "Where in the hell did he get that?"

   The reverend looked up. "I don't think hell had a thing to do with it. I
don't know where Jonathan gets things like this. I just know he does." Colin
tapped a plastisheet. "There's a corsair being reoutfitted in Berth 17. It's the
best bet of five listed here. It's supposed to lift midday tomorrow."

   "That means the crew is still out enjoying the sins and virtues of Malthen
tonight. Sounds good." Jack checked the overhead map and steered toward
Berth 17.

   As he pulled toward the cradle where the slim silver form rested, a hairy
black object lumbered in front of the shuttle. Jack hit the brakes, throwing
Colin forward against the dash. His helmet went rolling on to the asphalt,
and the form bent to retrieve it.

   "Jack, my commander. I be thinking you'd never get here in time for
dinner." K'rok grinned at them over the dash. Behind him, in the distance, a
contingent of WP trotted, weapons up.

   "Shit." Jack helped Colin up. "Make a run for it. They're after K'rok, but
they'll stop anyone who looks suspicious. Garner, the rest of you, let's go!"

   The Milot paused. The whites of his eyes showed. "What be this?"

  Jack took his helmet. He looked at his old foe and friend. "I don't think it
would help you to know. We talked once, on Lasertown. I have the same
doubts you do."

   But K'rok nodded. "You are leaving?"
   "I'm on escort duty, but I didn't have time to ask Guthul's permission."

    "Nor did you intend to." The ursine form sighed heavily. "We have
secrets, you and I. I have lived long under the Thraks. I have never been
liking it."

   Jack slapped K'rok's shoulder. "You run the Knights for me until I get
back."

   "I will. I be running a little interference for the Thraks, too." K'rok
stepped back. He saluted.

   But Jack was looking over the Milot's shoulder at the wing of WP guards
which was now on the run. He slammed the Milot over even as laser fire
pinged the ground shuttle's hood. K'rok hit the ground with a heavy thud
and had the sense to lie still.

   Jack put his helmet on as he ran.

   Patma went down just outside the main lock. Jack vaulted his still form.
He could see from the damage that he'd lost a man already. Even as he dove
through the main lock, the corsair shuddered. Colin was powering up for
launch. The lock closed on his heels as two of his men grabbed him and
pulled him into the main corridor.

  The irrevocable had begun. Ten days in hypnosleep, and then they
would see what Colin's new world had to offer them.



   The corsair slipped out of hyperspace and Colin sat back with a heavy
sigh. "So far, so good."

   "What are we looking for?"

  “Denaro's got coords pretty well set up. The norcite deposits are in the
mountainous area I indicated to you earlier. And locals had superstitions
about the regions."

   "Locals?"

   "Yes. None left. Colinada is a plague planet."

   Jack sat down, feeling none too sharp after days of hypnosleep.
"Colinada?"

   "Denaro wanted to name it for me. I insisted it be feminine. A planet is a
lot like a woman, I think. They all have hidden beauty and dangerous
wiles."

   There was a sharp movement in the cabin behind them where three of
the Knights were up and about.

   "What's this about a plague?"

   "The locals were wiped out about forty years ago, The Dominion sent in
their best anthropologists and xenobiologists, but the predominant
mammals couldn't be saved. It's been quarantined ever since."

   "And it was your bright idea to break the quarantine."

   Colin rubbed the back of his neck before answering, "Actually, no. We
became interested in it after the Thraks did. A few years after their survey,
we made one of our own. Plague or not, after Lasertown and Bythia, I could
hardly ignore it."

   "Right." Jack slumped lower in the copilot's seat. A red panel went on.
"Looks like I'd better get back in armor. And I want you in a deepsuit."

   "When the time comes, I'll be ready."

   Jack feel Colin's gaze as he left the control cabin. He barely had the suit
sealed when he felt the first blow. The corsair rocked. Jack screwed his
helmet on and ran forward.

  Colin was getting hastily into a deepsuit. The instrument panel blinked,
and Jack could see blips coming across a target grid.

   “Amen," said Colin. “We're going to have trouble getting in."

   Jack looked over the screens. "Not if you're any good at sewing."

   "What?" The Walker stared at him in astonishment.

   Jack tapped the target grid. "It's called ‘Threading the Needle.' If you can
do it, you'll get us past the Thraks."

   Colin did a double take, then sat down. His hands shook slightly as he
reached out for the controls, taking the corsair off automatic pilot. "This is a
young man's game," he muttered. Jack stood behind him and finished
sealing up the vacuum suit. "You asked to be a player."

    "So I did, heaven help me. Buckle down back there. This is going to be a
little rough."

  Colin was not normally given to understatement, but the corsair bucked
and twisted. Jack swore and reached out to steady himself as the slender
vehicle attempted to outrun and outmaneuver the immense Thrakian
mother ships riding herd over Colinada's orbital approaches. He was
uncertain whether the old mercenary offensive pattern would work… but it
was better than no chance at all.

   There was a high-pitched scream of metal and the ship shuddered
violently. Colin thrust out, "Sweet Jesus, we've punched through!"

   Jack twisted around.

   "Damage?"

   "In the tail section."

   "Anybody back there?"

  It was Garner's shaken voice that answered, "Not now. And the
bulkhead's sealed off."

   The five remaining Knights fell silent.

   "Who'd we lose?"

   "Tinsdale, sir."

   Jack took a deep breath. An uneasiness lifted from his shoulders. He
never wanted to lose a man, but he had not wanted to trust the
ex-mercenary. "All right," he said.

   The blue Knight got unsteadily to his feet, made his way across the
corridor, and disappeared inside the toilet. A sound of retching followed his
retreat.
   The flight of the corsair smoothed considerably. Colin inhaled deeply.
"I'm picking up Denaro's homing signal."

   "Good. They're on our tail, reverend."

   "What?"

  Jack shook his head. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?
And these are Talons. Keep it on manual and you can outrun them."

   Colin mopped his forehead with the back of one hand, muttering, "And I
thought I had faith."

   Jack laughed. It was punctuated by an explosion and he had just enough
time to grab his helmet.




                                Chapter 31
                                                                       «^»
All right, get your chutes on. We're going to take this just like a drop." Jack
braced himself in the cockpit hatchway as the corsair shivered again.
   Garner and Aaron had hold of Skyler's limp form between them as they
dragged him into the corridor. Jack sized up the situation and decided they
had it well in hand. Skyler's blue gauntlets twitched as he became
semiconscious. "But, commander, this is—"

   "No time to argue. We're breaking up. Get going!" Jack grabbed the two
of them and steered them toward the belly of the hold.

   Maussaud and Rodriguez needed no urging and fled past him. He
reached out and stopped Colin in the passageway. "Where the hell do you
think you're going? Get a chute on, you're dropping with us."

  Colin smiled secretively. "We have some baggage on board we might
want to take with us." He turned and trotted toward the forward hold.

   This was no time to be touring the corsair, but Jack followed him. He
stopped in the portal as a familiar sight met his eyes. "Holy shit. These fellas
were gunrunners."

  The Walker patted the casing of a mobile laser cannon. "Do you think
you could hold onto one of these?"

    Jack threw a chute at him. "You go first. I'll follow." He bent and hefted
the equipment. When the Talons came at them, he would have something
slightly more effective than stones to throw at them. He caught up with the
prelate. "Do you think Jonathan knew about this?"

   Colin's voice was muffled as he stepped into the cargo hold, where
Garner had opened up the bay doors. They were already so deep into the
stratosphere that the ground below could be seen breaking through the
cloud cover. "I wouldn't be surprised," he replied.

  Garner and Aaron still held the unconscious blue Knight between them.
"Commander, I think you should know—"

   "Can you manage his chute between you?"

  The two veterans nodded. Distracted, Garner looked up and sputtered,
"What th' hell have you got there?"

   Jack grinned. "Firepower. Altitude?"

   Rodriguez was nearest the gauge. "Twenty thousand and dropping."

   "How close?"

   "Ten thousand should bring us closest to our original target area."

   Aaron made a funny sound. Then he said, "How are we going to get off
dirtside?"

   "The Walkers have facilities here. They're just having a little trouble with
the Thraks."

   "Eighteen thousand."

   The wind whistled into the open bay as the corsair plunged downward.
Jack's armor grew cold. Bogie complained.

   "There!" Colin pointed. An orange flare pierced the horizon. "Denaro's
responding to my transmission."
   "Fifteen thousand."

   "Shit!" Garner broke in. His gauntlet pointed. Jack could see a brace of
Talons outpacing them on each flank. Any man chuting down would be an
easy target.

  Jack put the laser cannon down. He reached into his equipment belt and
pulled out a grenade. He keyed the firing sequence.

   "Ten thousand."

   "Go, go, go! I'll keep them busy."

   Colin shuddered as Rodriguez and Maussaud pulled him out of the bay,
their armor and his deepsuit arrowing into the high winds. Then Garner and
Aaron went, dragging Skyler between them, who showed groggy signs of
coming around.

   Jack felt the chill inside the armor bite into his grin.

  He tossed the grenade into the back of the hold, picked up the cannon,
and jumped.

    The corsair exploded into a fiery ball behind him, taking one Talon with
it and sending the other into an out of control plunge. Jack wasted precious
seconds freefalling to watch it go. Then, one-handed, he was very busy
popping his chute and guiding it after the others. Much heavier than the
others, he dropped like a rock. He was the first to see the third Talon
sweeping in after them even as they approached the dissipating orange
smoke of the flares. The Talon curled around them, and he could see the
shots that took out Aaron and made Garner dance in the air like a broken
puppet.

   The warplane rolled in midair and swept around for a second run.

   The ground came up fast. Jack braced himself and hit it running. He
ripped off his chute so the ground winds couldn't carry him over. The rest of
the chutes came tumbling down.

   Rodriguez hit a cliff.

   Then there was only Maussaud and Skyler ripping off their chutes and
helping St. Colin to his feet. Jack felt his throat squeeze shut for a split
second. Then he hefted the cannon and broke into a run to meet them.

   Skyler's helmet had popped off and lay on the ground. The Knight hadn't
bothered to replace it yet, too busy untangling Colin from his chute. The
Walker's complexion had grayed, but he kept insisting, "I'm all right. I'm all
right."



   Amber didn't stop fussing over him until she had the chute off and could
pat down the deepsuit for herself. The fierce ground wind of Colinada
ripped at her long tawny hair, so Jack could not see the expression on her
face as she turned when he joined them. The whine of the approaching
ATV overrode his first words.

   He didn't repeat them, but, instead, reached out and grabbed her in a
fierce hug. She mumbled, "Garner and Aaron tried to tell you. I knocked
myself out in the John. They must've put my helmet back on and dragged
me to the bay. Shit, Jack. They didn't have a chance."

   He curled his gauntlet and traced a gouge along her blue Flexalinked
shoulder. "You didn't have much more of one." He swung on Colin. "Did
you know about this?"

   The prelate was hanging his helmet on his equipment belt. He looked up.
"Cross my heart, I didn't," he said. With a devilish grin, he added, "I
wouldn't be surprised if Jonathan did, though."

   The ATV braked to a screeching halt in a hail of dust and gravel. Denaro
stood up in full armor, broadcasting, "Here they come again!"

   Jack panned the sky. He could hear the high-pitched whine of a Talon
descending rapidly.

  "Let's go!"



   They hung onto the ATV wherever they could fit as Denaro ground the
gears and put it back into motion. Colin said mildly, as they bucked across
the wilderness, "How do you keep going?"

  "We've gone underground. They strafe us daily, but we've got a fix on
the site, your eminence. We may never get out of here, but we're going to
see what it is they don't want us to."

   "What about your ship?"

    "Intact. But with them guarding the windows, it would be a suicide run
to try to leave, sir."

  Jack ground his teeth against a hard jolt, then said, "We'll have to see
what we can do about that."

   "What?"

    He looked at Amber. "Lure the Talons in, damage them, then the mother
ship will get mad enough to come close. I ought to be able to singe her a
little with our contraband friend here."

   Denaro looked back to see the cannon, then wrenched the wheel,
narrowly avoiding a rather solid looking tree. Its lower branches whipped
about the battle suits. Sparse forest gave way to outcropping, and Jack could
see the sod-roofed underground installation. The ATV skidded to a halt.

   Denaro reached for the cannon. "I'll take that."

  In the flush of sunlight, Jack reached for the cannon, and Bogie stopped
him.

  *Let him have it.* The sentience wrapped around him, quelling the
movements of his gauntlets.

  Denaro looked at him, then took the cannon gently. "I'll get you the
homing beacon."

   “Tell him it won't be necessary.*

   Jack could feel Bogie swelling along his shoulders. "What is it?"

  *It calls to me, boss. This is one of the memories I've been dreaming of. I
know where it is.*

    The site on Lasertown had had its siren song, too, pulling unwary miners
to their death trying to answer it. Jack hesitated.

   Amber looked at them. "What is it?"
   "Mutiny, I think." Jack swallowed. "Denaro, give me your armor."

   "You can't ask him to make a stand without a suit!"

  But the Walker militant was already stripping. He stepped out of the dark
armor proudly, clad only in his trousers, and Jack was reminded of those
moments on Harkness' freighter and of the young man who'd been
undefeated even in that time of retreat.

   Jack climbed out of his white armor. He sealed it back up and strewed the
helmet on. "It's all yours, Bogie."

   Maussaud scrambled back in shocked silence as the battle armor
animated. Colin watched, his expression masked by the deepsuit helmet, as
Jack's armor began to move. Its contortions were herky-jerky for a moment,
then the suit walked off ten paces. It beckoned.

   "God's balls," Denaro said, then flushed. "What have you got there?"

   His elder pointedly ignored him. His helmet swung toward Jack.
"Sentient computer run?"

   "Not exactly. If we get through this, I'll try to explain it to you. Just take it
that we need all the firepower we can get, and he's a big boy now." Jack
stepped into Denaro's suit, the only armor big enough to accommodate him.

   Amber unscrewed her helmet and popped out a small circuit board.
"Synthesizer," she said as she palmed it. "So you wouldn't recognize my
voice." She went to the opalescent battle suit, took off the helmet and
installed the card. She talked for a few minutes and Jack wondered if she
was explaining to Bogie how to utilize the circuitry. She screwed the helmet
back and stepped away.

   "Follow me," said Bogie within the armor. His voice was not the deep,
grating voice Jack knew, but basso prof undo, melodious—and joyful.

   The Talon swooped over them.

   "Get out of here," Denaro yelled, and dragged the cannon into position by
the outcropping that hid the Walker installation. Maussaud hesitated, then
said, "I'm staying here, commander."

   Jack nodded. "All right."
  They ran after Bogie.

   It was like running after a child who'd just begun to walk. As they
approached the hills, Bogie gained ability. He stopped only once, to spread
his gauntlets as if drawing down the sun's rays to him.

   "What's he doing?" Amber asked, her voice breathy as she tried to catch
her breath.

  "Refueling, I think."

   Colin said nothing, but went to one knee, with his head bowed. Jack
could hear him gasping over the com lines.

  "This is no time to pray," Amber said, and tried to help him up.

  The older man shook his head. "You've got power suits. I've got nothing.
Forgive me, Amber, but I'm still an old man."

  She looked at him in shock, then began to strip the vacuum suit off.

  "What're you doing?"

  She met Jack's stare. "It's no protection to him now! It's just weighing him
down. And this way, we won't have to carry him as soon."

   There were dull explosions in the background. As Jack pivoted, he saw
the golden lance of the laser cannon's reply. The Talon veered off sharply.

  Colin coughed. "It had better be worth it."

   They looked over the horizon. They'd come up a steep incline of shale,
and now looked out over a meadow lush with spring grasses and tiny
yellow flowers. Bogie began to stagger down the slope, heading toward the
mountain facing on the valley's far side.

  "I'm here!" he cried out.

   Jack reached for Colin's elbow and Amber took the other side as the air
thundered over them. The three of them looked up. The Thraks were
determined that this discovery not be made. If Denaro failed to hold the
enemy, all of them would die here in this valley. They ran as the white
armor ahead of them fetched up against a wind and rain exposed cliff, with
eons of time written in its stratas.
   Bogie scrabbled away at the sod and rock until he found a fissure, then
tore at it with his gauntlets. The cliff face peeled away as though it had been
chiseled to do so, in one slab which went to dust and pebbles at the battle
armor's feet.

  Amber caught her breath, but it was Colin who murmured, "Good God
Almighty."

  The white armor froze for a moment, its glove curved over the
monstrosity exposed by the soft ground.

   "What is it?"

   "It's what we saw on Lasertown," Jack told Amber. "At the digging site,
before it was destroyed."

   Bogie's curved gauntlet fell downward in a gentle caress over the
mummified being. A sound came over the suit mikes, a sound Jack had no
other word for but wail, yet it was short and smothered.

   "It called to him," Colin said. "Just like the dig site at Lasertown called to
so many unfortunates. Even after death. Even these hundreds, maybe
thousands of years later." He turned to look at Jack. "What is that inside
your armor?"

   "A gift from Milos."

   A hissing intake of breath. "Berserker?"

    "No… I don't know. I don't think so, but whatever it is, it's regenerating
itself from a square of hide, a chamois, inside my armor. It's a small bit of
flesh, but it thinks—and cares."

   "And interacts with your circuitry."

   "That, too."

   "Alive," Colin murmured. "And aware, and called." After a slight
hesitation, he moved forward to touch the mummified creature himself.
Bogie's gauntlet went out as though to stop him, and then fell back.

   It was saurian. No doubt of that… the skin retained its scaly pattern even
through its crust of age and dirt. It looked upward, as though destruction
had rained from the sky, catching it unawares. The head was broad, the
eyes like a horse's… no sight directly to the front or rear, but well-set for
vision otherwise. The teeth, bared in a death grimace, were sharp at the
corners but well rounded otherwise. Colin touched them.

  "Not carnivorous, at least, not strictly. These are for grinding, not tearing.
Look at the hands."

  For hands they were, not paws or toes, fully exposed as the find reared
up.

   "Bipedal?" Jack said and moved forward, as drawn by the beast as Bogie
and Colin were. Amber stayed on point, watching the scene over one
shoulder.

   "It looks as if he was. And look at this." Colin reached for something
wedged in the dirt, something held in the hand on the far side. It came loose
easily from the beast's fingers.

   "It's a nonbiodegradable polymer satchel."

   Amber made a faint noise. Jack grinned. "It's a plastic bag," he told her.

   She mouthed an indistinguishable curse.

   Colin held it in his hands for a moment. Jack saw that they trembled. He
looked up at Jack.

   "Should I open it?"

   "And have what's inside disintegrate when the air nits it?"

   "Maybe. Maybe not." The Walker looked out over the hills, toward the
reddening sky. "We may never get away from here to open it under better
conditions."

   Amber muttered, "Just seeing it may have to be good enough for you.
Jack, I'm picking up blips on the long-range target."

   "ID?"

   "Not yet. We're out here in the open."

   Bogie mobilized then. With movements almost too swift to follow,
gauntlet fingers chiseled out the body and he lifted the fragile remains in his
arms. "Boss, let's get out of here."

   "You can't take that with you!"

   "I feel him in my mindsong. I was meant to come here, to find him, to
bring him… home. Jack—" and Bogie held out his arms, pleading.

   The mummified form seemed to shift in the cradle of Flexalink sleeves.
Jack sensed it and lunged forward too late. The mummy began to cave in
upon itself, dust unto dust, ashes unto ashes, and rained through Bogie's
helpless fingers as the sentience cried.

   He did not stop until the mummy had finished disintegrating and was
nothing more than particles upon the ground. Bogie stood still, his arms
outstretched toward Jack.

   "I'm sorry, Bogie. The exposure… it wasn't meant to be."

   Amber said, "Jack."

   Bogie turned his gauntlets over, emptying dust from his palms.

   Then Jack added, “Your helmet cameras recorded the find. We'll have
pictures, at least."

   Then Bogie spoke, from the hollowness of the armor he inhabited. "At
least," he echoed. He looked up. "Amber is right. We've been targeted."

   Jack felt the rumbling then, a deep subsound that prickled the hairs on
the back of his neck. A rumbling like the one that had awakened him in the
middle of the night when warships firestormed Claron. Or the rumbling a
soldier hears just before a drop of enemy troops. By the time the sound
became fully audible, it would be too late.

   "Shit."

   He grabbed Colin by the elbow. "It's time to think about getting out of
here."

   Amber loped by them, her armor glinting in the first blue rays of sunset.
"Past time," she muttered.

   Bogie shadowed Jack. "Boss, I'm getting three blips. Two gunboats and a
third, much larger ship."

   The broken terrain made any speed difficult. He kept a hand out to
Colin's elbow as the older man stumbled now and then, and a too bright
flush pinked the prelate's face. His thin fringe of chestnut and gray hair
ruffled in the wind, and he puffed a little as he endeavored to keep up with
Jack. But the Walker kept a death grip on his plastic bag.

   He could hear the sky's envelope giving way to the gunships that were
streaking in. Colin staggered to a slow jog.

  "Don't stop now."

  "How far?"

  "Far enough." Jack looked over the hillocks. He said to Bogie, "Which
ones are going to reach us first?"

  "The third ship, at this rate."

  He stooped and looked up. "Then I think we're going to be okay." He
pointed as the Ash-Farel swept over and the Talons disintegrated in its
wake. His shout of welcome was swallowed by the thunder of its passage.
He frowned then.

  "How did you know?" Amber breathed

   "I didn't," Jack answered her. "And I've changed my mind. We may not
live to tell the tale."




                                Chapter 32
                                                                       «^
He thumped Colin on the shoulder and grabbed Amber by the elbow. "Run
for it. We need to get as far underground as possible."
  "What is it?"

  He took off his helmet and hung it from his equipment belt. Denaro's
armor fit him well, but he didn't wish to meet Colin's gaze through the
sunscreen darkened visor, "Curse me for a farming boy—Amber's right. I'm
too thickheaded to play these games. We're just part of the bait in a trap."

   Overhead, thunder rumbled, but the sky did not smell of rain. Soon, it
would stink of battle. The three of them, tailed by a shambling Bogie, began
to walk out of the valley.

  "I don't understand," Colin said, between gulps of air.

   Jack shook his head. Sweat had been trickling down his brow and now
drops flew into the air. "I wondered why the Thraks kept you pinned down
here instead of just blasting you off dirtside. This is a plague planet, after
all—not too many people would even know you'd been here." He took
Colin's elbow to ease the older man's efforts. "They were waiting to see who
would show up."

  "They wanted you."

   Jack smiled wryly at Amber. "No… in fact, they're probably
disappointed I came in so quietly. I'm willing to bet they figured I'd come in
force, warmonger that I am."

  They paused on the crest boundary to the valley.

   "What they wanted was a tremendous battle—what they wanted was to
attract someone's notice."

  "Whose?"

   Jack pointed overhead as thunder drummed. "The Ash-Farel." A
lightning strike obscured his next sentence, but it was not a natural
phenomenon. With a curse, Jack grabbed both Colin and Amber and threw
them down, protecting them with his body. He was aware of Bogie joining
him, and then the heavens split open.

  Afterward, he would curse himself for not leaving his helmet on—but his
deafness was matched by Colin's as they shouted back and forth and tried to
explain. Then, all he knew was that the sky went white-hot, and the air
burst as the ships came streaking in over them.

  It had been a trap, and a well-laid one. The golden ship of the Ash-Farel
had little chance as the Thraks streaked in and crippled it. They harried it
across the horizon and Jack watched sadly as the ships disappeared. The
Thraks would not even give the Ash-Farel a mercy stroke.

   Tears from the brilliance of the fight streaked Colin's dirty face as he lifted
his chin to peer after them.

   "Why," he said. "Why don't they finish them off?"

   "They want it down," Jack said. "They want it down and cracked open
like an egg."

   "Why?"

   Jack looked toward Amber. "The Thraks want to know what it is they're
fighting. They're taking prisoners and gutting that ship for all the technology
they can get their claws on."

  "But—" her tawny hair swung about as she looked back in puzzlement.
Bogie crawled back and lifted her to her feet.

  "I think we'd better hurry," Jack said, his voice gone hoarse. "They
bought us a little time. Let's hope it's enough." He sacrificed further
explanations for speed as he called ahead. And when they got there Denaro
had the dig corsair waiting in a launch silo.



   The Walker holding of Farseeing was comfortable and homespun. They
were welcomed as honored guests and soon forgotten in the fervor that
surrounded Colin's presence. Amber found Jack quartered in the men's
wing, packing to leave on the second day after their arrival.

   "Rumor has it the Thraks have extended an apology to St. Colin for their
grievous actions." She dropped down on his cot. "I still don't understand.
The Thraks are our allies now, but you acted as if you thought the Ash-Farel
were there to help us."

   "Perhaps they were."

   "But they've attacked Dominion colonies, too."

   "I think they're attacking war efforts, whosoever they belong to."

   She tilted her head. "Maybe. And so the Thraks found the norcite dig—"
  "A site which has been known to attract Ash-Farel attention before—"

  "And created a disturbance big enough to bring a warship in—"

   "And sprang their trap. We, of course, got an apology. The Thraks are
our allies, after all, and had no intention of harming us. We merely… got in
the way while they were repulsing the enemy."

  "They must have had this planned even before the treaty."

   Jack nodded. "Having an alliance just made them do an extra little dance
to explain themselves."

  She shrugged. "And speaking of explanations, how do you plan to
explain that?" Amber said, nodding her chin toward the fully animated
Bogie.

  "I don't."

   She tossed her head, sending her tawny hair in ripples over her shoulders
and down her back. She was dressed in borrowed clothing, the modest
blouse and long, full skirt of the Walker women. The colors of the Blue
Wheel sect suited her. "Come on, Jack. You can't just explain away fully
automated, fully powered battle armor. Robots we've got, but sentient
computer-grounded war machines, no. They've been banned. And you
can't tell anyone the armor's inhabited. The xenobiologists will go crazy
trying to dig him out, like he's some kind of oyster."

   Jack raised an eyebrow and her torrent of words came to an abrupt halt
as she realized why she had caught him packing. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh,
no—not without me this time. You're not leaving me again!"

  He grabbed her shoulders. "I have to, Amber. Where I'm going, you
won't be able to follow. I can't take you and I don't want to have to worry
about you."

  Fear muddied her golden-brown eyes. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to desert. I'll be taking my suit and Bogie with me."

  She went limp between his hands and only his strength kept her upright.
He held her as though his very life depended on it. "You have to go back.
You have to watch Pepys and Baadluster for me. And I have to go."
   Baadluster scared her. "But why?"

  "I think we're fighting the wrong enemy. And I have to know if I'm right,
and if I am, I have to be able to bring back proof."

  Bogie added, "And I must follow my mindsong." The synthesizer gave
depth and sorrow to his basso voice.

   Amber straightened. "What about Colin? He's never been more at risk."

   "I know. And that's another reason I'm leaving you behind." He loosened
his grip on her and ran the knuckle of his index finger along her jaw. "You'll
have to fight the part of the war I can't."

   She tilted her chin up as though it would stop the flow of tears brimming
in her eyes. Baadluster would hound her, perhaps even imprison her, but
she couldn't let Jack know. She would not be responsible for stopping him.

   "I'll try," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Where are you
going?"

   "That I don't know yet. It's better if you don't know, anyway."

  She nodded. The tears splashed down in spite of her efforts. She raised a
hand to dash them away. "Dammit. I've become a regular shower since I
met you!"

  He lifted her chin back to its customary insolent tilt. "No," he said softly.
"You've become a beautiful woman."

   A shiver ran through her, but she lifted her face away from his touch and
glared at the white suit behind him. "You!" she called. "If you let anything
happen to him, I'll rip you out of there and throw you in the deep freeze!"

   Bogie just laughed, a deep rumbling sound. "Yes, ma'am," he said and
saluted.

   "How will I know how you are? How will you contact me?"

  Jack looked at her. "That's up to you. You've kept your power shuttered
ever since Bythia… but it's the only way we'll be able to keep in touch.
You're going to have to reach out for me and hope you find me."

   "Telepathically? Not over those distances." Her tremors reached her
throat and spasmed her muscles, threatening to shut away all sound.
Hussiah had not only taken away her ability to kill, he'd taken away her
ability to reach out to Jack. "I can't—" Her voice failed her, as she'd feared.

     He saw the doubt in her eyes. "Then you'll have to trust me, Amber.
You'll have to trust me that no matter where I am or what happens to me,
I'll come back to you."

   She denied him, shaking her head.

   He nodded then, and reached out, pulling her roughly to his chest where
she could hear the thumping of his heart. "We have to believe it," he
promised. "I'm going to fight this war and I'm going to win, and then I'm
going to come back to you for good. Nothing is going to stop me. Nothing."
                                —«»—«»—«»—