Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 05 - Return Fire

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Return Fire
The Sand Wars 5
Charles Ingrid
To Donald A. Wollheim, the man who made science fiction possible.
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
Prologue
^ »
Pepys, emperor of solar systems, sat in his communications web like a
bloat-bellied spider, his frizzy red hair alive about a face furrowed in
concentration and worry. His fingers twitched as his mind communed, but
he found nothing he wanted in the data he combed.
He broke silence with a furious yell that echoed throughout the obsidite
rose-pink hallways until his minister heard him and came running, security
cameras panning every flap of his somber black robes as he answered the
call.
Pepys was unplugging from his computer network when Baadluster
gained the chamber. The emperor looked up, his pale, freckled complexion
drawn in anger over the skeletal bones of his face. Vandover paused,
thinking to himself that, underneath the anger, Pepys did not look well. An
unwell emperor boded ill for the Triad Throne as well as for the Dominion,
for Pepys was the war leader and main creditor of the armed forces. He was
a brilliant man, but he had always reminded Baadluster of a small star
shining brightly just before it went nova. The ambitious side of Baadluster
found the realization enlightening. He produced a smile.
"Can I help you, your majesty?"
Pepys pushed himself out of the chair holding his frail looking body.
"Find him."
Baadluster lost his smile. Pepys' battle with the commander of the
Dominion Knights was a war that had already drawn in and destroyed one
ambitious successor to the throne. Baadluster might be found out and
defeated, but he had no intention of fighting a losing battle not his own. He
said cautiously, "Commander Storm was reported lost in the skirmish on
Colinada. Although I give the Thrakian report as little credence as you do,
your majesty, it appears the information is correct."
"And Saint Colin walked out of there unscathed while the best soldier in
battle armor was blasted into ashes?" Pepys gave a snort of disgust.
"Then ask the Walker what happened. As a religious man, he should be
predisposed toward lying."
"I have. He confirms the Thrakian story." Pepys shrugged into an over
robe, its threads woven into a nearly impervious fabric. Its weight did not
seem to tax the emperor's slight shoulders. The red-haired emperor had a
wiry strength often overlooked. Pepys looked up, cat-green eyes glittering.
"Jack is an idealist. I lost his trust when I made an alliance with the Thrakian
League. In his eyes, we've sold out to our worst enemy. He understands
diplomacy about as well as you understand the emotion of love. If you can't
find him, find the girl. She'll find him."
"I know the whore has returned to Malthen. More than that—she doesn't
carry an ID chip. She can go anywhere without being recorded." Baadluster
shrugged. "He'll know she's being sought. He'll find another whore."
Pepys paused in the doorway of the chamber. He looked back, lips
thinning. "Your assessment of Amber's relationship with Storm proves me
out. The lady may be many things, but not a whore. I want Jack Storm
found."
"Then just what do you suggest I do? I'm a Minister of War, not head of
the World Police." The ambitious man who had lost his life trying to nail
Commander Storm had been head of the security network. Baadluster had
wasted no time in tapping into Winton's position, but it had all been
unofficial. He spread his hands, large, flat appendages, in the air. "The
Ash-Farel keep me busy."
Scorn smoldered color back into the emperor's pale face. "Try the Green
Shirts. He may have gone looking for the underground." Pepys drew up a
corner of his robe, wrapped it nervously about one freckled hand, and
smoothed it there. "He says he has full knowledge of who and what he was
twenty-five years ago, but I doubt him. He's exhausted his options
here—he'll have to go to them for answers."
Baadluster inclined his head, thick lips pursed in a noncommittal
expression.
"And Vandover."
The minister looked up from the delicate, threadlike cable he had begun
to roll up and put away. "Your majesty?"
"Spread the word that Storm is on an infiltration mission. If he reaches
the Green Shirts, they won't trust him either."
"Yes, your majesty."
"I want him dead. If we can't find him and do it, perhaps they will."
Baadluster straightened. "Pepys—there appear to be two invincible forces
operating in our space. The first is the Ash-Farel, who are dangerous enough
that they drove us to ally with the Thraks, and the second is Jack Storm. I
respectfully remind you that opposing Commander Storm may not be wise.
You've tried to take him out before. This time, he may feel free to return
fire."
Fury filled the emperor to the point where he seemed to gain height. But
he said nothing, turned heel, and left.
Baadluster found he'd been holding his breath. He looked at the fine
cables draped over his fingers and dropped them on the communication
chamber floor. Let the janitors clean up Pepys' messes. He followed after his
emperor.
Chapter 1
« ^ »
Colin bowed his head and bent his shoulders. A dank wind blew thinning
strands of hair across his brow, but it was not the element he cut his way
against as he crossed the parking grounds toward home. Before he lifted his
eyes to meet theirs, he could hear the clack of chiton and carapaces as
Thraks shifted into a guard position, meeting him at his own door as though
he were the enemy and not they. He met them squarely, the trio who had
replaced his own long time bodyguard at the gated entrance to Walker
headquarters, his rugged cross thumping upon his chest at his abrupt halt.
He smoothed it down, aware the faceted eyes of the aliens accosting him
watched every movement keenly, their expressions hidden behind kabuki
masks of beetle armor.
The self-made minister to thousands swallowed a bitter taste in his
mouth, reminding himself that they were no longer enemies, but allies. He
no more believed it than he believed the lies of his long time friend Emperor
Pepys, author of this misalliance.
"Identify yourself," said the Thraks to the fore. Dark sable throat leather
bulged with his implant.
Colin sighed. "Colin of the Blue Wheel," he said, disliking the way his
voice sounded the moment the words were out. Old. Weak. Dispirited. He
clenched his hand deep in the vest pocket of his overrobe. Had he traded all
he'd once valued just to coexist?
The Thraks reached forward spindly fingers, crab claws with agility,
bowing over him from its superior height. "Pass," it said.
The Walker saint thrust his jaw forward and moved between them
forcibly though they had stepped aside to let him around them. With the
clicking sounds of their alien flesh, they jostled each other to let him
through, as averse to touching him as he was to touching them. Once inside
his gates, burly Jonathan met him with warm hands, steadying him.
The ursinelike aide also topped him, but Jonathan exuded the milk of
human kindness and, perversely, Colin felt smothered. He almost preferred
the Thraks to this attention.
He snapped, "Leave me be."
"Your holiness…"
Colin came to a halt inside the foyer. He waited until the security doors
slid shut and then said, "I'm sorry, Jonathan. You didn't deserve that."
The massive man's face closed in an expression that agreed with him. He
moved to take Colin's outer vest, but the older man hugged it about himself,
saying, "It's a little chilly. You can taste winter's edge out there—it may
even rain later. I think I'll keep this on a while."
"I've got your apartment warming up. Shall I send up tea?"
Tea sounded good. "I'll take it up with me," he said. "I've the eulogy to
work on. Tell Margaret to hold all my calls this evening." His aide nodded
briskly and turned away to the kitchen
Alone at last, tea tray balanced in his hands, Colin mounted the steps to
his private apartment. Audiences with Pepys were beginning to sap him, as
though the emperor were a parasite of some sort, a devious being Colin
must constantly spar with. Nor was Colin happy about being pressured into
doing the eulogy for Commander Jack Storm, late of the Dominion Knights.
There would be the inevitable military rites, all the more poignant because
Jack was missing in action—his body had never been found. And, God
willing, it never would be.
Taking the staircase an incline at a time, feeling his knees creak and
watching the chinaware jiggle on the tray, steam puffing from under the
teapot lid with each sway, Colin approached the only sanctuary he had left,
a small but comfortable apartment hidden deep within Walker
headquarters.
He set the tray down on the burled wood table from old home, long ago
Terra, his knuckles brushing the polished surface. There was life in that
touch, the life of wood still vibrant. With a sound half-sigh and half-groan,
Colin lowered himself onto the comfort of his settee.
The room was deeply shadowed in late afternoon, but he did not call up
his lights, preferring the comfort of dimness as he poured a cup and sat
back, sipping the heated contents gingerly. The settee cushions embraced
him.
"You're getting old," he muttered to himself. "Tolerating the enemy at
your doorstep."
"I've never known you to tolerate anything," a shadow spoke back to
him, and a man separated himself from the darkness of a corner.
Colin juggled his teacup, cursing as the hot liquid splashed on him. With
a laugh, the tall man joined him and helped to blot up the disaster.
The minister sat back in exasperation. "Good God! What are you doing
here—you're dead."
A sandy-colored eyebrow arched. "Rumors greatly exaggerated?"
"No, by God! I perjured myself, Storm, to give you a second chance.
What are you doing here?"
Jack lowered himself into an expansive chair across from the couch. "I'm
grateful for everything you've done."
"And we're both ruined if anyone saw you come in."
"I'd not be much of a Knight if I couldn't get past a few Thraks."
Colin's mouth twisted as he steadied his hands and reached for his teacup
again. Pointedly, he did not offer his guest any. Storm did not need an
invitation. He scooped up a cup with movement suggesting his
long-fingered hands, one of them oddly missing the smallest finger, had
handled much more delicate instruments. Colin had wondered for years
how his friend had injured himself, but there were some questions one did
not ask a free mercenary. And now, of course, Storm was no longer a
mercenary, but a sworn Knight, a fighting man mated to the technology of
battle armor. But now Colin also knew, had learned, what had caused that
injury, and others, which haunted the man. Being confined in cold sleep for
seventeen years had taken its toll. Frostbite here, and other, more subtle and
devastating changes elsewhere.
Jack waited for Colin to down half a cup. "What makes you so
melancholy and testy this late in the day?"
St. Colin made a most unsaintly face. "I find myself faced with composing
a eulogy."
"Ah." Storm added compassionately. "It happens to all of us, sooner or
later."
"You should know," the man said dryly. "It's your funeral."
"What!"
"Don't tell me you didn't know. And here you are, making a liar out of
me."
Storm put his teacup down, stood, and paced, the wood table an
uncertain barrier between them. "It's only been a few months."
"The Thrakian ambassador has been pressing to take you off the MI list
and have you officially laid to rest. Then he can press to have K'rok instated
as permanent commander in your absence." Colin watched as Storm halted
and several expressions flitted across the Knight's face.
"K'rok?"
"Who else?"
"I thought perhaps one of the Thraks—" he paused. "No. Milot or not,
K'rok is probably the cagiest being for the job they want done, although I
don't know if the Thraks know what they've got a hold of—"
"They certainly didn't know with you," Colin interrupted. "But Milos has
been under their claws for twenty-five years—"
Humor reflected in Storm's rainwater blue eyes. "Not long enough. K'rok
was born free, and he grew up fighting Thraks. He only stopped to avoid
extinction, and as soon as he finds a way to throw off their yoke, he'll do it.
No, K'rok is as good a choice as any to head up the Knights. I think I'll stay
dead."
Stress lines in Colin's face visibly relaxed as the prelate sank back among
the cushions, teacup balanced on his knee. "I'm glad I was able to persuade
you."
Storm paused in mid-stride, the irony not lost on him. He looked down.
"I wouldn't have exposed you unnecessarily," he said.
"Thank you. I wouldn't have lied about you unnecessarily, but I seem to
remember us coming to an agreement on that strategy. And, since we did,
what the hell are you doing back on Malthen?"
"I think I've gotten you in enough trouble already." With a flexing of a
young body still well in its prime, Jack sat. He did not reach for his teacup.
"But I think I see an easier way of accomplishing what I need to. When's the
funeral?"
"The day after tomorrow."
"You'll need a retinue?"
"Of course, I—" Colin plowed to a stop. He shook his head. "Oh, no.
You're not sneaking in behind my robes."
"It's not for vanity. I need to get in. And I don't want to jeopardize
Amber by contacting her."
"And do you honestly think, if I did bring you inside the palace grounds
with me, that you'd escape her detection?"
Jack grinned. "I should hope not. But if she finds out, she'll play her part
anyway. You know that."
"This… opportunity… you're looking for. It must be awfully important to
risk coming back here."
Jack smiled thinly. "It is," he said. "It's my initiation into the Green
Shirts."
The teacup bounced off the redwood table and shattered at Colin's feet.
He did not seem to have noticed, all warmth fled from his face. "That's
unconscionable. They're murdering scum, Jack—you're better off dealing
with Pepys directly. He has to put on a public façade and that at least makes
him maintain a veneer of civilization."
"They may be terrorists—but I haven't forgotten that they were the ones
who found my cold ship and thawed me out."
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ScannedbyHighroller.Cleaned,re-formatted&proofreadbynukie.Color:-1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8--9-TextSize:10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-22-23-24ReturnFireTheSandWars5CharlesIngrid ToDonaldA.Wollheim,themanwhomadesciencefictionpossible. TableofContentsPrologueChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5C...

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