Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 3 - Celestial Hit List

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Celestial Hit List
The Sand Wars 3
Charles Ingrid
DEDICATED TO:
Howard, who’s been there and back again and lived to tell the tale, with
thanks… some spoken but many not.
And to Sheila, for all her help and encouragement as well.
Table of Contents
PART I: MALTHEN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART II: BYTHIA
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
PART I:
MALTHEN
CHAPTER ONE
^ »
No suit, no soldier. We’ve drummed that into you. And now, we’re going to
make liars out of ourselves. The purpose of this exercise,” their commander
said, his voice ringing off the forty-foot-high parade ground walls, “is to
prove that, even if you take away the armor, you still have a Knight.” He
looked across the phalanx, squinting in the too-bright sun of the planet
Malthen, sweating in the almost desert quality heat of the city of Malthen.
“After we’re done with you, it’s far more than the armor or the gauntlet
stingers or the laser cannons that make you what you are.”
Within their rows, the soldiers stood at ease, though admittedly
somewhat ill at ease. They murmured amongst themselves, listening to the
broadcast from the movable platform to their fore, and closely watching the
man who paced through the ranks between them and the commander, for
he was their hero.
He was lean and rangy, muscle still filling out his young frame, for they
were all young—the rigors of being a Dominion Knight for the Triad Throne
demanded a body in its prime—but the eyes of washed out blue held a look
far older than his years, dominating his angular face. He paused, throwing
back his head and looking up, in spite of the too-bright sun. The movement
tossed drops of water from sweat-darkened sandy hair. He frowned. He was
on display here, and he did not like it. For the barest second, his eyes
darkened like the storm of his surname.
Then he looked to his commander—whippet lean, wavy hair of gleaming
silver, a space-tanned face, dressed to the neck in immaculate silvers.
“Where are the equipment racks?”
“They’re on the way. Relax, Jack. This is just a rehearsal.”
The hero made a low noise of disgust at the back of his throat and began
to prowl again, much to the dismay of the short, round-bodied man
attempting to measure him. Storm pointed at his commander. “If my suit’s
been disturbed—”
“It won’t be. We’ve had them under guard. Don’t you think I know
media tricks? It won’t be bugged, I promise you that. And we’ll have them
swept clean again tomorrow before the ceremony.”
Jack Storm paused again, a fraction of a moment, and their eyes met.
Nothing was more inviolate to a Knight than the suit of battle armor his life
depended upon. He did not say that to his commander, however, for the
man facing him also wore battle armor and the only name the commander
was known by was that of his armor: the Owner of the Purple. Jack’s friend
and commander was so well known for the mercenary armor passed down
to him by his father that he had lost his original identity.
If the waiting ranks of soldiers noted the tension, they said nothing. The
coming ceremony pricked at them, too. They’d worked and trained hard
and most of them looked forward to their first blooding. Not many relished
being paraded on live relays for civilians to gape at. Almost as one, they
shifted uneasily, waiting for their own battle gear to arrive.
Jack stopped again, two steps away from the Purple who lounged at the
base of his platform. “I’m a soldier, not a hero. None of this is necessary.”
He started to say more, but he wasn’t alone. He flinched under the tailor’s
measuring hologram, moving almost imperceptibly, and the round-bodied
man swore.
“You’ll be a soldier without legs if you don’t stand still!” The little man
glared at the tall one and he brandished his laser scissors. He met no
resistance this time as the Purple held Jack’s level stare.
“The emperor wants to review the troops,” the Purple said evenly.
“Damnit, he knows what we look like.”
At Jack’s flank, the tailor tapped in some adjustments on his keypad.
“You’ve filled out some more. That means another fitting!”
“Peace, Franco,” the commander said mildly. “He needed it, after
Lasertown. There’s only three meals between now and tomorrow morning.
The uniform should be adequate.”
Jack looked at the tailor, amusement flickering in his light blue eyes. The
tailor met the glance before looking quickly away. Bowing, he turned off the
holo and hurriedly skittered across the parade grounds.
The Purple straightened up. “Pepys wants you at your best tomorrow,”
he said. “How often does a contract laborer become a hero?”
“I was a Knight, first.”
“And before you became a Knight, a free-lance mercenary.”
No, Jack thought. I was always a Knight. But he did not voice his
thoughts, because the mercenaries followed a code that said there was no
tomorrow, only today, and the Purple had accepted him on that basis. For
the Owner of the Purple, Jack had no history. Instead of interrupting, Jack
listened, knowing that his former mercenary friend had become a mediator,
a buffer, always between the newly reformed Knights, and the Emperor of
the Triad Throne. All of them had sworn allegiance to the emperor in all
manner of thought and deed—except for Jack. He’d sworn vengeance. Now,
as if to hide his thoughts, he turned on one heel, looking back at his fellows.
“He’s tripled the size of the bodyguard.”
“Closer to quadrupled, while you were gone.”
Storm stared at the Malthen parade grounds, but what he saw was the
dead moon surface, where he had nearly died. He blinked and the dust and
heat-fused parade grounds came back into focus. Would it never rain here,
sweeping away the dust and misery? In spite of the heat, he shivered. He’d
worked hard to become a Knight, only to lose it all when he’d been
shanghaied, contracted out—but he’d fought back. And now he was back.
Pepys seemed determined to make a hero out of him instead of an
embarrassment by adding cover-up charges to the havoc Jack had already
wreaked.
Such as blowing up a Thrakian warship despite the Treaty.
Jack smiled grimly at the memory. Sound shields were up, a sonic curtain
protecting the practice ceremony from electronic surveillance by over-eager
media specialists. But what he had to say was for the commander’s ears
alone. He stepped closer to the Owner of the Purple.
“Why won’t he see me?”
Purple looked at him. Humor had permanently etched its marks at the
corners of lively brown eyes that belied the age his silvery hair indicated. He
paused, before asking in turn, “What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s talked to everybody about Lasertown but me. For God’s
sake, he’s even interviewed you and you weren’t even there.”
“He’s protecting you, isn’t he? The man’s emperor, Jack, not a damn
garbage processor.”
“What I have to say isn’t garbage. He has to know what happened, not
only to me but to everyone under the dome—he has to know what the
Thraks are doing. He has to know what I saw.”
The two men stood, nearly nose to nose, an old man with young eyes
and a young man with old eyes. Jack shifted, angry but uneasy over being
at odds with his commander.
“He’s the emperor,” Purple said quietly. “The Sand Wars brought down
old Regis, but Pepys is determined not to make the same mistakes. He’ll
talk to you when he’s ready.”
Jack started to say more, but his next words were drowned out by the
noisy arrival of the equipment racks and he turned, almost lovingly, to the
rack which held his own armor, opalescent Flexalinks hanging rigidly from
its hooks.
The sunlight became fiercer, its reflection arrowing off the equipment as
the Knights suited up.
“We shall demand retribution.”
The ambassador of the Thrakian League lounged on his slant board and
eyed the general pacing in front of him. “You shall do no such thing. If I am
able to obtain an invitation to the ceremonies, you will be expected to show
decorum.”
“Decorum!” General Zlakt halted. His faceted eyes glared at those of his
ambassador. “The being destroys a ship, and we are made chitinless by the
likes of you!”
The ambassador waved an arm. “May I remind you, general, that we
were in the process of annexing a mining colony on the fringe of Dominion
territory. We will not be given a chance to explain our motives. We are
dangerously close to losing the treaty on the basis of your hasty orders.”
“And we are no closer to Lasertown than before.”
“No. And it’s my understanding that the site suffered considerable
damage and is of no use to us anymore, as it is. I’ll not have you
jeopardizing all I’ve worked for these last twenty years because of a
warrior’s rage!” The ambassador sprang up from the slant board, bounding
over to face the Thrakian general.
The two confronted each other, genes of an ambassador opposed to those
of a warrior.
The general made a low, guttering sound from deep within his chitin.
Then he said, “That warrior rage served you well during the Sand Wars.”
“No doubt of that, Zlakt. But the Triad Throne has a new emperor and it
is not likely we can push forward our advances like that again.” Ambassador
Dhurl retreated a step. He swirled the end of his robe about and over his
shoulder. “You may never admit it, but we ambassadors are soldiers of a
kind. It is my skill he will respond to.”
“Not if he thinks you spineless.”
Dhurl pulled his face into the mask of undefeatability. Zlakt, watching
him, felt the barest flicker of admiration. Even as he was a general, here was
a true ambassador.
“Emperor Pepys does not underestimate us. It is my job to see he does
not. As for the loss of the Lasertown site, the matter is done with. There will
be other opportunities to grapple with our old enemy.”
“Perhaps. Then you will not ask for anything to be done to Jack Storm.”
“No,” Dhurl said. His voice thickened. “Not yet. I will make a formal
protest but expect nothing to come of it. Have you seen the armor?”
“Not yet.”
“I am told it’s been coated with norcite. An interesting combination,
don’t you think?”
General Zlakt drew himself upward tightly. “More than interesting,” he
answered, “if the beings but knew what they had.” He saluted. “By your
leave.”
Dhurl sighed. “Of course, general.” The ambassador waited until the
general reached the door of the embassy dwelling. “And Zlakt—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t do anything foolish. I will not tolerate it.”
Zlakt ground his mandibles but did not respond. Without waiting for
further dismissal, he left the ambassador, slamming the door shut behind
him.
The slant board wavered in the aftershock. Ambassador Dhurl regarded
it for a moment, then pulled his face plates into the mask of domination and
retired once more.
The palace halls of the Emperor’s wing stood shadowed, as if late at
night, inviting visitors and assassins. Both visitors and assassins would
normally have been turned away by the security cameras, floor and wall
sensors, heat sensors and even the odd psychic or two tuned in at World
Police. But now the Emperor was not at home. Having invited guests and
knowing that the uninvited would be there as well, he had retired to a more
secure building outside of Malthen.
A solitary figure, already privy to the pattern of the maze that formed
this wing, took the opportunity presented and glided along the corridors.
Dressed in black, the opportunist paused now and then to avoid the invited
guests and passed them by without even being noticed, despite all the cable
and wiring and camera work the media was laying down for the following
day’s events. With scarcely a sound, the opportunist continued to penetrate
the security system, finally reaching the doors to Emperor Pepys’ study and
pausing there. The bedrooms were not of interest. The computer room was.
A clatter in the outside corridor sent the opportunist to the nearest
shadow, where she held her breath, waited, and listened.
“I don’t care who you have to bribe, I want that tape. And I want that
tape pirate who calls himself a free-lance journalist brought in and hung by
the balls. He’s patched in to me once too often. I want an exclusive, without
excuses, on that man of Pepys’.”
The intruder knew that crisp, baritone voice almost as well as she knew
her own. He must be standing right outside Pepys’ door!
“We’ll do what we can, Randolph, but be reasonable—”
“Being reasonable didn’t get me where I am today. Let’s see if we can’t
find this hero before they trot him out for public viewing. I want to see if
he’s got any warts.”
The second voice made a small gargling sound at the back of his throat,
then asked, “Are you still working on the estrangement angle?
Footsteps, a pace or two and then back. “Why not? Pepys is staging a
media show… one he expects us to relay live, but I don’t think the
broadcast will be as self-serving as he expects. I don’t intend to overlook his
desire to be elected House Speaker for the Congress.”
“Shit, Randolph, we can do without the controversy—we’ve got to be
able to leave this planet, remember?”
“That’s my job.” The deep voice hit a baritone note and held it for a
moment, almost as if a bell tolled. “The Thrakian League will be boiling all
over us tomorrow, protesting the recent events. Pepys wants a whitewash
by pretending to lay out all the data, but he’s not going to get it.”
The girl in the shadows put her head back to the cooling surface of the
wall behind her. She steadied a hand, palm down. Not only did she know
the voice and the powerful journalist who owned it, she knew the man they
searched for. Knew him intimately. And knew that Scott Randolph could do
nothing but harm to him if they found him.
The computer room became unimportant, for the moment. She’d gotten
here once, she’d make it back again. She pushed herself away from the wall
and crossed the quarters to the double doors outside which stood the
broadcaster and his crew.
Randolph’s deep tones rumbled again. “I’ve got no guts to the show
unless I find that hero.”
There was a pause, then the second man said, “Don’t bullshit me, Scott.
You’re still looking for a lead on your lost Knight story. You got suckered on
that one—when are you going to admit it? We’ve been chasing that ghost
for years.”
“It’s no ghost! I know that.” There was an edge to Randolph’s voice, but
even if it hadn’t been there, Amber’s attention would still have been frozen
by these words. “My source is reliable.”
摘要：

ScannedbyHighroller.Cleaned,re-formatted&proofreadbynukie.Color:-1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8--9-TextSize:10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-22-23-24CelestialHitListTheSandWars3CharlesIngrid DEDICATEDTO:Howard,who’sbeenthereandbackagainandlivedtotellthetale,withthanks…somespokenbutmanynot.AndtoSheila,for...

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