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  “Good,” grunted Sherman. “That might be useful.”

  “What will you do when the attack comes?”

  Sherman turned back to the water and regarded the sea. Could he just make out Italy, just at the horizon? Greece? Troy?

  “Be like Paris,” Sherman said. “Strike for the heel.”

  Four

  NEPTUNE SYSTEM

  E-STANDARD 01:19, THURSDAY, APRIL 3, 3017

  DIED FLAGSHIP AZTEC SACRIFICE

  On paper, he looked unstoppable. But C. C. Haysay believed he’d learned a lesson after his last outing. A very painful lesson. He’d spent over three e-years hunkered down in the Saturn system, consolidating the DIED rule over the system and building his forces.

  To be honest, it was Amés who built the forces. Mostly what Haysay had done was channel colossal amounts of material back to the Met, most of it harvested from the Saturnian rings. In the Met, in the vast manufacturing complexes of the Vas, the raw material was turned into spaceships and weapons and shipped back to Saturn by the gigaton. Logistics and supply had always been Haysay’s strong point as a junior officer, and he had to admit that he rather liked things the way they had been until fairly recently. Invasions and head-on battles were scattershot affairs that invited mistakes—mistakes that could lose you your job. Or even worse, mistakes that could get your hide beaten. Literally.

  Either way, Haysay was just as happy to count beans and lord it over the natives while he could. But now the buildup was complete, and it was time for action.

  He had to admit: He was the commander of a vast armada. Victory ought to be a foregone conclusion. Twenty-five full-sized ships, each with its retinue of attack craft, recon units, what-have-you. And he was now ensconced on his flagship, Aztec Sacrifice , a carrier-class behemoth, as big as any ship in the DIED navy. Under his command: three million soldiers, if you counted compressed and noncompressed. Four million if you counted the tagions under service contracts, which of course you didn’t—talk of free converts as equivalent to biological or LAP soldiers was strictly forbidden by the Department of Immunity Internal Division these days. They were to be referred to as computing algorithms or, when they were device specific, referred to solely by the name of the device they served. A tagion was a tagion. Haysay didn’t care one way or another about naming protocol, except that it made planning a bit difficult, as there were at least five different systems currently in use for counting free converts. Estimating troop strength was just that—a rather rough estimate. Even his free-convert analysts had trouble keeping the various systems straight!

  An army of four million to fight for him. Haysay himself delocalized, his LAP existence spread out over the Met as far and wide as the planets. He was not personally threatened. So why did he feel such physical fear, here at the launch of the most important operation of his career?

  Amés.

  With other superiors, there had always been a way to fudge problems, to shift blame. Amés didn’t let him get away with any of that. And if there was one LAP who was more decentralized than even Haysay was, it was Director Amés. He had his tendrils everywhere—especially with that damned spy he kept on the payroll, the one who seemed to know every sordid and inconvenient fact in the solar system. The fact was, Amés always knew where you lived and when to come knocking to catch you at your most awkward moment.

  But if Haysay succeeded…if he succeeded, there was the Glory. Amés’s blessing. The feeling of interconnectedness, of rightness, that the Director provided to his faithful servants. Haysay wasn’t sure what the hell it was—some sort of quantum jolt, he imagined. But it felt wonderful when you found yourself in Amés’s favor.

  It was as simple as that. Stimulus and response. Punishment and reward. Just because you understood the principle behind what was being done to you didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. It was damned effective. But he’d really better stop trembling…

  Haysay clasped his hands behind his back and, dipping into the virtuality, examined the position of Aztec Sacrifice. They were well out from Saturn. And the leading cloud of warships ahead of them would be nearing the Neptune system within the hour.

  “Those fremden might already be feeling the merci jamming, might they not?” Haysay asked his adjutant, Major Zane.

  “Nereid’s orbit is highly eccentric, as you know, sir,” replied Zane evenly. “It is at the outermost extent of that orbit at the moment—just as our battle scenario calls for.” Zane glanced at a display. “Jamming should go into effect in thirteen minutes, twenty seconds.”

  “Of course,” said Haysay. “Very good.” He’d forgotten about Nereid’s weird orbit. Had Zane guessed his ignorance? Hard to tell. The young major was eager to advance and therefore eager to please. He had a habit of showboating in the fullest manner possible. Haysay despised the man, but found him useful. Better have a butt-kisser than a plotter for an aide. Haysay could comprehend and deal with butt-kissers. He’d done enough of it himself to understand their mentality. You didn’t have nearly as much control over plotters. Besides, who didn’t like having his butt kissed?

  “Sir, we’ve got an odd report from Pluto coming in,” Zane said. Zane’s eyes widened. “Actually, it’s General Blanket personally calling you, sir!”

  “Blanket?” said Haysay. “He knows I’m directing the attack on Neptune. What can he want?”

  “Shall I usher him in?” said Zane.

  “Very well.”

  In the virtual portion of the Aztec Sacrifice bridge, a door opened and Kang Blanket’s vinculum avatar burst into the room, as hot and bothered as Haysay had ever seen him. His enormous black eyebrows—or eyebrow , rather—stretched bushy and disgrunted across his face.

  “There’s a cloudship approaching Charon,” Blanket said. “It’s enormous, and I suspect that it’s loaded with fremden troops.”

  “What?” said Haysay. “Troops from where, pray tell?”

  “Neptune!” Blanket almost shouted. “Where else? You’re supposed to have those people engaged! ”

  “I’m proceeding to do so,” replied Haysay. “We’re almost in position.”

  “You’re going to have to divert a force in this direction,” said Blanket.

  “I don’t think so,” Haysay replied. “You have the Streichholtzer , after all.”

  “The Streichholtzer ?” Blanket was screaming. “The cloudship that’s approaching could swallow the Streichholtzer as a snack! Do you comprehend the danger I’m in? Here, let me show you.”

  Blanket blanked a section of Haysay’s bridge display and changed the channel to his own sources. Haysay was beyond irritated. He and Blanket were nominally equals, but you didn’t do such things to a fellow commander. Particularly the commander of a world that dwarfed your own measly piece of the heavens.

  Then Haysay saw the approaching cloudship, and he was taken aback. It was large. It was spun like a spiral galaxy in shape. And it was on a direct course for Charon and ultimately, of course, Pluto.

  “How big is that thing, Zane?” Haysay asked.

  “About one hundred kilometers across,” Zane replied in a low voice. “And the disk is a kilometer thick.”

  “The Streichholtzer is five kilometers long, General,” said Blanket. “So you see my problem.”

  “I do not ,” Haysay replied. “Those cloudships are mostly empty space. You have a carrier at your disposal, Blanket. Scramble your fighters!”

  “I’ve done that, of course,” Blanket replied. “But if that ship contains an invasion force of any strength, I’m not prepared to hold them.”

  Blanket’s face was pallid, and his eyebrow stood out even more starkly as a result.

  Dammit, thought Haysay, he may be right. But so what? What is Pluto to me? Nothing. And with Neptune in our grasp, we’ll quickly move to reclaim the little cinder, anyway.

  But there was a nagging thought in Haysay’s mind. The tiniest irritation. Here it was: the perfect opportunity for a mistake. And mistakes meant pain. Physical pain.
/>   Haysay’s hand began once again to tremble.

  “Oh, very well, General, you’ve convinced me,” Haysay finally said. “I’m going to send you half of my Beta Group—the ones that are vectored in around Neptune’s South Pole. Seven Dirac-class ships, mind you, with their troop complements. They’re already up to speed, a hundredth of light. I was going to have them gravity-assist brake and join in the attack as a second wave, but instead we’ll keep them going.”

  The color began to return to Blanket’s face—a jaundiced hue, it seemed to Haysay, and not much of an improvement over his previous bloodless state.

  “I thank you, General,” Blanket replied. “We’ll hold the fremden off until help arrives. If we’re going to be saved, you’ve likely saved us.” He bowed slightly, then turned and headed for his virtual exit portal.

  “Just don’t forget what I’ve done for you,” Haysay called after him. “When it comes time for the Glory.”

  Blanket turned around, smiled. When he did, his eyebrow turned in a curious U shape.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll know the score,” Blanket said. “He always does.”

  He exited, the door he’d just passed through collapsing to a point as soon as Blanket was on the other side. With a sigh, Haysay told Zane to issue the necessary orders to Beta Group, Second Squadron.

  Oh well, he still had eighteen warships at his disposal. That should be enough to take over a world or two. Enough, and to spare.

  Oh yes, this time, he would be the one who was giving the beating.

  Five

  URANUS SYSTEM

  E-STANDARD 13:13, TUESDAY, APRIL 1, 3017

  CHILDE ELRONDIUS TO THE

  DRAGON UMBRIEL CAME

  Childe Elrondius strode forth in his shiniest plate armor to face the dreaded Dragon of Umbriel. He had no illusions about killing the beast, but to die in the dragonquest was high honor.

  Alas for life. Elrondius did love it so. The dark nights a-wandering the craters of his home moon, always astride his trusty steed Apogee—the last in a long and storied line of robo-horses. The Underfather, King Uranus, hung in the sky above him, as He always did, gorging on the suffering of His children. This was the lot of a true knight: to die valiantly so that one could feed the Underfather a great soul.

  Yes, life was sweet, but death must needs trump all. For a knight lived but for a breath, the space of a spark across tines of iron, but when one was dead—that then was eternity, with life dwindling to nothing, then to less than nothing as the eons rolled on without ceasing.

  Or so the priests said.

  He descended down the craggy trail and soon Apogee’s hooves were clopping along on the black ice that flowed, glacier-slow, through the deeper canyons of Oberon.

  Down, down, and in sixty-times-sixty breaths he was there. In the lair of the Dragon.

  “Mortal man, you smell of light. You smell of liquid water!” The voice was a bass drum. It reverberated through the very ground itself and was perceived and translated by the magic from Before the Dawn that dwelt within Elrondius’s blessed coat of armor.

  Elrondius wasted no time. “I have come to challenge you, Dragon,” he answered through the magic transmitter ensorcelled into his helmet. “I have come to show you of what mettle be the true knights of Oberon!”

  Elrondius ventured nearer. Up ahead, he thought he made out a cavern of some sort. And was that a light within?

  No. No light. That was the Dragon of Umbriel’s eye !

  The thing was enormous. Gargantuan. In short—much bigger than he’d expected. What weapons had he brought with him? A shiversword. Useless. He knew it would be useless against such might.

  “A little closer,” the Dragon said. “Why not ride directly into my mouth? Save me the trouble of cooking you, will you?” With that, the Dragon let out a guffaw that shook the canyon and cracked the ice below Apogee’s hooves. The robo-horse shied, but with firm hand Elrondius held the beast to its course.

  Gazing upward, he made out the form of the Dragon of Umbriel. It was crouched at the back of a cul-de-sac canyon. It was the cul-de-sac! What appeared to be craggy heights from a distance were, when viewed up close, the upright cock scales of the Dragon’s plumed back. What seemed alluvial mounds of sediment were actually the Dragon’s outspread talons. And what appeared a dead end suddenly hinged open to reveal row upon row of jagged stalactite and stalagmite teeth.

  And behind the teeth—white fire smoldered. Death.

  A black and writhing form suddenly sprang from the Dragon’s maw. It wrapped itself, snakelike, about the legs of Apogee. Elrondius was flung headlong from his mount, and he watched in horror as the robo-horse was dragged along—over the rough ground, against and over the teeth, and into the white heat of the gullet. The robo- horse, silent until then, let out an awful scream. There was a flash of light, and then the scream stopped.

  Elrondius rose up, shiversword in hand.

  “Your servant leaves the aftertaste of cheap tin, I’m afraid,” the Dragon said. “Now, Sir Knight—how do you taste?”

  “For Percival and Apogee!” Elrondius cried, and charged.

  His shiversword rang against the lower row of teeth. No effect. He was in direct contact with the beast and the Dragon’s continued laughter shook him to the bone. Screaming in defiance, Elrondius thrust upward.

  Could he find the brain, even as the jaw descended? His sword found purchase. Dug deeper. Deeper.

  The Dragon’s voice trailed off to a whisper. It swarmed over him, dug into him until Elrondius’s ears began to bleed. The ribs in his chest began to shatter one by one with each of the Dragon’s words.

  “Do you take my designer for an idiot, that he would put my brain in my head?” whispered the Dragon.

  The great head rose up. Elrondius clung to his shiver-sword, his whole body alive with pain. But somehow, the knight held on.

  Below his dangling feet, the white fire grew.

  “Here is my secret,” said the Dragon. “My brain is in my tail.”

  The white fire spread upward.

  Elrondius could not help himself. He gazed down in fear. Fear in death. The Underfather would spit out a coward.

  He will not spit me out. If I call His name, the Underfather will surely hear me.

  Or so the priests said.

  And if they are wrong? If somehow all of what I believe to be true is dreadfully, terribly mistaken?

  I still die my way. No one will spit me out.

  With this cry of defiance, the knight let go his shiver-sword and fell into the Dragon of Umbriel’s fiery gullet.

  The Dragon swallowed. Roared a seething gout of flame upward. The flame curled out, out of the canyon and upward—spread upward toward the face of Uranus itself.

  Then the beast laid down its head and waited for the next Knight of Oberon to come a-dragonquesting.

  Six

  URANUS SYSTEM

  E-STANDARD 02:45, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 3017

  “It’s not a bad way to go,” said Gerardo Funk. “Escapism. Derring-do. Most people like that sort of thing.”

  “It’s the nastiest death I can possibly imagine,” Thomas Ogawa replied. “Using a tawdry fantasy to delude poor, misguided souls into throwing their lives away one by one into the mouth of…well, it’s a kind of giant sausage grinder, is what it is.”

  “It’s not any worse than the rip tether that Amés deployed on Triton, now is it?” said Funk. “Or the military grist he used on us back at Saturn?” Funk smiled crookedly. “At least we provide a bit of…anesthesia.”

  “You are a wicked man,” Ogawa said. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you,” Funk replied. “Captain Thomas Ogawa, Dragon-seeder.”

  “Whatever.” Ogawa waved good-bye and broke the knit connection. His job was almost done, and it was time to get the hell out of the Uranus system. Behind him he left a separate grisly doom for each inhabited moon, courtesy of the Federal Army Forward Development Lab of
Triton—Gerardo Funk, Commandant.

  The Uranus system was a hell Ogawa was glad to be leaving behind, even though he knew he was returning to what promised to be a firestorm at Neptune.

  Unlike those poor, damned souls of Uranus, he didn’t have any illusions about the task he now faced.

  Seven

  NEPTUNE SYSTEM

  E-STANDARD 02:07, THURSDAY, APRIL 3, 3017

  FEDERAL ARMY THEATER COMMAND

  Colonel Theory had only one command to follow: Hold off DIED forces until help arrived. General Sherman, as usual, was very efficient in the wording of his order, and Theory appreciated that. What he didn’t particularly enjoy was being left as the high commander of Neptune. Sherman had his reasons for taking the captured DIED ship, the Boomerang , and accompanying Cloudship Tacitus on the expedition to Pluto—they were sound, military reasons.

  Basically, it was a fail-safe measure in case Theory messed up. At least, that’s how Theory looked at it. Sherman probably would put it differently. “In case you are overwhelmed by a vastly superior force.” Something like that. But he would never feel the same about himself if he lost the system to the Met, and Sherman had to return to attempt a liberation.

  If that happens, I’ll very likely be dead, in any case, Theory thought. He returned to more productive worrying.

  Six cloudships were deployed in Neptune’s system: Cloudships Mark Twain, Austen, Homer, McCarthy, Cervantes, and Carlyle. The “Kuiper Group,” they called themselves, because the Kuiper Belt between Neptune and Pluto was where most of them had begun their accretion. Unfortunately, they were not trained warriors. They were, instead, volunteers who were fighting in lieu of the Federal Navy, which had only recently inducted its sophomore class of warships out in the Oorts.

  Still, to be in command of six cloudships was a heavy responsibility, and one Theory did not take lightly. These were old souls—men and women more mature than he was, who had traveled vast distances—Twain had been to Alpha Centauri, for God’s sake! Men and women who had all lived well over a hundred e-years, much of that time spent plying through space in their shining bodies of ice and stone.