Dorsai! (17 page)

“All our love. Eachan.”

The spool, seen through the little transparent cover, stopped turning. The echoes of Eachan Khan Graeme's voice died against the gray walls of the office. Donal sat still at his desk, his eyes fixed on nothing, remembering Kensie.

It seemed odd to him, as he sat there, to discover that he could remember so few specific incidents. Thinking back, his early life seemed to be filled with his smiling uncle—and yet Kensie had not been home much. He would have thought that it would be the separate occasions of Kensie's going and coming that would be remembered—but instead it was more as if some general presence, some light about the house, had been extinguished.

Donal sighed. It seemed he was accumulating people at a steady rate. First Lee. Then the scarfaced el Man had asked to accompany him, when he left Freiland. And now Ian. Well, Ian was a good officer, aside from whatever crippling the death of his twin brother had caused him now. It would be more than easy for Donal to find a place for him. In fact, Donal could use him handily.

Donal punched a stud and turned his mouth to the little grille of the desk's signal unit.

“Eachan Khan Graeme, Graeme-house, South District, Foralie Canton, the Dorsai,” he said. “Very glad to hear from you, although I imagine you know how I feel about Kensie. Please ask Ian to come right along. I will be honored to have him on my staff; and, to tell the truth, I have a real need for someone like him here. Most of the ranking officers I inherited as War Chief have been browbeaten by these Elders into a state of poor usefulness. I know I won't have to worry about Ian on that score. If he would take over supervision of my training program, he would be worth his weight in diamonds—natural ones. And I could give him an action post either on my personal staff, or as Patrol Chief. Tell Mother I'll write Mor but that the letter may be a bit sketchy right at present. I am up to my ears in work at the moment. These are good officers and men; but they have been so beaten about the ears at every wrong move that they will not blow their nose without a direct order. My love to all at home. Donal.”

He pressed the button again, ending the recording and sealing it ready for delivery with the rest of the out-going signals his office sent daily on their way. A soft chime from his desk reminded him that it was time for him to speak once more with Eldest Bright. He got up and went out.

The ranking elder of the joint government of the Friendly Worlds of Harmony and Association maintained his own suite of offices in Government Center, not more than half a hundred meters from the military nerve center. This was not fortuitous. Eldest Bright was a Militant, and liked to keep his eye on the fighting arm of God's True Churches. He was at work at his desk, but rose as Donal came in.

He advanced to meet Donal, a tall, lean man, dressed entirely in black, with the shoulders of a back-alley scrapper and the eyes of a Torquemada, that light of the Inquisition in ancient Spain.

“God be with you,” he said. “Who authorized this requisition order for sheathing for the phase shift grids on the sub-class ships?”

“I did,” said Donal.

“You spend credit like water.” Bright's hard, middle-aged face leaned toward Donal. “A tithe on the churches, a tithe of a tithe on the church members of our two poor planets is all we have to support the business of government. How much of this do you think we can afford to spend on whims and fancies?”

“War, sir,” said Donal, “is hardly a matter of whims and fancies.”

“Then why shield the grids?” snapped Bright. “Are they liable to rust in the dampness of space? Will a wind come along between the stars and blow them apart?”

“Sheathe, not shield,” replied Donal. “The point is to change their appearance; from the ball-and-hammer to the cylindrical. I'm taking all ships of the first three classes through with me. When they come out before the Exotics, I want them all looking like ships of the first class.”

“For what reason?”

“Our attack on Zombri cannot be a complete surprise,” explained Donal, patiently. “Mara and Kultis are as aware as anyone else that from a military standpoint it is vulnerable to such action. If you'll permit me—” He walked past Bright to the latter's desk and pressed certain keys there. A schematic of the Procyon system sprang into existence on one of the large gray walls of the office, the star itself in outline to the left. Pointing, Donal read off the planets in their order, moving off to the right. “Coby—Kultis—Mara—St. Marie. As close a group of habitable planets as we're likely to discover in the next ten generations. And simply because they are habitable—and close, therefore—we have this escaped moon, Zombri, in its own eccentric orbit lying largely between Mara and St. Marie—”

“Are you lecturing me?” interrupted Bright's harsh voice.

“I am,” said Donal. “It's been my experience that the things people tend to overlook are those they learned earliest and believe they know best. Zombri is not habitable and too small for terraforming. Yet it exists like the Trojan horse, lacking only its complement of latter-day Acheans to threaten the Procyon peace—”

“We've discussed this before,” broke in Bright.

“And we'll continue to discuss it,” continued Donal, pleasantly, “whenever you wish to ask for the reason behind any individual order of mine. As I was saying—Zombri is the Trojan horse of the Procyon city. Unfortunately, in this day and age, we can hardly smuggle men onto it. We can, however, make a sudden landing in force and attempt to set up defenses before the Exotics are alerted. Our effort, then, must be to make our landing as quickly and effectively as possible. To do that best, is to land virtually unopposed in spite of the fact that the Exotics will undoubtedly have a regular force keeping its eye on Zombri. The best way to achieve that, is to appear in overwhelming strength, so that the local commanders will realize it is foolish to attempt to interfere with our landing. And the best way to put on a show of strength is to appear to have three times the ships of the first class that we do have. Therefore the sheathing.”

Donal stopped talking, walked back across to the desk, and pressed the keys. The schematic disappeared.

“Very well,” said Bright. The tone of his voice showed no trace of defeat or loss of arrogance. “I will authorize the order.”

“Perhaps,” said Donal, “you'll also authorize another order to remove the

Conscience Guardians from my ships and units.”

“Heretics—began Bright.

“Are no concern of mine,” said Donal. “My job is to get these people ready to mount an assault. But I've got over sixty per cent native troops of yours under me; and their morale is hardly being improved, on an average of three trials for heresy a week.”

“This is a church matter,” said Bright. “Is there anything else you wished to ask me, War Chief?”

“Yes,” said Donal. “I ordered mining equipment. It hasn't arrived.” “The order was excessive,” said Bright. “There should be no need to dig in anything but the command posts, on Zombri.”

Donal looked at the black-clad man for a long moment. His white face and white hands—the only uncovered part of him, seemed rather the false part than the real, as if they were mask and gloves attached to some black and alien creature.

“Let's understand each other,” said Donal. “Aside from the fact that I don't order men into exposed positions where they'll be killed— whether they're mercenaries or your own suicide-happy troops, just what do you want to accomplish by this move against the Exotics?”

“They threaten us,” answered Bright. “They are worse than the heretics. They are Satan's own legion —the deniers of God.” The man's eyes glittered like ice in the sunlight. “We must establish a watchtower over them that they may not threaten us without warning; and we may live in safety.”

“All right,” said Donal. “That's settled then. I'll get you your watch-tower. And you get me the men and equipment I order without question and without delay. Already, these hesitations of your government mean I'll be going into Zombri ten to fifteen per cent understrength.”

“What?” Bright's dark brows drew together. “You've got two months yet until Target Date.”

“Target Dates,” said Donal, “are for the benefit of enemy intelligence. We'll be jumping off in two weeks.” “Two weeks!” Bright stared at him. “You can't be ready in two weeks.”

“I earnestly hope Colmain and his General Staff for Mara and Kultis agrees with you,” replied Donal. “They've the best land and space forces between the stars.”

“How?” Bright's face paled with anger. “You dare to say that our own organization's inferior?”

“Facing facts is definitely preferable to facing defeat,” said Donal, a little tiredly. “Yes, Eldest, our forces are definitely inferior. Which is why I'm depending on surprise rather than preparation.”

“The Soldiers of the Church are the bravest in the universe!” cried Bright. “They wear the armor of righteousness and never retreat.”

“Which explains their high casualty rate, regular necessity for green replacements, and general lower level of training,” Donal reminded him. “A willingness to die in battle is not necessarily the best trait in a soldier. Your mercenary units, where you've kept them free of native replacements, are decidedly more combat-ready at the moment. Do I have your backing from now on, for anything I feel I need?”

Bright hesitated. The tension of fanaticism relaxed out of his face, to be replaced by one of thoughtfulness. When he spoke again his voice was cold and businesslike.

“On everything but the Conscience Guardians,” he answered. “They have authority, after all, only over our own Members of the Churches.” He turned and walked around once more behind his desk. “Also,” he said, a trifle grimly, “you may have noticed that there are sometimes small differences of opinion concerning dogma between members of differing Churches. The presence of the Conscience Guardians among them makes them less prone to dispute, one with the other—and this you'll grant, I'm sure, is an aid to military discipline.”

“It's effective,” said Donal, shortly. He turned himself to go. “Oh, by the way, Eldest,” he said. “That true Target Date of two weeks from today. It's essential it remain secret; so I've made sure it's known only to two men and will remain their knowledge exclusively until an hour or so before jump-off.”

Bright's head came up.

“Who's the other?” he demanded sharply.

“You, sir,” said Donal. “I just made my decision about the true date a minute ago.”

They locked eyes for a long minute.

“May God be with you,” said Bright, in cold, even tones.

Donal went out.

Geneve bar-Colmain was, as Donal had said, commander of the best land-and-space forces between the stars. This because the Exotics of Mara and Kultis, though they would do no violence in their own proper persons, were wise enough to hire the best available in the way of military strength. Colmain, himself, was one of the top military minds of his time, along with Galt on Freiland, Kamal on the Dorsai, Issac on Venus, and that occasional worker of military miracles—Dom Yen, Supreme Commander on the single world of Ceta where William had his home office. Colmain had his troubles (including a young wife who no longer cared for him) and his faults (he was a gambler—in a military as well as a monetary sense) but there was nothing wrong with either the intelligence that had its home in his skull, or the Intelligence that made its headquarters in his Command Base, on Mara.

Consequently, he was aware that the Friendly Worlds were preparing for a landing on Zombri within three weeks of the time when the decision to do so had become an accomplished fact. His spies adequately informed him of the Target Date that had been established for that landing; and he himself set about certain plans of his own for welcoming the invaders when they came.

The primary of these was the excavation of strong points on Zombri, itself. The assault troops would find they had jumped into a hornet's nest. The ships of the Exotic fleet would, meanwhile be on alert not too far off. As soon as action had joined on the surface of Zombri, they would move in and drive the space forces of the invasion inward. The attackers would be caught between two fires; their assault troops lacking the chance to dig in and their ships lacking the support from below that entrenched ground forces could supply with moon-based heavy weapons.

The work on the strong points was well under way one day as, at the Command Base, back on Mara, Colmain was laying out a final development of strategy with his General Staff. An interruption occurred in the shape of an aide who came hurrying into the conference room without even the formality of asking permission first.

“What's this?” growled Colmain, looking up from the submitted plans before him with a scowl on his swarthy face, which at sixty was still handsome enough to provide him compensation in the way of other female companionship for his wife's lack of interest.

“Sir,” said the aide, “Zombri's attacked—”

“What?”
Colmain was suddenly on his feet; and the rest of the heads of the General Staff with him.

“Over two hundred ships, sir. We just got the signal.” The aide's voice cracked a little—he was still in his early twenties. “Our men on Zombri are fighting with what they have—” “Fighting?” Colmain took a sudden step toward the aide almost as if he would hold the man personally responsible. “They've started to land assault troops?”

“They've landed, sir—”

“How many?”

“We don't know sir—” “Knucklehead! How many ships went in to drop men?”

“None, sir,” gasped the aide. “They didn't drop any men. They all landed.”

“Landed?”

For the fraction of a second, there was no sound at all in the long conference room.