Earthblood (27 page)

"We're already in position."

"You mean. . .you mean that literally?" The captain moved uneasily in his chair.

"Absolutely."

"Certainly you don't mean—today . . . ?"

Roan put both hands palms down on the table. "Now," he said, because all this was having such an extraordinary effect on Trishinist. Trishinist's face seemed to fall apart as a look of comprehension and shock came over it. Sweat popped out on his forehead and his eyes went to Sidis, who was polishing his teeth, and Askor, who was just sitting, and Poion, who all of a sudden began to look as though there was something important about him.

"Oh, I see now," Trishinist said. "I see why you brought them. I . . ." A sick expression passed over his eyes. "You really think it's necessary to go that far?"

"What's the alternative?" Roan asked steadily.

"You're right, of course. Still . . .he is Pure Strain." Roan stood up. "We've spent enough time talking about it. I'd like to meet him now."

"Meet . . . ?" Trishinist looked almost wild for a moment. "Oh . . ." He relaxed. "Just to . . . ah . . . assess him, of course."

"Of course."

"Very well." Trishinist rose. "Things are moving a trifle rapidly for me. But you're right. There's no need to delay."

At the door he hesitated, glancing at Askor, Sidis, and Poion.

"Ah. . .which one. . .?"

Sidis grinned his jagged grin; Trishinist shuddered and went on out into the hall.

Guards in bright-plated helmets snapped to attention as Captain Trishinist halted Roan and his men at a massive carved door.

"I'll introduce you as a new arrival from one of the Outer Towns," he said to Roan. "He likes to meet the new recruits. There are so few these days. The others will wait, of course."

Askor looked at Roan; Roan nodded. "Stay here," he said. "Don't wander off looking for liquor."

"Gee, Boss," Sidis said.

Trishinist opened the door; Roan followed him into an ivory-walled anteroom ornamented with a pale blue floral cornice. A harried-looking staff lieutenant came in from the room beyond, exchanged quick words with the captain, then motioned them through the arched way.

The room was wide, silent, deep-carpeted in dusty blue, with light curtains filtering the yellow light from tall windows. There were deep chairs, cabinets and bookshelves of rich polished wood, and a vast desk behind which an ancient Man with snow-white hair sat, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of his massive chair.

"Good morning, Admiral Starbird," Trishinist said. "I've brought a caller. . .

."

Starbird waved Trishinist and the aid from the room, indicated a chair, sat studying Roan's face in silence.

"Have I not met you somewhere, once, young Man?" His voice was the rumble of subterranean waters.

"I don't think so, sir," Roan said. He was staring at the other's lined face. He had never seen an old Man before, and he was remembering Henry Dread and the expression, at once that of the hunter and the hunted, that Henry had worn and that the old Man had too.

"That fellow," Starbird jerked his head toward the door through which Trishinist had gone. "He a friend of yours?"

"I just met him today."

"Vicious little ferret," Starbird said. "He's up to something. Thinks I don't know. Has his picked men all over my headquarters. But it doesn't matter. No guts. That's his trouble. Oh, yes, he'll plan; he'll talk. But there's no steel in the man." The admiral's eyes were on Roan's face, as though searching for a clue to something.

"From the Outer Towns, eh? What were your parents like?"

"I don't know, sir. I was raised by foster parents."

"And you want to fight the enemies of Imperial Terra."

"I've thought about it."

"If I were young again," Starbird said with sudden vigor. His fingers twitched on the chair arms. "I remember my first day. Ah, those were great times, young Man! There was something in the air, a feeling of things to be done, goals to strive for . . ." He sat, looking beyond Roan into the past.

"My father was on fleet duty then," he went on, talking to himself now, communing with the dead. "He commanded a five million tonner, gunned out of space by the Niss. Three hundred years ago that must be now. I was just a lad, then, on border duty in the north. I was to have been with him on his next sweep. He was a bold one; too bold. Who else would penetrate all the way to Sol? Nobody!" Starbird pounded his chair arm and looked at Roan. "Now look at the trash you see disgracing the uniform today! They're a cruel lot, young Man! And gutless . . ."

Roan sat silently, waiting.

"Revenge," Starbird said. "I swore I'd have it! But no suicide run, by God!

Plenty of smirks and snickers thrown my way. All talk, they said. Talk! But I wasn't jumping off half-ready. I needed the rank first. Then reorganization, weeding out the corruption, the twisted element that was choking the service! Measure a man's genes instead of his guts, that was their way!

Damn his genes! It's the dream that makes a Man, not the number of his toes!"

Starbird fell silent, his face twitching with the pain of old memories.

"I had my star at last," he said suddenly. "I put my plan before the general staff. The plan I'd worked out over all those years. Five hundred ships of the line, a million picked Men. We were to move in two echelons, blast our way past the Niss picket lines beyond Pluto, strike with our full power all the way in past the Neptune and Jupiter orbits—then—when they massed to meet us—split! Our probes had given us plenty of information on the Niss defensive patterns. I analyzed their data and saw the answer: We'd split beyond Mars, break up into two hundred and fifty pairs, and carry a running fight right in past Luna—then regroup in a beautiful maneuver I'd worked out as carefully as a ballet—and hit the Niss blockade with a spearhead that could blast its way through the walls of Hell!" The old Man's eyes blazed with a fierce light; then he let out a long breath and leaned back. He raised his hands, let them fall.

"They laughed at me," he said flatly. "We weren't ready, they said. The Niss were too powerful, we didn't have the firepower to stand against them. Wait, they said. Wait!" He sighed. "That was almost two hundred years ago. We're still waiting. And four lights away, the Niss blockade of Terra still stands!"

Roan was sitting bolt upright. "Terra?" he said.

"Ah, the name still has magic for you, does it, lad?"

"Only four lights from here?"

Starbird nodded. "Sol's her sun; the third planet, the double world, Terra the Fair. Locked up behind a wall of Niss!" Starbird's fist slammed the desk.

"I'll never live now to see my plan used! We waited too long; somehow, the fire that we carried died while we talked—and the dream dies with it." Roan sat forward in his chair. "Admiral, you said you weren't worried about Trishinist. What if he had outside help?"

Starbird's eyes narrowed. "What outside help?"

"A man named Blan."

"Blan? That warped imp out of Hades? Is he still alive?"

"His forces are due here in four months."

Starbird was sitting erect now, the force back in his voice. "How do you know this, lad?"

"Trishinist mistook me for Blan's emissary. He's ready to make his move now; today. He thinks one of my crew is assigned to assassinate you. I'm here now to size you up for the killer."

Starbird rose and walked across to the door. He was a tall, once-powerful man with square, bony shoulders and lean hips. He flipped a lock, threw a wall switch that snicked locks on outer doors. He came back and sat behind the desk.

"All right, young fellow: Maybe you'd better tell me all you know about this plot."

"That's as much as I was able to get out of him," Roan said. "With half the men backing him, he's in a strong position, even without Blan's reinforcements."

Starbird stroked the side of his jaw thoughtfully. "That timetable suits me very well. Let Trishinist go ahead with his plans; when he discovers his allies are missing, he'll collapse."

"I can't stay much longer, sir." Roan got to his feet. "Trishinist will begin to suspect something. What do you want me to do?"

Admiral Starbird thumbed his chin. "When's the assassination scheduled?"

"Tonight, after the banquet."

"Make it late; I'll be ready; just follow my lead. In the meantime, arm yourself. How many men do you have with you that you can trust?"

"Three."

Starbird nodded. A smile was growing on his seamed face. His hand slammed the table. "Young fellow—what was your name again?"

"Roan. Roan Cornay."

Starbird was cackling. "Terra excites you, does it?" The old Man turned to a wall safe, punched keys with trembling fingers. The door swung open and he took out a sheaf of many-times-folded papers.

"My attack plan," he said. "The ships are ready—over four hundred of them, in concealed docks on the other side of the planet. I've kept them ready, hoping. I needed a leader, Mr. Cornay. Trishinist has supplied the men. Let him try his coup! Let him send his killer to me! Then, when he comes along a little later to see for himself, I'll be sitting here, laughing at him! And the orders will be waiting! I have a few loyal officers; they'll command the five squadrons of the flotilla. And you, lad! You'll take command as acting Admiral of the Fleet!"

"You'd trust me, Admiral? You don't even know me—"

"I've known many Men in my years, boy. I can judge a fighting Man when I see one. Will you do it?"

"That's what I came here for," Roan said softly. "That's what I've lived the last eleven years of my life for."

Roan's thugs clustered about him in the windy bronze-and-mosaic hallway outside the grand dining chamber. They were splendid in new clothes of bright-colored silky cloth spangled over with beads and ornaments of glass and polished copper, and they smelled incongruously of flowers.

"Keep your guns out of sight," Roan ordered. "Keep your hands off the females and don't kick the slaves; that's a privilege we'll leave to our hosts. No rough stuff unless I give the word, no matter what happens. And any man that drinks so much he can't shoot straight will deserve whatever he gets." He settled his palm-sized power gun against his stomach under the wide scarlet cummerbund that had been wound around him by his assigned slaves in the dust-covered splendor of his quarters.

"Let's go," he said and pushed through the high mother-of-pearl inlaid doors. The clang and thump of noisemakers burst out; dancing girls sprang into motion, whirled forward strewing flower petals. A thousand tiny colored lights gleamed from chandeliers and winked from tiny fountains that sparkled on long tables spread with dazzling white cloths almost hidden under gleaming plates, polished eating tools, slender glasses as fragile as first love. There were hundreds of Terrans seated at the tables, and they rose, clapping their hands. Commodore Quex came forward, his eyes, set at the extreme edges of his face, flicking over Roan and past him at his crew. He took Roan's arm and tugged himself toward the nearest table. "You'll sit with me at the head table, of course . . ."

Roan held back without seeming to. "What about my men?"

"Oh, they'll be well taken care of." When Quex smiled, he kept his upper lip pulled down to cover his teeth, but Roan caught a glimpse of widely spaced points. A crowd of humanoid females with slender bodies and immense eyes and huge bare breasts were crowding around the men, taking their arms possessively, giggling up into surprised Gook faces that broke into vast, bristly, snaggle-toothed smiles.

"Belay that," Roan snapped. "You men will sit with me—or I'll sit with them," he amended, turning back to Quex. "I have to keep an eye on them," he explained.

"Ah, but, yes, as you wish, Lieutenant." Quex dithered for a moment, then signaled, and crouching slaves darted in, shuffled chairs and place settings about. Roan took the deep armchair Quex waved him to and looked around. Strange faces stared at him curiously.

"Where's the admiral?"

"He is unfortunately indisposed." Quex toed a slave aside and took the chair opposite Roan. "Chavigney '85 or Beel Vat?" he inquired brightly.

"Chavigney '85," Roan said, because he'd heard of it. "Indisposed how?"

"Admiral Starbird is getting on. He can't stand much . . . excitement." Quex showed his pointed teeth again and watched the slave pour ruby liquid into glasses. He picked his up and flicked a libation on the marble floor and nosed it. Roan drained his and thrust it out for a refill. No doubt the Chavigney '85 had a magnificent bouquet, but at the moment he didn't care.

Quex was staring at him; he remembered his smile when Roan looked at him. "I don't believe I've ever seen hair just like yours before," he said.

"Quite. . .ah. . .striking."

"We all have our little peculiarities," Roan said shortly, and let his eyes rest on Quex's. They seemed to sit at the corners of his head and bulge.

"No offense," Quex said. "One sees a new face so seldom . . ."

"How many Terrans are there here at HQ?" Roan asked, glancing at the obvious Gooks along the table.

Something touched his shoulder and his hand went to his gun and then there was a choking cloud of perfume and a lithe, blue-trimmed girl was sitting on his lap. She had soft, round breasts with blue-dyed tips that poked through her beads, and she squirmed up against Roan's chest and nudged his wineglass against his lips. She looked a little like Stellaraire, and for an instant Roan felt a lost emotion clutch at him, but he took the glass and put it firmly on the table and palmed the female gently from him.

"Stand over there," he said sternly. "If I need anything, I'll call you." The girl looked stricken, and then she looked at Quex and shrank back. The commodore slapped his hands sharply together, and the girl turned and was gone.

"I don't want her to get in any trouble," Roan started. "It was just—" Quex hissed. The points of his teeth showed plainly now. "We do our best with our Gooks," he said. "But they are so abysmally stupid." Slaves came with the food then. It was marvelous, and Roan forgot his problems for the moment, savoring the fabulous Terran cooking. The wine was good too, and Roan had to force himself to sip it carefully. Along the table, his men spooned in the delicacies, and then when they grew impatient with the small bites, used their hands. Their girls kept up a constant shrill giggling, slopping wine against big alien teeth, spilling it down across stubbled jaws. Beside Quex, Askor took a glass from his neighbor's girl's hand and poured the contents down his girl's throat. She choked and sputtered, and Askor caught Roan's eye and winked. The noisemakers kept up their cacophony. Roan watched them, behind a screen of bushy potted plants, sawing and pumping and puffing at the gleaming, complicated noisemakers.