House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (16 page)

Ussher clasped his hands behind his back, shifting his weight to his toes and back again. Rather impressive for a war less than an hour old.

A new line appeared as those moved off the screen: PNX ss dam/des/cap. Phoenix ships damaged, destroyed, captured. This was the first Phoenix casualty report.

He sighed. That wasn’t so bad, especially compared to the Confleet casualties, and that was only the on-base ships.

The abbreviation “cap” wouldn’t be included in any Confleet listings. The Phoenix didn’t have ships or men enough to expend on capturing enemy vessels in this campaign. Unfortunate. But perhaps next time . . .

The countdown clock read zero +01:00: 11:00 TST.

Predis Ussher made a tour of the scanners and consoles, offering occasional words of encouragement to the techs, but when his eye chanced on the countdown clock, he went immediately to the chair placed for him in the center of the arc of consoles where five intercom screens and a small vidicom had been installed, and his secretary, Alan Isaks, was on duty as his personal communications officer.

He sat down, frowning at the vidicom, at the harried newscaster trying to make sense of a disaster whose dimensions the Concord was only beginning to assimilate.

But he was a regular PubliCom ’caster.

The face Ussher expected on that screen at this time was his own in a pretaped broadcast. This was the only way to reach the Fesh, to make them understand that this wasn’t a disaster for them, this was their day of destiny, the day when they could strike off their chains. They
must
understand that, and getting that message through to them was vital to the offensive.

He waited, staring at the vidicom, for five more minutes, then said sharply, “Alan, get me Ivor in Communications.”

“Yes, sir.”

Isaks moved smartly about his business, but to Ussher it seemed he was unusually slow and bumbling. Finally, Ivor’s face looked out at him from one of the intercom screens.

“Ivor, the PubliCom Systems operation—
what happened
?”

“Sir, I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for an all-clear signal to switch in the override. There’s been nothing. I tried to ’com Commander Venturi—”

“Never mind. Alan, get Venturi on line.”

“Yes, sir.”

Something had gone wrong, and his first thought was betrayal. Venturi. And Radek. Ussher glared at the vidicom. Shaky images from the Confleet base at Leda, the on-scene reporter shouting hysterically against the uproar of sirens, spewing firecars, distant explosions. Isaks’s voice seemed to have an edge of the same tense panic.

“What? No. Commander Venturi.” A pause, then to Ussher, “Sir, will you speak to Haral Wills?”

“
No
! I want Venturi!”

“Yes, sir.”

Apparently someone got the message. Within a minute, Venturi’s face appeared. He was looking off-screen, features set in hard, tight lines.

“. . . pull out
now
. They’ve got MT fixes. Trans them out. Two minutes, Ced; that’s all they have.”

“Commander Venturi!”

“What do you want, Predis?”

Ussher felt his cheeks go hot. “Damn it, I want to know what happened on the PubliCom System operation.”

“So do I. I’ve got sixty agents on that. They ran into a stone wall, Predis. All the studios were swarming with Conpol men.”

“What? That’s impossible! Venturi, if you purposely—”

“Holy God, what did you expect? Hundred percent success on every operation?”

“But that one’s too important! It’s the key—”

“Predis, I have a Pri-One call. You’ll get more info on the PubliCom op when
I
get it.” With that, the screen went dark.

Ussher stared at it for a moment, then surged to his feet and again took up his position in the center of the chamber, jaws tight to the point of pain. New figures were appearing on the progress screen. Selasid Mercfleet hangars and ships. First Line freighters; Second Line freighters; tenders. He was thinking that he’d like to see Orin Selasis’s face when
he
saw those statistics.

Well, perhaps Venturi was right. You couldn’t expect one hundred percent success. After the offensive, another attempt could be made on the PubliCom studios. Conpol’s guard would be down then. In fact, the taped speech might be even more effective then, when the Fesh had seen more of what the Phoenix was capable, more of the Concord’s failure.

The countdown clock read zero +02:00: 12:00 TST.

Ussher checked it against his own watch, then stood silent, absorbing the purposeful hum of voices and machines. Any Conflcet commander would give his stars for a comcenter run with such devoted efficiency.

But Garris seemed incapable of staying where he belonged. He kept pacing behind the monitoring crews, peering over their shoulders at the screens and scanners. Fortunately, his duties kept him confined to the GroundComm console most of the time. Ussher heard him in a brief exchange with the flagship interconn officer, Calvet Lane, both looking up at the progress screen. The latest report was on Confleet observational satellite stations.

Three out of seven. Ussher nearly laughed aloud. Almost half Confleet’s eyes in the skies blinded. Following that came a report on House facilities engaged in storing or producing war materiel.

That would give those high-nosed Lords something to think about. The screen remained blank, awaiting correlation of new statistics. Ussher looked for Garris; he was wandering from his post again.

“Commander Garris, I’ve seen no recent statistics on Confleet ships damaged or destroyed in combat.”

Garris shot him an impatient look, then with a negligent wave toward one of the comptechs, “Talk to Janie.”

The woman looked around inquiringly, and Ussher said in clipped tones, “Ferra Browning, may I see the latest report on Confleet combat casualties?”

“Just a moment, sir. I’ll see what’s come in.”

And, finally, the figures paraded across the screen.

Add that to the on-base casualties, and already the Phoenix had taken nearly twice its numbers in—

“How the hell did
that
happen?”

Garris again. He was standing behind Ussher’s empty chair, staring at the PubliCom screen. Ussher approached to see what elicited the resounding outburst.

“A direct strike on the Eliseer Estate!” Garris turned on Ussher, the scar cutting across his eye white against his anger-flushed face. “
How did that happen
?”

Ussher didn’t deign to respond until he heard the stumbling account from the ’caster. The family wing. And it was night in Helen. The Lord and his twin heirs had been sleeping peacefully.

“You’re asking
me
how it happened, Commander?”

Garris, with a choked expletive, stormed to the GroundComm console.

“Kyser! Put me on line with Cornel Simon. No—it’ll be Major March on that op. The
Hopewell
.”

Ussher restrained his smile as he sat down in front of the vidicom. The family wing. For that, Major March would have his cornel’s wings. That operation had gone better than he expected, but he was waiting for news of another, news that was overdue.

“Alan, get me Rob Hendrick. He’s in Communications.”

When Hendrick’s face appeared on one of the ’com screens, it offered no encouragement.

“Well, Rob? I expected a report on the Bond operation half an hour ago.”

“Uh . . . yes, Predis, I know, but I’ve been checking with all the field agents I could reach, and—”

“The microspeakers activated as planned?”

“Oh, yes. We’ve got agents in thirty key compounds: twelve on Pollux, eight on Castor, four on Perseus—”

“I
know
that.” Something was wrong; Rob had never learned to control his eyes when he was nervous.

“Well, the speakers activated on schedule in all compounds, but the . . . uh, results are rather . . . inconclusive.”

“Rob, damn it, stop hedging!”

“I didn’t mean . . . well, I think it’s a little early yet for any overt response, but we know the Bonds heard the ‘voices.’ Naturally, there’s been a lot of confusion in the compounds. When the offensive began, House guards poured in with orders for the Bonds to get to their quarters.”

Ussher’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists. First the PubliCom Systems operation, and now this. It was intolerable!

His first thought, again, was betrayal. Radek and Venturi had been opposed to appealing to the Fesh and Bonds from the beginning. They were willing to throw away a key weapon against the enemy for some esoteric ethic, a meaningless piece of dogma mouthed by Riis.

But, after a moment, his anger ebbed. They
couldn’t
sabotage this operation. He’d put it in the hands of people he could trust, and the speakers
had
activated.

“Rob, there must be
some
reaction somewhere.”

“Well, I have a report—just got it in—from Hamid’s Estate compounds in Leda. His guards have met resistance there, and they seem to have the beginnings of an uprising on their hands.”

Ussher sighed. “Well, perhaps that’s a beginning for us. All right, Rob, keep me up to date on this.” He nodded to Isaks, and the screen went dark.

A beginning. Yet a nagging canker of doubt was festering in his mind. If the Bonds were going to react—and it was inconceivable that they wouldn’t—why the delay? Was it too early, or too late?

Nothing made sense.

Dreaming. Must be still dreaming.

“Father? Can you hear me?”

A face loomed over him. Galen. He recognized his voice before his face came into focus.

At length, with his son’s help, Loren Eliseer managed to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the couch. A small room, full of color. That was all that registered at first. When his eyes finally began to function properly, he stared around him incredulously.

It still didn’t make sense. This lushly extravagant room wasn’t in the Estate. He had never seen it before in his life.

“Just don’t move too fast, Father. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

Galen, still bending over him. Renay was across the room at a comconsole; harried voices buzzed from a vidicom. Eliseer wondered what Renay found so fascinating, but his mind was clear enough now to realize his first bom’s interest in the screen indicated no lack of concern for his father. That was verified in the anxious glances he sent him.

Eliseer asked of anyone who might venture an answer, “What in the God’s name happened?”

It was Galen who replied, “I don’t know, Father. We’ve only been conscious about fifteen minutes. I don’t know where we are, either, or why we’re here. I can only estimate that we were taken from the Estate two to three hours ago. It’s 20:30 Helen Standard—12:30 TST.”

“At least we’ve been left the time. But why? Who’s behind this? And how—” He stopped, struck by alarm. Galia. And the girls. Then he sagged with relief, remembering they were in Paykeen. They’d be safe there. Or would they?

“I think the answer to who’s behind this,” Renay said quietly, only the slightest edge of tension in his voice, “is here. We’ve been left the PubliCom newscasts, too. Galen, you’d better tell him about the woman.”

Eliseer started to rise to go to the screen, but at that he paused, looking questioningly at Galen.

“What woman?”

“She said she’s a doctor. She came in about the time Renay and I were coming around and checked us—and you—with a biomonitor cuff and offered some pills for our headaches.”

“You didn’t take them, did you?”

“No, of course not. She didn’t argue; said we’d recover soon enough without help.” He winced as he rubbed his forehead. “It
is
easing up.”

Eliseer was acutely aware of the pounding ache of his own head as he commented sourly, “That’s encouraging. What else did she say? Did you recognize her? I suppose she was face-screened.”

“Yes. She didn’t say much, other than to point out the available comforts here.”

Renay put in with a short laugh, “Three rooms incredibly furnished, an elegant bath, a liquor cabinet like I’ve seen in only the grandest Houses, and a cooler stocked with a few ‘snacks’ that make Master Duvo look like a Bond hall cook.”