Corina was awakened by the whooping of a siren, followed by a surprisingly calm voice on the ship's annunciator. "General Quarters— All hands to battle stations. General Quarters—man your battle stations. Rangers Medart and Losinj, Palace assault team, to the hangar bay, please."
Corina scrambled out of bed and into her kilt. "Emperor Chang!"
The ship-comp's voice was unchanged. "Yes, Ranger Losinj?"
"What time is it? What is happening?" The announcement left no doubt, but she wanted details.
"It is 0230, sir. The Prowler requested clearance for Sydney Spaceport, but is on course for the Palace Complex instead. Defsat Five estimates their arrival there in fifteen minutes."
"Blades!" Corina ignored the ship's "I beg your pardon, Ranger?", and sent a hurried thought. *Jim?*
*On my way. We'll land about an hour and a quarter behind them. Another hour to orbit, then fifteen minutes to the Palace. Seems he was closer to ready than you guessed.*
*Let us hope not disastrously so.*
*Right. Anything you can do from this distance?*
*I do not think so, at least nothing useful. Once we are aboard the lander, however, I will attempt to read Thark; his shield will have to be down for him to work, and he may be distracted enough not to notice so light a touch.*
*If it's down, can't you hit him with darlas? You don't need to be in sight of him, from what you said.*
*I do not need to be in sight of someone without a shield,* she returned. *That is all I am sure of. Should I attempt such an attack on Thark, it may have some effect, or it may simply alert him to our approach. I think it would be wiser to do no more than observe, if that is possible, and maintain the element of surprise. You have far more experience than I in such situations, however; I will defer to your judgement.*
*I've got more experience in combat, less in Talent. We go with your judgement on this one. See you in a second.*
It was a little longer than that, but less than a minute later the two were in a shuttle going to the lander bay. "No armor?" Medart asked.
"I do not know how to use it," Corina said. "But you are not wearing it either, and you must be familiar with its use. Why not?"
"From your demonstration, there'd be no point. Armor can protect against blasters, but not against Talent—and it has a lot of places where a touch of TK would be fatal. If anyone wants to wear it I won't argue, for the psychological help it can give, but I'm not going to burden myself with it."
They were the last to arrive; since their quarters were closest to the center of the ship, they had the furthest to come. When they got to the bay, most of the team was standing near the lander talking in low tones, about half in armor, but Nevan was off to one side, kneeling with upraised arms, chanting softly in a language she didn't recognize. Her Gaelan-memories let her recognize what he was doing, however; he was preparing for battle, inducing the psycho-physical conditioning that made Sandeman warriors the most dangerous fighters in the Empire.
"If I am going to provide information about Thark," she said, "we had best go aboard; it is almost time for him to land. It should be safe for you to link with me, if you wish to relay what is happening to the rest."
"That might not be a bad idea," Medart said.
They entered the lander and Corina strapped herself into a seat— tightly, remembering Medart's caution about Nevan's battleprepped piloting—then she made herself relax, closing her eyes, and reached tentatively for Thark's mind-pattern, ready to pull back at the first hint that he detected her touch.
They were nearing the Sentinel Mountains before Thark began slowing the Prowler. Yes, there it was: the circle of greenery and buildings surrounding the single huge structure that was his goal. The Imperial Palace.
The sight awed him, and he felt an instant of uncertainty. Could those responsible for such a tremendous feat of architecture be as incompetent to rule as he thought? It was too late for such doubts, though. They were through the weather screen, past the main Palace spaceport, and there was no barrier to a closer approach; there was no need to disable the Palace's defense screen. As he had planned, Thark set the Prowler down on the Emperor's private landing pad. Everything had gone smoothly so far, but now there was bound to be opposition.
And that lost no time showing up. The Prowler's touchdown was the signal Palace Guards had been waiting for; humans, Irschchans, and a Traiti, all in Imperial Marine dress blues, ran toward the ship, drawing and firing their sidearms. They were no real threat; handguns couldn't penetrate even a courier's shielding. The heavy disruptor cannon swinging to take aim at the little ship's main hatch was an entirely different matter, though. A small cannon of that type could do serious damage, and one this size would simply separate ship and contents into their component atoms.
But that was something Thark could handle. He made a quick scan to locate the weapon's operator and any backup, finding to his relief that there was none. A swift thrust of darlas, and the cannon was no longer a threat, its operator dead. It was the first death at Thark's own hands… but it was not the only one for long. The defending Palace Guards began to drop as the Seniors used viewscreen images to pick and focus on their targets. Thark took the ones they couldn't see, the ones hidden by Prowler's hull.
With the first wave of opposition dead, Thark opened the hatch, extended the ramp, and led the Seniors and Sanctioners toward the pad's entrance to the Palace. They were almost there when more opposition arrived, perhaps a dozen Palace Guards—followed seconds later by a man in Ranger green.
There was no time to be neat; the Sanctioners used blasters, the Seniors darlas and soul-blades. Thark's fur was splattered with blood by the time he reached the Ranger. Menshikov's gun was coming to bear on him even as Thark used darlas to attack. A Ranger deserved that much of honor, to die with @'s body unmarked.
But—Menshikov was shielded, impossible as that was! An involuntary shield, though, however good, was no match for Thark's lifetime of training and experience. Menshikov's face twisted in agony, and he collapsed before he could scream.
Thark stared at the crumpled body for several seconds. The man's shield disturbed him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. It should not have existed! Still, he thought, perhaps in the final extremity, a rare human could show a trace of Talent; such things had been known to happen on Irschcha. He would check on it later, perhaps; for now, it made no difference.
Corina's attention returned to the lander, where she found herself and Medart the focus of the entire assault team's intense interest. *What do you expect?* Medart sent grimly. *That's the second Ranger murdered in the Palace in less than two months—maybe others elsewhere, depending on how widespread this Crusade is.*
*Probably others elsewhere,* Corina replied, equally grim. *He will not be content with one strike, and Rangers are essential targets for anyone who seeks to greatly alter or destroy the Empire. I fear for those who are not in space or otherwise out of the Order's reach.*
*Me, too.* He continued aloud. "Did he sense you?"
"No. As I thought, he is too intent on his task to notice a touch as light as I am using. Is there no way we can get there faster? If he continues at his present rate, everyone in the Palace may be dead by the time we arrive."
"No, dammit," Hobison said. "Hyperdrive is three lights per hour, period, and we're still most of an hour out."
"Perhaps a few minutes," Nevan said. "If Chang can make a sub-orbital pass, we can save the descent from orbit."
That brought the group's attention to him, and Corina was struck by the change in his bearing. Everything about him was taut, ready: his eyes held an eager gleam, and his smile was nothing like the happy one she'd seen when she offered him this duty; instead it was one of deadly anticipation, and he was seething with controlled violence. It was easy, seeing him this way, to believe stories that had been difficult to accept earlier. "Is that not quite dangerous?"
It was Medart who answered. "For a standard human, it's almost impossible. For a battleprepped warrior, it's not too bad; they did it quite a bit during the Incursion. It'd save probably ten minutes."
"We will do so, then," Corina decided. "Captain Hobison, would you give the necessary orders? And ask whoever is in temporary command to notify Defsat Five when we land, please; I believe we may be too busy to do it."
"Yes, sir." Hobison left, going to the lander's controls.
Corina took another look at Nevan, then sighed—a human mannerism, but one that seemed appropriate. "I suppose I should return to my observations."
"It would help to know what he's up to," Medart said. "First, though, I think you ought to check out Nevan's shield. It seems battleprep makes a difference in Talent strength, too."
Corina's ears went back briefly. "Such things do not normally change, but I will retest him." When she touched the Sandeman's mind, her ears went forward in amazement. His shield, respectably strong before, now had the density and chill feel of spacer-steel armor!
She nodded. "This means a personnel switch. Nevan now has a better chance against Thark than Colonel Greggson does; he will accompany us, and Colonel Greggson will assist with the other attackers."
Neither man raised any objection to the substitution, though Greggson's expression was not pleased. Nevan simply nodded, his eyes a bit brighter.
Thark had entered the Palace by the time she made contact again, and the slaughter was continuing. He, Valla, Kainor, and four Sanctioners were looking for the Emperor; the rest were spreading out to eliminate opposition elsewhere in the Palace.
There were adequate maps of the public areas, none of the private areas like this—but for one of Thark's Talent, that was a minor obstacle. It was a simple matter to extract whatever directions he wanted from the unshielded minds of staff and Guards before killing them. His first goal was the Emperor's working office; when that proved empty, he got directions to His Majesty's apartment on the top floor, and led his team there.
When that also proved to be empty, Thark began to worry. Something was definitely wrong, and it took longer to get around in the Palace than he had expected, even for a building so huge; it took a good five minutes simply to get from the bottom to the top floor or back. Then there was the time to find his objectives, made longer by having to eliminate opposition on the way—this was taking too long!
The assault team on the lander disagreed; anything that delayed Thark worked in their favor. "How long till launch?" someone asked Nevan.
"Eight minutes. Then about three to land."
Corina was aware of her team, so she heard the estimate, but her main attention was still on Thark. He and his people were on their way to the Throne Room, hoping to find the Emperor there with his staff. Others of the Crusade had been along parts of their route; they passed bodies, all marked by blaster fire, and added others, unmarked or knife-killed, of those who tried to block their way. Thark was not proud of the number of beings who had to die. He had to remind himself sternly—and repeatedly—that their sacrifice was necessary for the birth of a new and greater Empire.
The Throne Room, when they reached it, was also empty except for a handful of Guards. Thark grabbed one of them while Valla and Kainor killed the rest.
The man was a typical human, with no trace of screen, so Thark found it simple to probe his mind. And this time he went deep, digging for everything the man knew instead of only for directions. The results were bad, very bad. Thark let the Guard's body fall and broadcast a message to the entire attack group. *No more killing. I need prisoners now, high-ranking ones. Bring any you find to the Throne Room.*
As soon as he received acknowledgements, he called Valla and Kainor to him. "We have a serious problem. The Emperor and Crown Prince have left Terra, an option we did not consider, and this one," he indicated the body, "did not know why or for what destination. All he knew was that they were picked up by a lander from the Empress Lindner day before yesterday. We must find and eliminate them, else the Crusade is doomed."
"If they are aboard a battle cruiser," Valla objected, "how can we destroy them? You know how powerful and well-armed those ships are."
Thark nodded. "True. But our ships are no smaller than Traiti warcraft, and they destroyed several such cruisers without the advantage of Talent to tell them the humans' intentions. It will not be easy, but it can be done."
"It will cost us many lives."
Thark agreed, somberly. "I know. Yet we cannot stop now. We have gone too far to fail."
Movement at the Throne Room's great door attracted his attention. It was Underofficer Jamar and another of his Sanctioners, half carrying and half dragging a bound and bleeding prisoner toward him. Thark purred briefly, pleased. The prisoner was better than he had expected, a Ranger who would surely know the Emperor's location. From the man's condition, it was as well he had ordered the killing to stop when he had, else he might have lost this valuable prisoner.
Aboard the lander, Corina heard swearing—which was interrupted by Nevan's "Launch!" command. A pressor beam sent them out the airlock and through the cruiser's wake, the lander's engines screaming as its pilot fought it through maneuvers it hadn't been designed for. Corina felt a sudden lurch of fear—could he do it?
*He's from Clan Leras and he's battleprepped,* Medart assured her. *That part I'm not worried about—can you get anything else while we're going in?*
*If his maneuvers do not become too violent.* Corina re-established contact, to find Thark studying the youngest of the Rangers—she was the newest, but almost four standard years older than he—Ray Kennard. Medium height and build, he was a fair-skinned redhead who might have been handsome but for his injuries. He had clearly resisted till he could fight no more, yet despite his injuries and his obvious weakness—he could barely stand—he seemed to radiate an aura of quiet competence. Thark felt grudging respect. This human wasn't like the tourists and administrators he was all too familiar with.
"How did you manage to capture him?" Thark asked the Sanctioners.
Jamar answered. "We found him in the Comm Section just as we received your message, Master. We attacked before he could get his weapon out. He fought well, as you can see, but he could not defeat two of us." The Sanctioner hesitated.
"Go on," Thark urged him.
"Master Thark—he is shielded! I could not read his intentions!"
"What!" Not another one, Thark denied to himself. He probed Kennard, only to find the Sanctioner was right. This man was shielded, at least as well as Menshikov had been. Could he, then, have been mistaken about the human lack of Talent?
No. He pushed that thought firmly aside, unable to accept it.
Kennard grinned at him, weak but triumphant. "I am, huh? Then Rina was right—Jim's not a fluke. You've blown it, traitor."
Corina lost contact as the lander lurched, making its firing pass over Prowler, and then made a fast landing. She was out of her seat almost as quickly as Nevan, though he beat her to the door. As soon as all were outside, she said, "Our countdown starts now. Go!"
She was badly disturbed by the bodies littering the landing pad. Even though she had watched him do it, she found it hard to believe the one who had taught her so much could be responsible for this. The Thark she had been so sure she knew would never have been capable of such slaughter!
She followed Medart's sudden movement toward the green-clad body halfway to the Palace entrance. He stopped, knelt to turn it over and close staring eyes, then he looked up at Corina. "Darlas. He never had a chance."
A taut, quiet voice interrupted. "There is a living one we can still help, sir."
Medart looked up into cold-steel eyes. "Right. Let's get to the Throne Room, then."
Hobison and Greggson had already led the rest of the assault group inside; Corina heard the Security Chief curse, then comment, "They'll be easy enough to find, Captain. Just follow the bodies."
"Yeah," Hobison agreed tonelessly. "Split up, then. You, Marshall and Eustazio secure Communications; the rest of us will search-and-silence. Double-check that your weapons are on stun, then go."
As soon as the rest were out of the way, Medart began leading the other two through the Palace's private section. Nevan would have been better at point, but he couldn't know this part of the Palace—
"Down!"
Medart dropped automatically, heard a stun-bolt go by overhead, and saw a gray-kilted Irschchan fall two corridors ahead. "You okay, Rina?"
"I am fine." Corina had also dropped at the warning; now both Rangers stood. She turned to the Sandeman. "How did you do that?"
Nevan gave a tiny shrug. "I heard @, probably. Or saw a flash of kilt, I can't be sure. Since I knew it wasn't one of our people, I fired."
Medart managed a chuckle, despite the circumstances. "They call it combat instinct, Rina—but I'm beginning to think it's an aspect of Talent."
"An aspect that works through a shield," Corina said. "That will have to be explored later—for now, we can only use it. How much further?"
"Not much." Medart began moving again, taking a straight line until he made an abrupt turn that took them into a corridor with several widely-spaced doors. "Our offices—this hall brings us out behind the Throne, but I have to check something. Wait a minute."
He went into one of the offices, emerged seconds later. "The security cameras are getting the whole thing—we've got plenty of evidence. Let's finish this up."
He led them through a door at the end of the corridor. It opened behind draperies; when the three stepped through those, Corina found they were on the Throne's marble dais, two meters behind the plain, high-backed wooden chair. She moved forward, between it and one of the swirling-silver columns that flanked it.
The scene below her was sickening. Bodies scattered around were bad enough, but there was worse: Thark's calm, merciless beating of the helpless Kennard, while Valla and Kainor looked on in apparent approval. These couldn't be the gentle, affectionate people who had taught her with such patience over the last four years, now bloody and fearsome.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward to the edge of the dais and called, "Thark!"
He turned, startled, and looked up at her. "Corina!" he exclaimed. "What—" Then he noticed the drab green kilt, totally uncharacteristic of her. Now what? he wondered. He strode to meet her as she descended from the dais, drawing his bloody soul-blade as he went.
Corina unsheathed her own blade, the movement attracting Thark's attention to the bit of metal at her belt. A human would have paled in deep shock; Thark's only visible reaction was an agitated twitch of his ears.
"You? A Ranger?" It was too much for him to accept. First humans with shields—blades, with Talent!—and now Losinj a Ranger? "No!"
"It is true, Thark. I am placing you under arrest for treason against the Empire."
Thark started to answer, was interrupted by gunfire. The Sanctioner holding Kennard had let the human fall to go for his blaster; Nevan dropped him, Valla, and three others while Medart shot Kainor and the remaining Sanctioner. His demoralization was completed when the Sandeman said, "Good shooting, Ranger Medart. Do you want that last one, or may I take him?"
"Neither," Medart replied. "He's hers—give me a hand with Kennard."
"Yes, sir." Nevan holstered his blaster, and the two men went to kneel by the fallen Ranger.
Corina stopped in front of her former teacher. "You have seen and felt the truth, Thark. Will you continue to deny it and fight, or will you do as you taught me honor requires?"
Thark gestured at the carnage around them. "All this has been for nothing?"
"I would not say that," Corina said. "Your Crusade is the reason I was able to become a Ranger and to discover and train—or begin training— Ranger Medart's Talent." She gestured to where Nevan was now standing guard while Medart still knelt, his hands on Kennard's forehead and chest. "He is now using an aspect we never developed. This human is a healer, as well as having considerable darlas."
Thark shook his head. "I cannot dispute your word, but it is difficult to accept an idea that seemed impossible even an hour ago. May I have a demonstration of a human Talent I can understand?"
"If he is willing." Corina called to her fellow Ranger. "Jim!"
Medart looked up, anger plain in his face. "What is it?"
"Thark wishes proof of your Talent."
"He'll get it," Medart promised. Then Corina felt a blast of darlas against her own shield. Most of it, she knew, was directed at Thark, but Medart's lack of control let her feel the fringes. The power of that blast was immense, as if the Ranger was releasing years of pent-up energy at once, but it didn't last long; Thark was shaken, not hurt.
"That satisfy you?" Medart demanded.
"It does," Thark replied formally. "Such proof cannot be denied." He turned back to Corina, feeling empty. It had all come to nothing. All those lives wasted, all that blood on his hands—all for his mistakes. "I have committed grave dishonor as well as treason, Ranger. May I be permitted to salvage what I can of my honor before I pay the other penalty?"
Corina sheathed her dagger. This was her old master once again, it seemed. Even in his treason he had acted as he believed honor demanded; despite her fears to the contrary, it was clear he would not—he could not—refuse honor's demands now. "Halt the Crusade, Master. I will do what I can for those who followed you, if they surrender immediately."
Master, Thark thought. She had refused to call him that before, when she had named him traitor. He bowed his head, acknowledging her authority—but there was one thing he still had to find out. "You have taught the use of Talent, Ranger Losinj, which should have increased your own ability. May I test, to find if it has had the effect I believed it would?"
Corina inclined her head. "You may, Master—but my new position demands I take precautions. Lieutenant DarLeras."
"Yes, sir?"
"This is not a combat situation, but should I appear to be weakening, I may need your support. Your shield is powerful enough that you should be able to give it simply by wishing strongly to protect me. Will you?"
"Gladly, sir!"
Corina felt his shield reaching for her, and purred in amusement. "Not now, Lieutenant—only if I cannot protect myself. I believe I know what Master Thark has in mind, and it is important to Irschcha's future that the results not be distorted."
Thark looked from her to the Sandeman, reached out gently, and touched the strongest shield he had ever felt. "You, too," he said in resignation. "Guard her well, warrior."
Nevan bowed. If Ranger Losinj called him Master and showed him a degree of respect, a junior officer could do no less. "You have a warrior's word on that, High Adept."
"That title is what I am testing." Thark's attention went back to Corina, and he struck with the full power of his darlas.
It hurt, but Corina was able to block any damage and strike back. To her astonishment, her blast penetrated Thark's shield and it was she who had to pull back to prevent injury.
Thark held up both hands. "Enough. You have done even better than I expected, which was to become my successor when I chose to retire. You have become stronger than I, which makes you High Adept by default. And it seems only fitting, now, that a Ranger of the Empire be head of the White Order." He broadcast a thought, seeming relieved at his capitulation. *Cease all resistance and surrender to the nearest Imperial officer. I have been wrong. The Crusade is truly simple treason, and as its leader I command its dissolution. Ranger Corina Losinj is now High Adept of the Order, to be obeyed as such.*
There were astonished objections from those still able, especially the ones not on Terra, but Thark overrode them. *Do as I have commanded. Honor cannot be denied.*
That brought acquiescence, sometimes grudged but real. Medart felt it and touched his throat, activating his comm implant. "Chang, relay to our assault team, then the appropriate parts to Imperial installations elsewhere—and make sure Defsat Five is included. Cease fire, the Order has surrendered. Bring any who are still conscious, and those of the stunned ones you can manage, to the Throne Room. Medart out."
Thark bowed to Corina, feeling only exhaustion and an odd sense of relief. It had been a noble dream, but it was now at an end, and he had only one thing left to do. "I will need a blaster."
Corina nodded. "Lieutenant DarLeras," she called.
Nevan joined her. "Yes, sir?"
"Give Thark your gun."
Nevan wanted to protest, but resisted the urge and handed the weapon over—with a warning. "Try to harm her, Master Thark, and you're the one who'll die."
Thark felt unexpected amusement. "I have committed enough dishonor, young warrior. I will not compound it by harming her. I wish only to destroy this blade, and so regain what I may of the honor I have lost." He held up the bloody dagger that had, so long ago, had his mind-pattern impressed on it.
Nevan bowed. "I meant no disrespect, only to assure her safety."
"As you should, and will." Thark switched the blaster to maximum power, placed his soul-blade on the floor, and fired.
Then he screamed, a long full-throated yowl of absolute, terrifying loss that subsided to broken whimpers as he collapsed beside the smoking metal that had been a blade.
"What—" Nevan exclaimed in astonishment.
"Psychic shock, Lieutenant," Corina said. "He will recover enough to stand trial and serve whatever sentence he is given, but he will never be whole again. He has destroyed an essential part of himself. Take him to the medical unit, please, and see that he is cared for while medteams find and treat the other survivors. Can you find it?"
"Yes, sir." Nevan pried his gun out of Thark's hand and holstered it, then picked the Irschchan up. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Three hours later, the Empress Lindner returned to Terra orbit, and shortly thereafter one of its landers touched down beside Chang's. Medart and Corina were waiting for the passengers in Emperor Davis' working office, as he had asked; they had given him a complete report during his trip back, and had in turn been given reports of what had happened elsewhere in the Empire during the shortest-lived revolt in its history. The next step was His Majesty's decision as to what was to be done about it.
The office showed no sign of the fighting just ended, and cleanup elsewhere was already under way. The Palace morgue was busy, the medical center only a little less so; Hobison was there, in critical condition, along with three less seriously wounded from the assault group. Greggson and one of the other Marines had been killed; the rest of the group was unhurt. Kennard's injuries had been serious, but thanks to Medart's help not fatal, and Senior Physician Zanivar had said he'd be released later that week.
The two stood and came to attention as the Emperor entered, followed by Crown Prince Forrest and a massive, gray-skinned Traiti in Marine service black. "As you were," Davis said, motioning the others to chairs and seating himself at his desk.
He turned to Corina. "You did a good job, Ranger. I didn't expect it to end so quickly."
"Had Thark been less honorable than he was, sir, it would not have."
"I'm aware of that, which is why he'll be sentenced to exile rather than death—though in his condition, I'm not sure which would be worse."
"To him," Corina said slowly, "it no longer matters. His body survives, but very little of Thark himself remains. He can go through the motions of life, that is all—and he has effectively wiped himself from Irschchan memory. His name and story will survive, of course, but it will be without the mind-pattern in his blade to give it substance."
"He can still serve as an example," Davis said. "The fact that he led a rebellion because he was convinced it would be beneficial to everyone doesn't excuse it—but the fact that he called it off and tried to atone when he found he was wrong justifies my giving him what will be seen as clemency by most people. And it'll have at least one side benefit." Davis indicated the Traiti. "Lieutenant Hovan spoke to his Clan Mother at my request, and got her consent. Thark's exile will be on Norvis, guarded and taken care of by Clan Ch'kara. That way he's visibly punished, in a way that demonstrates the Empire's trust in our newest citizens."
"An elegant solution," Corina agreed. She turned to Hovan, gave him a polite seated bow. "I saw the tapes of your rulers' Audience, Lieutenant. I am pleased to meet one who can react so swiftly and correctly."
Hovan returned the bow, his arms crossed over his chest. "You give me too much honor, ka'naya Ranger. When that man shot Ranger Tarlac, I reacted the only way I could, as a newly commissioned officer of the Empire."
"It was well done, nevertheless." Corina returned her attention to Davis. "I assume my next task, then, will be bringing Irschcha's government into conformity with the rest of the Empire?"
"That's right. You're head of the White Order now, so you'd have less trouble than anyone else. I'll give you a signed Confirmation of Suzerainty for whoever you pick as Baron; from now on that's going to be a hereditary position the way it is everywhere else outside Sector Traiti—though if you think it best, I'll add a stipulation that the Baron must have Talent."
"That would indeed be best, sir, at least at first."
"So be it, then. Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Not at the moment. I cannot even consider candidates until I know who is available—in other words, who did not participate in the Crusade. Then I will have to choose one who abstained because of loyalty to the Empire, not because of fear."
Davis nodded. "Do you have any idea how much of the Order will be left for you to choose from?"
Corina's ears went back in a frown. "That is difficult to say, sir, though probably less than a quarter. Those raised in Order schools are almost certain to share Thark's convictions, and therefore to have taken part. I simply hope there are enough to form a new government; I would prefer not to have to bring in unTalented, who would not be accepted because of it."
"As long as you can manage to avoid me having to send in an occupation force, I'll be satisfied. You'll have Jim along, of course; it'll be a year or so before I'll send you out solo, even if he didn't have a convalescent leave to finish."
"I am most grateful for that, Your Majesty. I have much to learn."
"Don't we all." Davis leaned back. "Now—have you been able to find out more about human Talent potential? Especially Rangers'?"
"Very little, I am afraid. I was reluctant to tamper with the shields of any of our assault group to check them further, but I did probe Ranger Kennard while he was being treated, since his shield was weakened by his injuries. He does have good potential, though somewhat less powerful than Jim's. Since Captain Hobison and Lieutenant DarLeras are both Ranger-level and shielded, as well, I would say that hypothesis is correct."
"What about Rick and myself?"
It hadn't occurred to Corina to check the Emperor or Crown Prince; now she did so. "Both shielded, Your Majesty."
"Good. Next time you're on Terra, you can train us; in the meantime you can work with Jim, and I'll send the others to you for training as I can spare them from other duties. We'll worry about lower-ranking ones with Talent later."
"Sir," Medart said.
"Yes, Jim?"
"What do you have planned for the rest of our assault group?"
Davis smiled. "I think you can guess, for a mission that valuable to the Empire that they didn't expect to come back from. Since they're military and risking their lives for the Empire is technically part of their jobs, I can't quite justify Life Nobilities—but I can damnsure give them Sovereign's Medals and merit promotions, plus choice of next assignment."
"That sounds good, except for Hobison," Medart said. "He's already refused promotion half a dozen times to keep command of the Chang."
"Considering his total career, that's one Life Nobility I can justify," Davis said. "And I think he will take promotion if it doesn't mean losing his ship."
"I think so too, sir." Medart grinned. "I like it—that'll make him the only ship captain whose position title is lower than his Navy rank."
Davis chuckled, then sobered. "That's it, then. I'll see you all at the Tribunal, gentles—in the meantime, we all have work to do." He stood.
The others rose and bowed, then left. Corina waited until she and Medart were on an elevator to the Rangers' apartment floor, then she said, "It is strange, Jim. I was afraid to take this job, and I am still not positive that I should have been offered it—but I find myself enjoying even the danger and the responsibility."
"Which," Medart said with a grin, "should prove to you that you are right for the job. It's one challenge after another, and you'll eventually run into one you won't get back out of—but in the meantime you can be damn sure you won't be bored."
(A basic overview of the general situation and what happens to the main characters between this story and the next one [either already written, or just planned] that they appear in.)
Although the White Order rebellion was the shortest in Imperial history, its active phase lasting only slightly over an hour, it was the most disruptive. Its purpose was to replace the nobility and key military/administrative personnel; the Order members who were to be those replacements, after killing their predecessors, were in place and ready to strike days or weeks before Thark set the time. In spite of Ranger Losinj's warning, many succeeded, either because their targets did not believe the seriousness of the threat, or because Talent was able to overcome the precautions that were taken.
When all the reports were in, Imperial losses were staggering. Three Rangers were dead, one seriously injured, and over a third of the ruling nobles, some with their heirs, had been killed—along with approximately a quarter of the top-ranking planet-based military and Admin Service officers.
Once the full extent of the disaster was assessed, Rangers Medart and Losinj were reassigned, to separate missions. Because of Losinj's familiarity, however brief, with Chang's crew, Medart decided to change ships rather than having her do so; he chose the Empress Lindner, formerly Ranger Tarlac's ship. Rangers Fenn and Scolacz were recalled from Sector Traiti, which was unaffected by the rebellion because the White Order had not had time since the War to infiltrate. Rangers Kennard and Forrest were also sent out on missions to help the recovery; only Ranger Wang was kept on her original mission, but with another sector added to her responsibilities.
In a brief meeting before Medart and Losinj left for Irschcha, Nevan asked Medart'sadviceon how best to prepare himself should Ranger Losinj accept his personal fealty once he felt he had enough experience to be a suitable thakur-na. He acted on that advice, though it proved extremely difficult at times, and succeeded in a number of dangerous missions; one of those earned him a second Sovereign's Medal, and was followed within months by his second mission with Medart.
"Captain Nevan DarLeras to see Ranger Medart."
"He's expecting you, sir." The Palace Guard opened the door to Medart's office and stood aside to let the Sandeman pass.
Medart rose to greet his visitor, then gestured him to a chair and sat back down as Nevan took the seat. "Your note said you'd like to see me about a personal matter, to be discussed under warrior privacy. What's the problem?"
"It's not exactly a problem, sir, and I'm not quite sure how to approach it, even with a battle-companion. You're familiar with our custom of personal fealty."
That was a statement, not a question, but Medart nodded. "Very familiar; I'm also battle-companion to Lord Klaes' 'na, Gaelan-Frederick DarShona. Who are you planning on offering fealty to?" As if he couldn't guess, he thought.
Nevan was relieved at the Ranger's calm response. "I would like to serve Ranger Losinj, but she doesn't need an inexperienced young officer, even a warrior. Since I've been given my choice of assignments, I was hoping you'd help me pick one that will give me the kind of experience she's likely to need. I'll just have to hope she doesn't accept another 'na before I'm able to give her the kind of service she needs."
Medart studied the young Sandeman for several moments. "I can do that," he said at last. "But it's a type of work I think you'd find distasteful, given your honesty, and given some of your cultural conditioning, you could find the training for it intolerable. Your psych profile, though, says you're adaptable enough that you could accept both, given adequate motivation."
Nevan frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir. I don't know of any Imperial job I would find distasteful, much less intolerable."
Medart chuckled. "Sure you do—it's covered at the Academy, though not in great depth; the fact that you don't even like to think about it proves my point. But if you can manage the training, I think you'd make an outstanding field agent."
"Field agent!" Nevan couldn't help it; he grimaced in revulsion. "Those are—" he hesitated, then decided even one of High War Speech's worst insults wasn't too strong—"nekulturniy."
Medart grew serious. "Not at all, though I was sure you'd react that way. Nevan, field agents have as much integrity as anyone else in Imperial service, and they're necessary. Some investigations are impossible to carry out openly—trying to find the Melgarie pirates' base is a case in point. The only way it'll be found and destroyed, other than by sheer accident, is by infiltration. If it could be done openly, it's big enough it'd be a Ranger's job; since it can't, field agents go in. To succeed, an agent will have to convince the pirates @'s a criminal—probably have to take part in some crimes for that purpose—to be allowed onto the base at all. Then @'ll have to convince them @'s trustworthy enough to be allowed access to the base's defenses to determine their strength, and to communication facilities to call in a strong enough Navy force to take the base out… preferably coming out alive @self."
Medart paused. He wished he could read the Sandeman's mind, but Nevan's shield was definitely up. Still, revulsion seemed to have subsided to dislike, so he continued. "That's lying, probably theft, maybe murder. But it's the only way we know to eliminate what's become a major threat to inter-sector commerce, and is rapidly becoming worse. Let me see if I can put it another way. Field agents are people we can trust to act against the Empire's short-term interests when, and only when, that's necessary to protect its long-term ones. It's always a dangerous job, usually a nasty one, and the agents know very well that most people share your opinion of them. The only reason they put up with all that is because they know how necessary it is."
"I… never thought of it that way," Nevan said slowly. Sandeman custom said that any sort of deliberate falsehood or deception was wrong, a grave dishonor, and he believed that implicitly—but it sounded like Ranger Medart was telling him that in some cases it was not only honorable, it was praiseworthy! That was a difficult concept to absorb—yet a Ranger was as scrupulously honest as a warrior, unless the Empire's very existence depended on one being otherwise, and Nevan couldn't imagine a warrior's becoming a field agent was anywhere near that important.
Another strong consideration was just which Ranger was giving him that information and advice. James Medart played a prominent role in Sandeman history, one of the few standard humans they accepted as being on a par with their warrior caste, and the one person they credited with making their entry into the Empire on an honorable basis possible; his words were to be given more than ordinary value.
After several moments' silence, Nevan nodded. "Since you name it both honorable and the best way to prepare for the service I hope to give Ranger Losinj, I will do my best to become such an agent." He paused, went on less formally. "If what you just told me—about field agents having a position of special trust—was known in Subsector Sandeman, any whose identity we knew would be honored, not scorned."
"And that's something I hadn't thought of," Medart said. "If you're willing to waive warrior privacy on that part of our discussion, I'll be happy to pass it along to your clan-chief, the Vader, and the Miklos."
"It is waived, but only on that part."
"Understood, warrior." Medart strongly hoped Nevan would make it through agent's training; outside of the unfortunate but inevitable warrior's tendency to consider combat a preferred option rather than a last resort, he had all the qualifications of a Ranger. Whether Rina accepted his offer of fealty or not, the Empire would have something it'd never managed before: a Ranger-class field agent. That would frighten some people if they ever found out about it, Medart thought, but he found it reassuring—especially since the prospective agent was a Sandeman warrior. "Would you like me to brief you on the training?"
Nevan thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I'd rather go in without preconceptions, since you say I'm likely to find parts… not intolerable, since I intend to tolerate them, but extremely difficult. The fewer details I know, the fewer contingency plans I'll automatically put together."
"That sounds reasonable," Medart agreed. Especially since a warrior's contingency plans tended to be violent… "Do you have any idea when you plan to offer fealty?"
"I was thinking of about five years," Nevan said. "I do want as much experience as I can get, and that's not a lot—but her people are allergic to the anti-agathics, so I don't dare wait too long."
"True. I'd say that was a reasonable compromise." Rina was a year younger than Nevan, but he was on anti-agathics and she couldn't tolerate them; if he didn't get himself killed on the way, he'd probably outlive her by close to two centuries. "Is there anything else?"
"No, sir." Nevan stood, bowed. "I thank you for your counsel, Ranger Medart. Gods permitting, I intend to follow it."
Medart rose and returned the bow. "May they grant you success in both your training and your offer."
Until next time…