Lysander stood waist deep in the soupy warm water. Here at one of the slough outlets the surf was mild, but he could hear crashing waves out beyond the stream mouth. There was just enough grey light to see the small whitecaps three meters away. When he put his head beneath the surface he had to strain to see the luminous dial of the compass even when he held it close to his face.
The water was warm, but cooler than the jungle had been. It felt good, but he couldn't forget that this wasn't the friendly Aegean on Sparta. This was Tanith, home to nessies. They'd already chased some small eel-like carnivores away.
"Good sign," Private Purdy said. "If there's little ones, the big ones aren't around. Take 'em a while to chew through Nemourlon, too. Take little ones a while, anyway."
They loaded the other sled and sent it on its way. Falkenberg's listening gear told them when the amplifiers began playing the taped nessie calls, and shortly after they heard large creatures moving. Certainly some of them had been attracted to the sled. Some. But had all? It only took one—
"One way to find out," Lysander muttered to himself. He splashed ashore to the stream edge. "Guess I'm off," he said softly.
He felt Falkenberg's hand on his shoulder. "Break a leg," Falkenberg said.
"Sir?"
"Good luck, Mr. Prince."
"Sir," Lysander hesitated. The colonel's hand was still on his shoulder. Lysander stood another moment, then sat in the warm water to put on his flippers. Harv followed close behind when Lysander dove forward into the chop. The second sea sled was waiting on the bottom.
Lysander guided the electric sled under the surf at the stream outlet, then out. When he estimated that he was thirty meters offshore, he turned west to parallel the shoreline. Tension on the tow line told him that Harv was right behind him. No need to worry about Harv. There never was.
Something large loomed ahead and he felt a moment of panic. Nothing happened. A log? Seacow? Whatever it was didn't follow him. He guided the sea sled downward until the gauge showed twenty meters. It was pitch black, murky water and no light above, so that he could barely see the dials.
Lysander concentrated on the compass and the water speed gauge. It was difficult holding a steady course and speed with no visibility, but that was the only way to verify the position he got from the tiny inertial navigation system built into the sled. The system gave him the direction and distance of the Rochemont docking area. It seemed to be working fine.
Sparta had introduced dolphins and orcas into the planet's seas. Both were domesticated, nearly tame, accustomed to swimming with humans. They liked being with people, swimming with them, towing them, and they were more than a match for the native Spartan sea life. Lysander wished he had orcas with him now. Lots of them for preference. A school of killer whales might be able to fend off nessies, at least for a little while. . . .
The seconds ticked away. Somewhere off to his left the other sled would be slowing. The nessies would begin to feed. He listened for the mini grenades, even though he knew they'd be too far away to detect. If the trick didn't work—
Lysander fingered the high pressure lance. In theory you stabbed something—it was designed for sharks—with the long hollow needle, and that would release carbon dioxide under high pressure, rupturing the innards of whatever you'd stabbed. In theory it would be instantly fatal, and the victim, inflated, would float to the surface. An ugly death from an ugly weapon. Lysander hoped he'd never have to test it. There was also the question of whether the needle would penetrate a nessie's armored hide—and what would happen if you killed a nessie and the others went into a frenzy.
After twenty minutes on course, Lysander tugged the tow line. Harv swam up beside him and took control of the sea sled. Lysander checked his tether line and let it reel out as he swam upward toward the surface.
The wind was onshore and there were whitecaps in the bay, nothing for a landing boat to worry about but quite enough chop to make it impossible to see the shoreline in the dim grey light. Instead he looked behind him. After a while there was a tiny blink from the shore as Sergeant Miscowsky briefly clicked a hooded flash. Lysander waited, and when it flashed again he was ready to take a bearing.
There wasn't any navigation satellite system on Tanith. Governor Blaine wanted to install one, but the CD wouldn't finance it. Sparta's system wasn't complete, but it was good enough to locate your position to a few meters, much better than he could do taking visual bearings in choppy seas. Here he had no choice.
The bearing was one more check on the sled's navigator. More importantly, the flash told him that the listening gear hadn't picked up any nessies near the shore, and none following him. Not yet . . .
After he had taken the bearing on Miscowsky's light he couldn't keep himself from staring off southward toward the place the other sled had gone. He couldn't see anything. A wave broke over his head.
Enough. He thumbed his buoyancy valve to let out air, and sank slowly toward the sled.
Concentrate, he thought. Stick to your job. The sled and its tapes and dead porker would attract all the nessies or it wouldn't. Worrying about it couldn't change that. He ignored the tight knot in his gut, and tried not to remember vivid images of nessies tearing at each other.
Once he was below the surface he used the helmet display to get his position from the inertial system. It agreed with his visual bearings. When be was sure, he pulled himself to the sled and tapped Harv. Middleton dropped back to let Lysander take the controls.
He held his course. More images of nessies came unwanted. He tried to dismiss them, and when that didn't work he began to recite slowly to himself. Leonidas. Megistias. Dieneces. Alpheus. Maro. Eurytus. Demaratus the lesser. Denoates. Three hundred names, the heroes of Thermopylae.
He was well into the second hundred when it was time to change course and angle in toward the Rochemont dock area.
"Major Barton!" Ace Barton woke to find his orderly calling from the bedroom door. "Major!"
"Yeah, Carruthers?"
"Cap'n Honistu said you're needed in the staff room, sir. Looks like Falkenberg's making his move."
"Oh shit. Right. I'll be right there. Have coffee ready." There was bright light outside. The bedside clock showed an hour after sunrise. Not enough sleep, he thought.
When he stood his head pounded. Shouldn't drink so damned much. He found vitamins and headache powder and swallowed them, poured a second glass of water and drank that. I don't even like to drink. Rather drink than talk to those rancher types.
He dressed quickly. By the time he was done his head felt better.
The staff room had formerly been the Rochemont study, and was the kind of room that Barton would have wanted if he had been a wealthy rancher, although most of the books were ones he wouldn't be interested in reading. He wondered what it had cost to have leather-bound volumes brought from wherever they had been made. Earth? Someday he'd have the servants unlock one of the glass-fronted book cases and see just where those had been printed. They didn't look as if they'd ever been opened.
Anton Girerd stood at the foot of the big conference and map table. He always seemed to be there. Barton wondered when the rancher leader ever slept. He was certainly conscientious enough. Or just worried. Chandos Wichasta, Senator Bronson's representative, sat quietly in a far corner of the room. He acknowledged Barton with a raised eyebrow.
Captain Honistu looked up from the map table. "They're moving, Major."
Barton went to his place at the center of the table. His coffee mug was already there, and he drank a heavy swallow. Someday Carruthers is going to slip up and I'll scald myself. "Tell me about it, Wally."
"Two fronts. One's obvious, they're moving in force along the southeastern front. Almost no casualties. As you ordered, we're firing off our long-range weapons and getting the hell out. We've knocked out half a dozen of their swamp boogies, but we'll lose four ranches in the next hour."
"And another fifty in a week, and so what?" Barton mused. "They could have had those anytime they really wanted. OK, try to make them pay something for the land, but it ain't worth many casualties. Christian Johnny knows that, it won't be worth many to him, either. So what's he covering up?"
"Not exactly sure," Honistu said. "Reports are still coming in. Looks big enough, Major. Aircraft commandeered. Commercial, even ranchers' private planes. It looks like they're after every airplane on the planet. And some of their air assault troops have been consolidating ranch lands, bringing in engineers."
"Where?"
"Here's the places we know about." Blue lights came on across the map display. "And probables." More lights, in light blue.
"Moving southwest," Barton said.
"Yes, sir. We don't know anything, but the pattern makes me think they're after something in this area. Rochemont, even."
"Makes more sense than his other operation. Think they're on to us, Wally?"
"No data."
"What does our man in the governor's office say?"
"He can't be reached, sir."
"Can't be reached." Barton drank another heavy swallow of coffee. "As of when?"
"This morning, I guess. He went home at the usual time last night."
"What happens when you call his home?"
Anton Girerd said, "A stranger answers. A woman who claims to be Alicia Chang Mardon's visiting cousin. But Alicia has no cousin."
"Sure of that?"
"We are quite aware of our relatives, Major."
"I expect you are. Sorry."
"He's not the only one," Honistu said. "We can't reach any of our people in the governor's office."
"None. I see. OK. We're sure none of them knew about this place?"
"We told none of them," Girerd said. His voice was filled with disdain.
"And none of my troops who know ever talked to them," Barton said. "All right, Falkenberg's closed out our sources. We knew it would happen some day. Now he's on the move, possibly directed at Rochemont, possibly just getting a staging base in the southern area. Sure would be bad luck if he wanted Rochemont as a staging base."
"Wouldn't make a bad one," Honistu said.
"Yeah." Barton let the toothpick dance across his mouth again. "Especially if they look at the fuel facilities here. Mr. Girerd, Mardon may not have known about Rochemont, but he did know about Norton Star."
"Yes."
"Should we be worried?"
Girerd shrugged. "I have been considering that. I don't know, because I can't guess what pressures Falkenberg might put on him."
"Me either. So. We assume Falkenberg has learned we have a ship in orbit. What will he do?"
"As long as he doesn't know where it lands, nothing," Captain Honistu said. "There are no space defense forces on Tanith, and that CD warship is a long way off."
"Yeah. OK, Captain, what have you done about all this?"
"Put our people on full alert with orders to maintain security from satellite and air surveillance. Upped the frequency of our surveillance sweeps. Alerted Norton Star to stand by," Honistu said. "And sent for you."
"Right." Barton studied the situation map for another minute. Then he turned to Anton Girerd. "Sir, I recommend that we bring in the landing ship and get the stuff out of here."
Girerd sighed. "I thought you would decide that." He sighed again. "A few more days. Van Hoorn has had an excellent year. A few more days—but of course you are correct, Major. Better this much than nothing. I will notify Jonkheer Van Hoorn to make the best arrangement he can with the governor."
"You'll do nothing of the kind." Chandos Wichasta spoke quietly, his voice barely carrying through the library. "He must take his chances like everyone else."
"Now wait—" Girerd protested.
"Wait for what?" Wichasta asked. He got up from his place at the far corner of the room and came over to the big staff table. His voice remained low and persuasive. "All this is a strain, and I am sorry, but surely it is clear to you? The more of the crop the governor takes in, the lower the price we will get for what you have gathered. While it would be better if Jonkheer Van Hoorn's crops were added to our collection, we gain nearly as much if they are merely destroyed. If this disturbs you, pay the Jonkheer from your increased profits."
"What will you contribute?" Girerd demanded.
Wichasta looked thoughtful. "We will pay twenty-five percent of the value of Van Hoorn's crop if none of it reaches Falkenberg and Blaine. We will accept any reasonable estimate of its value."
"Not enough."
Wichasta shrugged. "It is all I have authority to give. Perhaps I can persuade my principals to pay more, but I would not be honest with you if I promised they would. They are hard men. I suggest that if you wish Van Hoorn to receive further compensation, you must provide it yourself. Major Barton, I take it you are requesting that we send down the landing boat?"
"Yes, sir."
"I shall arrange it. Immediately?"
"As soon as convenient," Barton said.
"Very well. I will call Norton Star." Wichasta left the room.
"Arrogant bastard," Girerd said.
"Yes, sir," Barton said. Bronson's people usually are. And from here on you'll spend a lot of your life in debt to people like Wichasta. "OK, Wally, satellite surveillance security can go hang. Full alert for everyone. Deploy air defenses. Full radar search. Get ready to transfer the borloi, and have the fuel people stand by. I want that damn thing in and out fast."
Sergeant Manuel Fuentes was taking a leak against the side of the horse barn when Private Hapworth found him.
"Corporal Hardy says tell you two things, Sarge. Full alert and stand by. Just got the word," Hapworth said.
"Another damn drill. Shit."
"No drill, Sarge. Leastwise the comm room people sure don't act like it's a drill. Falkenberg's on the move. The major's bringing in that landing boat."
"Oh, ho. Be glad of that. This duty's soft enough, but I'm gettin' tired of it. Time we was out of here," Fuentes said. "What's the other thing?"
"Sarge?"
"You said there was two things Hardy wanted you to tell me."
"Oh. Yeah, I did. Other thing is, the nessies are freaking out."
"Eh?"
"Whole shit pot of them, less than a mile off shore. Eatin' something. Eatin' each other, too."
Sergeant Fuentes shuddered. "Saw that once. They got a seacow, and by the time they were finished with it one of the nessies was wounded, and—" He shuddered again. Corporal Hardy knew about Fuentes's interest in nessies. When they'd first landed on Tanith, Fuentes took a dip in the ocean. Then the officers told them about nessies. Thinking about that incident still gave him the willies, but it had also given him a fanatical interest in the big sea carnivores. He wanted to go see what they were doing.
And Hardy wants my job. "Nessies will wait," he said. "We better go check on the fuel supply." He was halfway to the fuel shed when the alarms began to sound.
Sergeant Miscowsky lay in the goopy mud at the edge of the jungle and cursed whatever tiny thing had got inside his pants leg. He hoped it wasn't one of the thin red worms that passed for leeches on Tanith, but he was afraid it was. As long as it didn't climb up to his crotch— He ignored the crawly feeling and carefully panned his binoculars across the Rochemont scene for the tenth time in as many minutes. There was just enough light to see, and the sky was brightening by the minute. Miscowsky scanned slowly, from the docking area on his left to the big house in the center, then across fields and barns—
He'd just focused on a barn when its roof opened down the middle and the two halves dropped to the sides. A radar dish popped up and began to rotate.
Holy shit. He thumbed a button on the small console on his left sleeve. "Get the colonel. They're doing something," he said.
Even at lowest power a radio signal might be detected. Miscowsky was linked to the central communications computer through an optical fibre phone line, as thin and flexible as a thread. The fibre optic system was totally undetectable. It was also incomplete, since not everyone was wired into it. Miscowsky panned his binoculars across Rochemont again. There was more activity.
"Falkenberg."
"Colonel, they've opened the roofs on most of their buildings," Miscowsky said. "Antennas everywhere, sweeping everything. They don't care if somebody detects them. Field strength here's pretty amazing."
"Will they spot you?"
"Not me, Colonel."
"Sorry I asked. Do you think they've spotted Mr. Prince?"
"Colonel, I can't tell. All I know is all of a sudden they popped the roofs, and they're sweeping like hell."
"Right. How many observers do we have, and can you pipe any of it back here?"
"Five lookouts, and yes, sir, the cameras ought to be picking stuff up now."
"Thanks. I'll have a look, but keep talking."
"Yes, sir. OK, they're opening the rest of the sheds. I see guns. Couple on the roof of the manor house. More in the sheds. AA and dual purpose stuff mostly. Christ, Colonel, they've got damn near everything Barton owns here! There goes a Leopard. Nasty little bugger." The Leopard was a self-propelled twin rapid-fire gun system mounted on a tank chassis. Used in connection with long-range smart missiles, it was highly effective against helicopters. It could also deliver high volume direct fire against ground targets. "They're moving it this way. Still coming. My guess is they'll put it on the rise about a klick west of here."
"Right. Make sure the computer knows where it is."
"Aye aye, sir. There goes another Leopard, and a couple of missile launchers. I sure wouldn't want to try getting in here with a chopper. Colonel—hah. One whole goddam side of Rochemont hill is opening up! Chopper coming out. Two of them. Two choppers revving up."
"Command override, command override." Lieutenant Mace's voice broke into Miscowsky's helmet phones. "All personnel, secure against aerial observation. Choppers on the rise. I say again, all personnel, take cover, conceal from aerial observation. Choppers coming. Do not fire. I say again, do not fire."
Miscowsky touched the ACKNOWLEDGE button. The computer would collect the responses and tell Mace who hadn't answered.
"Anything else?" Falkenberg asked.
"Well, yes, sir, there's just a lot of activity. People milling around. Last time I looked, the dock area was empty, but there's lots of people there now. Bunch more going into the hill. Looks like a truck coming out of there— Must be a big cave. Truck coming out, heading for the dock area. Bunch of guys hanging on the running boards. Not Barton people, not most of 'em anyway. Different cammies, like what the ranchers wear."
"Any sign of Mr. Prince?"
"No, sir, none at all. Barton's troops still don't act like they've seen anybody, though."
"Carry on, Sergeant."
Miscowsky nestled closer to the squishy ground and adjusted his binoculars. They were definitely moving stuff from the house down to the dock area. Lots of stuff. "Has to be the drugs," he reported to Lieutenant Mace at communications central. "What else could it be?"
"No attempt at concealment?" Lieutenant Mace asked.
"No, sir, none at all. Like they don't care who sees—Holy shit."
They all heard it. A double sonic boom that crackled across the jungle. Then the roar of a hypersonic jet overhead.
"I think we can guess why they don't care who sees them," Mace said. "Command override, command override. Landing ship approaching. Full alert, I say again full alert. Battle plan Alfa, battle plan Alfa."
It was still grey dark when Lysander and Harv came ashore. They took off their flippers and moved silently toward the building Miscowsky had identified as a fueling station. Part of the building was an open-roofed area. Two tractors and a large harrow were parked there. They slipped into the shed area and toward the door to the building itself.
"Those tractors run on hydrogen," Harv whispered.
Lysander nodded. It made sense. It was easier to make hydrogen from seawater than to ship other kinds of fuel on a primitive world. It also made for less trouble with the various ecology groups. And if you could make liquid hydrogen, you could certainly make LOX. "Tanks are probably underground."
The main entrance to the building was a double door wide enough for vehicles. The long corridor beyond was dimly lit with overhead bulbs. There were a number of doors off the corridor.
They could hear soft voices inside, voices too low to be understood. This went on for a few minutes. Lysander looked around the shed area for a place to hide. Nothing looked very promising. The area was too open. He had decided they'd have to risk going inside when the nearest door off the long interior corridor opened.
A man and a woman came out. They leaned on each other and were obviously drunk. The man wore the faded camouflage uniforms favored by the Tanith rancher militia. The woman wore grey coveralls opened to the waist. They giggled as they walked past Lysander and Harv.
"Of course I love you," the man said. "Couple more years, I'll have enough saved, we can buy out—" He looked around furtively. "Best be quiet." They went out of the shed and toward the worker barracks.
Lysander waved Harv forward and pointed to the door the two had come out. The lock was a simple one that took Harv only seconds to open.
The room inside was filled with crates of spare parts for tractors and farm machinery. Lysander locked the door behind him, then risked using a flash held hooded in his fingers. He found a narrow passage through the crates. It led to a small compartment not high enough to stand in. There was a mattress and several empty beer and whiskey bulbs. A heavy air of sweat filled the compartment.
Harv wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"Yeah, but it looks OK for us." Lysander looked around the small area again. "Looks fine. Now we wait."
Their compartment was against the east wall of the shed. Lysander used his knife to make a tiny peephole in the corrugated sheet plastic wall. When there was enough light outside he could see part of the docking area. Perfect, he thought. We've been lucky.
Luck counts, Falkenberg once told him. But it's no use at all if you don't know enough to take advantage of good luck.
They waited. Harv dozed like a cat, his eyes opening whenever Lysander shifted weight or anyone moved outside. After a while Lysander let himself drift to the edge of sleep.
They heard the alarms first, then voices.
"Get them lines laid out, Hapworth," someone shouted. "Hardy, get the wrenches. Come on, come on, we ain't got all damn day!"
Sonic booms shook them, then there was the roar of the landing ship.