Rafe gave a muffled snort. "I saw him from the roof, strutting like a banty
cock, all tarted out in a combat suit adorned with ribbons he never earned." He
gestured to a longviewer hanging around his neck, an instrument he had
requisitioned at HQ years before and had not returned when he retired. He often
brought it to the castle and took the children up to the roof for the pleasure
of being able to see all the way across Thendara. Lew could sense the amusement
in Rafe's mind, and realized that he had his own scores to settle with
Belfontaine.
Now Lew could sense the press of minds approaching through the nearly deserted
streets, Belfontaine's among them. He exuded confidence even at this distance,
not to mention a certain righteousness of purpose. His men did not entirely
share his mood, however, and he noticed doubt here and there, little quivers of
unease that he knew the waiting leroni would use to advantage.
This was not a strategy that Lew would ever have conceived, for it was an
empath's plan, and he had never thought of that particular laran as something
that could be used offensively. But Val was right-everyone had fears and terrors
that could be roused with the right stimulus. His own did not require any help,
and he cursed his imagination silently, then forced himself to stop.
"Let us begin." Val made a small gesture, and everyone took their places in the
circle of high-backed chairs except the two women who were to be monitors. The
old woman who had been knitting pushed her work into a bag and shoved it beneath
her seat, then began to pull her matrix stone from beneath her soft robe. Lew
found her movements very peaceful, and felt his own spirits begin to settle
down.
Val moved to the chair in the center of the circle, sitting tidily. There was no
sound except the crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of silk being removed,
as gleaming matrix stones were revealed. One of the monitors tossed something
into the hearth, and a pleasant smell started to waft around the room.
After several minutes Lew could sense the atmosphere in the chamber begin to
shift, a coalescing of thought and energy, focused on Valenta. He had not worked
in a circle in years, except for a couple of practice runs earlier in the day,
and it felt unfamiliar yet right at the same time. And, really, he had nothing
to do except use the Alton Gift to channel all this wonderful energy into the
large matrices above the entrance. His breathing deepened, and he felt himself
become enmeshed in the circle, without strain, as if he had been doing it every
day for ages. Now they would see if matrix science could outdo the technological
"advantage" of the Terranan. He chuckled deep in his chest. It really was an
elegant plan, and if they got out of this in one piece, he was going to raise
several cups to Cisco Ridenow's health.
Lyle Belfontaine strode along a narrow street, ignoring the raw day and the
faint feeling of unease in the back of his mind. He was not worried about
capturing Comyn Castle, for he was sure the servants that were left in the huge
building would not try to stop him. It was the other, the assault along the
road, that concerned him. He had sent orders for the attack the night before,
and he knew that the forces from the Aldaran Domain had left there. He had had a
lot of trouble with Commander Shen, who was in charge of the Federation troops
in the Hellers. He was old-line military, from some family that had been serving
the Federation for generations, and he had protested Lyle's orders. Some
nonsense about attacking civilians without provocation. Belfontaine had insisted
that the funeral train was harboring dangerous enemies of the Federation-namely
Hermes Aldaran, but others as well-and Shen had finally, if reluctantly, agreed.
With any luck at all, Shen and his honor would not survive. It was only a pity
he could not reach Vancof and tell the scrawny assassin to make sure of that,
but the shortbeam was not responding. How dare Shen question his orders!
It had taken several frustrating hours of transmissions back and forth before
Shen had obeyed, and Lyle had wondered if the entire plan would fall apart from
the failure of the technology they depended on. Cottman's star was going through
one of its periods of sunspot activity, and that had interfered with the proper
functioning of their equipment. And he wasn't worried about the actual attack on
the funeral train-it would either work or it would not. No-it was the trail of
transmissions which disturbed him more than a little-the evidence that could
hang him if things went awry. But it was worth the risk, to pay back these
stupid and stubborn people for refusing to join the Federation. They had brought
this on themselves!
And there was always the possibility that the Federation would never know what
he was about to do-that they would not come back to remove the personnel from HQ
at all. When Granfell had made that suggestion a few days before, he had
dismissed it. But now, as the silence from the relay station continued,
Belfontaine was not so sure. Perhaps they would be abandoned. Well, if they
were, he would have the planet in his own control.
There would be no one to challenge his authority. Granfell would be dead, if
Vancof followed his orders, and so would anyone else who might dare to oppose
him. Really, he should be more grateful to Miles, for coming up with the idea in
the first place. A shame the man was not to be trusted. But he could not have a
second-in-command who might be a traitor, could he?
Belfontaine had not been in this section of Thendara very often, for he rarely
left the comfortable confines of the base. He looked at the buildings on either
side of the street-wide for Cottman IV but narrow by the standards of any
civilized city-their high stone walls looming above him. He saw the painted
signs that hung out from the shops, and noticed that the shutters were drawn in.
It did seem rather quiet for midday-the streets seemed almost empty of the
normal traffic, and if anyone was alarmed by the sight of several squads of
armed men marching along this avenue, there was no indication of it. Perhaps
this was a day of mourning, after yesterday's funeral. He almost regretted that
he had not attacked then, but he had had no idea that there would be such an
event, one so public and vulnerable. He had not had time to organize an assault,
and it was probably for the best. Less than a hundred men against the populace
of Thendara and the Guard units were not odds that appealed to him.
Belfontaine's few spies had assured him that the funeral train had left that
morning with everyone from the castle including the Guardsmen, accompanying it.
So why was he increasingly anxious? Could he trust his agents? What if someone
had anticipated his attack, and made it appear that the castle was a ripe plum
just waiting to be plucked? No, there was no one that clever, was there?
Ahead, he saw the gleaming white walls of Comyn Castle and his worries began to
slip away. How he hated the building, which represented his failure to bring
Cottman to heel for the Federation! It was payback time, and he felt exultat
ion
swell in his chest.
Then his previous anxiety returned. He almost felt as if the building were
watching him, observing his march somehow. It was an eerie sensation, and
Belfontaine realized his nerves were not as steady as he had previously thought.
He almost wished that it were not empty, that he would have the opportunity to
slaughter its obstinate, arrogant inhabitants. What victory was there in seizing
an empty palace? A sour taste filled his mouth, and he knew that he would never
have dared to attack Comyn Castle unless it was unguarded. This honest insight
rattled him badly, and he gritted his teeth. He had to get a grip on himself!
He glanced at the readouts on his visor, little specks of light that encoded
information, showing him the position of his men. It calmed him to see that, and
the momentary self-awareness of fear faded away. He liked the smell of the helm,
and the sense of command it gave him. With it, he could direct his men
instantly, and also have a view of any opposition. Not that he expected any. The
Castle Guards had gone with the funeral train, and he had arranged for trouble
in the Horse Market to draw the City Guards to the other side of Thendara. So
why did this litany of certainty fail to reassure him?
It was too quiet-that was what was getting on his nerves! There should be people
in the streets, even if it was a day of mourning. He swallowed the foul taste in
his mouth.
It was actually better this way, Belfontaine told himself almost desperately
now. Dead civilians tended to arouse the interest of Boards of Inquiry, and if
he could manage a bloodless coup, it would be to his advantage. He wished he
knew more about the actual layout of the Castle. He had tried to find out,
during the years, and he knew that by repute it was a regular warren of
corridors and rooms, large enough to hide a thousand men. Except that even if
one combined all the City and Castle Guards, they did not number that many.
There was something uncanny about the white building ahead of him. Was that
someone on the roof? No, just a shadow. But he looked at the surrounding
buildings, at the rooflines of the nearest ones, trying to see if there were any
watchers there. Supposedly, his combat helm should have indicated the presence
of anyone, the heat of their bodies making a signal, but the local stone seemed
to block that function. Typical-whenever you really needed them, machines let
you down. It was some kind of law, wasn't it?
Quelling his rising anxiety, Lyle Belfontaine advanced, his boots and those of
his company making a steady beat against the cobblestones of the avenue. It was
a regular, rhythmic sound, and it began to steady his nerves. He knew that men
going into combat were often nervous, and decided that he must be experiencing
that. It was nothing to be concerned over.
Now he stood at the bottom of two flights of wide stairs, leading up to the main
doors of Comyn Castle. For a moment he stood and gazed at the great carved
doors, allowing himself the pleasure of anticipating their destruction. He
barked a command into his helm, and two squads started to move up the stairs. It
was all going just as he had planned, and he let himself grin behind his visor.
He was admiring their efficient progress, the splendid way they moved together
as the squads advanced up the first flight of stairs. Then the men seemed to
hesitate, and he saw one man bat his helm with a gauntleted hand, as if trying
to get the mechanism to function correctly.
Before he could wonder what was happening, he felt an itch begin to crawl across
his scalp beneath the helmet. It seemed to have a lot of legs-some sort of
insect. How could the damn thing have gotten under his helm? And he could not
get at it without taking the accursed thing off! He shook his head to one side,
trying to dislodge whatever it was, and felt the itching increase. It seemed
like several large crawly things were on his scalp, and his skin began to
roughen in the warmth of the combat suit. Visions of centipedes began to rise in
his mind, the sort that were common on Lein III. Perhaps the suits had become
infested with some local insect, and the heat of his body had roused them. He
held back a shudder and tried to concentrate on the readouts again.
Something was wrong! Where a minute before he could place every one of the
eighteen soldiers on the steps without actually looking at anything except the
dots of colored light in his display, now eight of them were gone! Simply
vanished! Stupid machinery! The things were supposed to be foolproof, but of
course they would go off-line just when they were most needed. Damn the
Federation for giving him old equipment, years out of date! He shook the helm
with both hands-there must be a loose connection. His attempt to fix things did
not improve matters at all.
A thin, wailing sound came over the comlink, nearly deafening Belfontaine as the
scream pierced his eardrums for several seconds before bubbling into silence.
Then all the displays in his helm burst into life, leaving dazzling spots
dancing before his aching eyes. There were shouts all around him, penetrating
the thick insulation of the helm. A sputter of light surged again, and then the
helm went dead. The nasty stink of burning insulation rose in his nose, and he
tried to pull the thing off without disengaging the toggles that held it to his
combat suit. Smoke began to cloud the visor as he scrabbled to release the
clasps that held the helm in place.
After what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a few seconds,
Belfontaine managed to get his gloved fingers around the toggles and undo them.
He pulled his helmet off and gasped for air. The cold wind chilled his skin, but
it felt wonderful for a moment. His eyes teared with the combination of smoke
and wind, and he blinked to clear them.
A scene of chaos met his burning eyes. He stared in astonishment as the eighteen
men who had reached the landing between the two flights of stairs screamed and
tore at their helms and protective garments. He watched expensive helmets being
smashed against stones, and saw one man ram his fingers into his own eyes.
Several others turned and started to run down the stairs toward him.
"Stop!" His command was borne away on the wind, and it had no effect. A trooper
dashed past him, discarding his weapons as he ran, screaming lustily. The eyes
of the man seemed glazed and vacant, and a line of spittle drooled from the
gaping mouth. Belfontaine reached out to restrain him, but the man just pushed
him away, knocking him down so hard that all the air left his lungs.
The combat suit protected him, but Belfontaine could feel the impact of the
fall. Dazed, he watched the troopers still on the landing dance around, pulling
off their suits, screaming and vomiting. Then he turned and looked behind him,
to find that the rest of his small force had gone mad as well.
He tottered to his feet, desperately trying to regain his own control. The suit
suddenly felt too hot, and remembering how his helm had shorted out, he looked
down to see if there were any telltale wisps of smoke. It became hotter and
/> hotter, until it was intolerable, although he could see nothing wrong. Get out
of the suit!
Belfontaine pulled at the closures, and felt the suit slip down his body,
puddling around his knees and leaving him in his thermal undersuit. The brisk
wind cooled his overheated body quickly, and he tried to understand what was
happening.
You always were worthless, Lyle. You were a failure from the day you were born!
He heard the words and knew the voice, even as his mind rejected them. Then he
saw the speaker standing in front of him, his tall and powerful father, sneering
at him and making him feel smaller than he was. The vision was transparent at
first, but then it solidified and began to move closer. Reflexively, he lifted
his arm to deflect the blow he anticipated, now totally unaware of the actions
of his troopers around him.
He cowered before the image of his father, trying to make his voice work, to say
anything that would keep him safe. But his throat was closed with terror, and he
felt his bowels loosen. The smell wafted upward, and Belfontaine trembled with
shame.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision of his father vanished, and he
could see that there were men sitting on the landing, sobbing or screaming. He
turned to look at the rest of his troopers, and saw that most of them were in
retreat. And worse, riding toward them, was a company of City Guards. Were they
insane, to ride against energy weapons? Then he saw that none of his soldiers
were even reaching for their blasters-they were too busy jumping around and
trying to get out of their suits. This damn planet was driving them crazy!
Before he could quite grasp this new development, he heard another sound, of
stone sliding over stone, and turned toward the noise. An opening had appeared
in the wall of the castle, to one side of the great doors, and the Castle Guards
he had been assured were gone poured out.
Belfontaine reached to his side, where a blaster should have been, and felt his
fingers brush against the weave of his thermal undergarment. He leaned down to
the discarded combat suit which lay around his ankles, trying to find the
weapon.
Hello, little man.
The words boomed in his mind, echoing like cannons, familiar and not at the same