Traitor's Sun

  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