Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline (7 page)

Storm’s sons stared at their feet like shamed boys caught playing with matches. Storm half turned to Cassius, eye on the senior watchstander. Cassius inclined his head. The officer would have to explain his failure to report ships in detection. He would be reminded of his debt to Gneaus Storm. It would be a tempestuous admonition.

The officer’s failure was beyond Cassius’s comprehension. He never let his hatred of the Dees impair his trust. The Dees were a raggedy-assed gaggle of hypocritical thieves, boosters, and news managers. They were a waste of life-energy. But . . . Cassius suppressed his feelings because he had faith in Storm’s judgment. This watch officer had not been with the Legion long enough to have developed that faith.

Should Storm ever fail, openly and dramatically . . . Cassius did not know what he would do. He had been with Storm so long that, chances were, he would bull right along in the official line.

Storm surveyed his sons again. He awarded Lucifer one of his rare smiles. The fool had been trying to kill his own wife.

Storm thought of Pollyanna, shuddered.

He had to let them off easy. This pocket revolt was his own fault. He should have passed the word about the woman.

He did not think much of himself just then. He had done his usual trick, not letting anyone know what he was doing or why. He was screwing up too much lately. Maybe he was getting old. In this business survivors eliminated the margin of error.

He locked gazes with Lucifer. His son stepped back as if physically shoved.

Lucifer was just six years older than Mouse. He was large and well-built, like his father, but his mind had his mother’s bent.

Lady Prudence of Gales had been a High Seiner poetess and musician in the days when her people, the mysterious Starfishers, had not completely retreated into the interstellar deeps. She had come to the Fortress as an emissary, recalling Prefactlas, begging for help to save her sparsely populated, remote homeworld from Sangaree domination.

She had touched Storm with naked trust. No man knew where to find the elusive Seiners. She had given him that secret in the naive hope that that would move him to help. She had cast the dice, betting everything on a single roll . . . And she had won.

And Storm had had no cause for regrets.

He remembered Prudie better than most of his women. A hot, hungry little morsel in private. Cool, competent, and occasionally imperious in public, and daring. Bedazzlingly daring. Never before or since had anyone cozened the Iron Legion into fighting on spec.

He had pulped the Sangaree on her world. She had given him a son. And they had gone their separate ways.

Storm had known countless women, had fathered dozens of children. His parents had had no concept of fidelity either. Three of his brothers had had different mothers. Michael Dee had had a different and mysterious father.

Frieda Storm was guilty of her indiscretions, too. She did not press Storm about his.

So Lucifer had been an artist born. And he was good. His poetry had appeared with that of giants like Moreau and Czyzewski. The visualist Boroba Thring had done a kaleidoshow based on Lucifer’s Legion epic,
Soldaten
, using one of Lucifer’s Wagnerian scores as background music. But Lucifer considered writing and composing mere hobbies.

He was determined to prove himself a soldier. It was a vain ambition. He did not, as they say, have the killer instinct.

The free soldier had to act without thought or remorse. His antagonists were professionals. They were quick and deadly. They would permit him no time for regrets or reflection on the barbarity of it all.

Storm forgave Lucifer’s shortcomings more readily than he did those of sons with no talents. He had hopes for the boy. Lucifer might someday find and become true to himself.

Benjamin and Homer were twins. Storm’s only children by Frieda, they were, in theory and their own estimation, his favorites. They were rebels. Their mother defended them like an old bitch cat her kittens.

Probably my fault they’re delinquents
, Storm thought.
They’ve been men for decades and still I treat them like boys. Hell, they’re grandfathers
.

This extended life leached a man’s perspective. The twins were as unalike as night and day. Storm sometimes wondered if he had fathered both.

Benjamin was a blond Apollo. He was the darling of the younger Legionnaires, who considered his father a historical relic. But did they turn to Benjamin in the tight places? They did not. Benjamin Storm tended to fold under pressure.

His mother and friends believed he was the Legion’s Crown Prince. His father thought not. If the Iron Legion survived Gneaus Storm, none of his children but Cassius’s favorite had what it took to rule and fight a freecorps.

Benjamin could win loyalties with a word, with a gesture. He had that knack for making each individual feel he was the only human being in the universe Benjamin cared about. But could he inspire faith?

Benjamin might command the Legion one day if his father did not appoint a successor. For one commission. Storm could see his son taking over on force of personality. He could not see him succeeding in the field.

Benjamin could play Piper of Hamlin to his own, but those hard cases across the battlefields, the Hawksbloods and van Breda Kolffs, would cut up his charisma and spread it on their breakfast toast.

Homer was Benjamin’s antithesis. He was dark of mind and body, ugly, malformed, and congenitally blind. He repelled everyone but his twin. Benjamin was his only friend. He followed his brother everywhere, as if only Benjamin could neutralize the blackness in his soul.

In compensation for her cruelties Nature had given Homer a weak psionic ability that never did him any good. He was bitter, and not without just cause. He was as sharp as anyone in the family, yet was trapped in a body little better than a corpse.

Storm’s men saw the twins as living examples of the dualities in their father. Benjamin had received the looks and charm, Homer the hurt and rage and darkness of spirit.

Benjamin met his father’s eye and smiled his winningest smile. Homer started sightlessly, unrepentant. He was unafraid. There was no way to punish him more than life had punished him already.

He expected nothing but evil. He accepted it.

Storm hurt for him. He knew the shadow that ruled Homer. It was an old, ultimate companion.

At least once a day Storm turned to the book that time had forgotten, rereading and contemplating the message of a Storm dead four thousand years.

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
What does a man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?

Gneaus Storm, even more than had Homer, had watched the rivers run into the seas, and knew the seas would never fill. Rather, they grew shallower with the ages, and someday would disappear. What did a man profit if, in the end, all his deeds were illusion? The Enemy could not be overthrown. Its resources were infinite and eternal and Storm knew he would only lose the long struggle.

Unlike the Preacher in Jerusalem, Storm refused to surrender. In spite of everything, there could be victory in the spirit. If he kept his courage he could scratch his memory on the cruel visage of defeat. Either to surrender, or to go to his fate with laughter on his lips. This was the only real choice he, or any man, was ever given in this life.

“There’s a ship coming in,” he growled at last. He jerked his arm upward. The ravenshrike fluttered into the shadows. No one paid it any heed.

No one argued. The truth was evident in the display globes.

“Michael Dee’s ship, I believe. Contact him. Clear him a path through the mine fields.”

The soldiers did not “yes sir” before returning to work. They would try to impress him with their efficiency now. Trouble lurked beyond the end of their watch.

“Traffic, contact the cruiser too. I want to speak to her master. All defense systems, move to standby alert.”

“I have contact with Dee,” said the man on Traffic Comm. “Clear channel, visual.”

“Thank you.” Storm seated himself at a visual pickup. Cassius moved in behind him. Michael Dee’s fox face formed on screen. Worry lines faded away. A pearly-toothed smile broke through.

“Gneaus! Am I glad to see you. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t answer.”

“I had to think about it.” Dee’s smile faded. His was a con man’s face, blandly honest, as reassuring as a priest’s. But little folds uplifting the corners of his eyes gave him a sly look. “I could still change my mind. Did you bring my cargo?”

Dee was wearing his natural face. No makeup. No disguise. His dark eyes, narrow face, pointy nose, and prominent, sharp teeth gave him a definite vulpine look.
This is the true Michael
, Storm thought.

Dee was a man of countless faces. Seldom was he out of disguise, and his talent for shifting identities was preternatural. Given study time, he could adopt the speech habits and physical mannerisms of almost anyone. He found the talent useful in his trade. He was, supposedly, a free-lance newsman.

“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?” Dee sneered as if to say he knew his brother would not throw him to Hawksblood’s wolves.

“Show me, Michael.”

Exasperated, Dee backed off pickup. Pollyanna Eight showed her pretty face. A little sigh ran through the Center.

“All right. You’re clear in. Out.” Storm nudged the comm man. He took the hint. He secured the channel before Dee could come back on.

Lucifer sputtered behind his father and Cassius. Storm turned. He forbore any remark but, “Lucifer, go take charge of the ingress locks. Don’t let Michael wander. Get him out of his ship and search it.”

Dee was treacherous. From childhood he had thrived on sparking strife. The feud between Richard Hawksblood and his brother was his masterwork.

He could not help himself. Meddling and deceit were compulsions. One day his weakness would kill him.

Michael would be involved in more than just bringing Pollyanna home. He was not a one-track man. He always kept several balls in the air.

Storm thought he knew what Dee was up to. Richard’s being interested in Blackworld was the giveaway.

Michael would try to involve the Legion. Merc wars made great holo entertainment. He had grown rich covering them. He had engineered a few to have something to tape.

Knowing what Michael wanted was inadequate forewarning. He was devious. His manipulations might not be recognizable.

The Traffic Comm man established contact with Dee’s pursuer.

“Cassius. Who is he?”

“Lawrence Abhoussi. One of Richard’s best.”

“Richard must have sent him out blind. He’s surprised to see me.”

“Characteristic.” Hawksblood was a demon for secrecy.

Storm keyed for sound. “Commander Abhoussi, you’re entering restricted space.”

The Ship’s Commander replied, “We did note the automatic warnings, Colonel. But we were given explicit orders. We have to capture the yacht.”

“Polite, anyway,” Storm whispered.

“And scared.”

The Legion had burned respect into Hawksblood’s men. And vice versa.

“I know the ship, Commander. My daughter-in-law is aboard. I have to extend her my protection. Why don’t you pursue your quarrel with her master after he leaves? If the ship is stolen, I’ll let you send in a skeleton crew to collect her.”

Abhoussi grew pale. Storm’s defenses were formidable. “My orders are explicit, Colonel Storm. I’m to recover the vessel and everyone aboard her.”

“This is getting dangerous, Gneaus,” Cassius burred.

Storm nodded. “I know your employer, Commander. He’s a disciplinarian, but he’ll make allowances when you explain why you lost the yacht.” Storm killed the sound. “I’m trying to give him an out, Cassius.”

“He knows.”

The Ship’s Commander paused before replying. He kept glancing off screen. Finally, he keyed for sound and said, “I’m storry, Colonel Storm. I have no option.”

“Damn,” Cassius said.

“I’m sorry too, then. Good-bye, Commander.” Storm broke the link. “Fire Control, activate the passive defenses. Don’t take the cruiser under fire unless she looks like she’ll catch Dee.” He rose, started toward the elevators. The dogs rose as he approached.

“Father!” Benjamin called. “Hold on. They’ve gone Norm.” Storm turned. “Abhoussi’s inherent velocity is aligned with Dee’s and he’s closing fast. He’s accelerating. Catch point about nine hundred thousand kilometers out.”

“Computer?” Storm asked the air.

“Active,” a Cassius-like voice replied.

“You following the current situation?”

“Affirmative.”

“Analysis please.”

The machine confirmed Benjamin’s assessment. It added, “Smaller target is decelerating on a line of approach to the ingress locks. Traffic Comm has docking control. Larger target still accelerating in line of approach. Probability nine-zero plus: Intent is to take hyper with the smaller vessel within its influential sphere.”

“Free missiles,” Storm ordered. “This Abhoussi is damned smart,” he told Cassius. “He jumped on the only chance he’s got.”

By snagging Dee with his more powerful influential field Abhoussi could neutralize the yacht’s drive and drag her beyond the range of Storm’s superior weaponry. He could then drop hyper and deal with Michael at his leisure.

It was a tactic as old as spatial warfare, though a dangerous one. Both ships could be destroyed if either’s drives were far out of synch.

“That man was a McGraw,” Cassius guessed. “Only a pirate would have the nerve to try it.”

“Free guns on the outstations,” Storm ordered. “Commence action. You’re right, Cassius. He’s got guts. Pity he’s wasting them.”

“Some people fear Richard Hawksblood more than they fear Gneaus Storm,” Cassius observed laconically. “Then again, he could know something you don’t. You haven’t analyzed his chances. He comped them while he was talking to you.”

“Right. Computer. Analyze success probabilities for the assumed mission of the larger target, henceforth desig Enemy, Bogey One.”

Practically trampling Storm’s final words, the computer replied, “With Traffic control of Friendly, probability six five plus. Without Traffic control, probability four seven plus. Analysis of random minetracks incomplete.”