Fortress of Lies

He sighed. Perhaps it was merely his current project or his close brush with death that had put such thoughts in his mind—some kind of primitive nesting instinct calling to the modern man.

The phone on the table next to his ’puter chimed, rescuing him from his melancholy.

He tapped theANSWER button, and Captain Clancy’s holographic image floated above the phone. “Okay, Duck. I put up with you shanghaiing my crew, messing up my cargo bays, and painting my ship like a spaceport whore, but you got welders down there cutting a hole in my hull.”

“Technically, they’re notching into the corner of the number one bay door.”

“You’re putting a hole in the part that keeps the outsides out, and the insides in. Same thing, Duck.”

“Trust me, Captain, I’m as concerned about that as anyone.” He chuckled. “I’m one of the insides that needs to stay in. The armor surrounding the opening will be four times as thick as the hull surrounding it, and there will be four armor-plated pressure doors. It’s a hole in your hull, but an exceptionally well-protected hole.”

“Yeah, well, you should have consulted me.”

“I would have, if there’d been time. The shipwrights are literally working without blueprints, with two structural engineers on-site designing things as they go.”

“I reckon you must trust these engineers of yours quite a bit.”

“They’re both Republic Navy veterans. They’ve spent fifty years between them putting battle-damaged ships back together, under fire and in the worst of conditions. I’m certain our ‘hole’ will be just fine.”

Clancy nodded, and the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch up almost imperceptibly. “Well then, I guess you got it covered.” The almost-smile abruptly ended. “But next time you tell me first. This is a ship, not your blasted summer house.

“I don’t even know what all this mess you’re putting on my ship weighs. When we lift, I’m going to have to give her full throttle, base my weight calculations on our acceleration, then redo all my center-of-gravity adjustments and orbital calculations on the fly. It won’t be no picnic, I tell you.”

Aaron gri

“Well, yeah, I guess it’s kind of like that.”

“Which reminds me. We don’t have time right now, but I want to upgrade the armor on that entire bay door, and possibly the interior bulkheads as well. Maybe at the next nondiplomatic port of call.”

The French doors opened, and Deena stepped out onto the deck. She placed a new stack of papers on the table next to his ’puter, then stood patiently to see if he needed anything else from her.

“Maybe,” said Clancy. “I’ll say this for you, Duck. You keep me amused. Been laughing my ass off watching my boys hauling in this sissified furniture of yours. It’s go

“The style is called recoco—”

“Rococo,” Deena corrected.

“Rococo,” he continued, “and it will all be bolted to the floor.”

Clancy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So, for half the voyage it’ll just be something to bang your head on. Coulda pointed you at a place’ll sell you any kind of folding furniture you want. Quality stuff, too.”

“I’m sure. And it would look like quality storable furniture too. Listen, Captain Clancy, it’s not like I’m trying to install this on your bridge. You did say that what I did in the cargo bay was my business. Is that arrangement still true?”

“Yeah, well, ’cept for that hole in the hull. But I still gots the captain’s prerogative to make fun of foolishness when I see it.

“Well, I’m go

The display blanked, and Aaron turned to Deena. “You’re giving me that look.”

“What look?”

“That skeptical, ‘I can’t tell him what I really think because he’s the Duke’ look. I do value your opinions, you know. What is it?”

“He’s right about how absurdly impractical this furniture will be on a DropShip. Not to mention the carpets, the tapestries, the paintings, the art, the gourmet chef.”

“Chef Bellwood served on the liner Ian Cameron. He’s an accomplished zero-gravity chef as well.”

“Which means, I suppose, we’ll be installing a second kitchen for that?”

“Later. Until then, he can work out of the officers’ mess when we’re not under boost or on a planet.”

She sighed. “Lord Governor, I enjoy interior decorating as much as anyone, but haven’t you forgotten there’s a war on? That people have died—continue to die—while we’re playing house on a spaceship?”

“Of course not, Deena. But these things are neither for my comfort nor my vanity. They are for show. Some things are all the more impressive precisely because they are so extravagantly impractical. To build our coalition, we have to win the hearts of the people whose planets we visit, and those of their leaders, as well.

“This is the symbol of power, of confidence, of victory. They will all be drawn to this, wish to align themselves with it, hope it will rub off on them. This is the pull that will bring our coalition together.

“And the little show you’ve arranged for Shensi, that’s going to be the push.”

She frowned and tilted her head. “And this is how you fight a war?”

What was with Deena today? He didn’t mind her frankness, at least in private, but it was uncharacteristic of her to be so confrontational. “Deena, have you ever wondered what the sword is in the SwordSworn’s seal?”

“I assume it’s the Sword of Davion.”

“That’s true enough, but there’s a legend associated with it that far predates House Davion. My grandmother used to tell it to me when I was a child.” He gestured at a love seat across the table from his chair. “Sit, and I’ll share it with you. Ring for a drink if you’d like.”

She sat on the edge of the seat and crossed her legs, hands cupped over her knee.

He sat as well, moving the stack of papers to one side. “You see, long ago, perhaps on ancient Terra, there was a dragon that emerged from a crack in the ground. It was born of fire and lava. It breathed fire, its skin was hard as stone, and molten metal ran in its veins.

“Though many brave and skillful men tried to fight it, they could not get close enough to mortally wound it, and were themselves killed. The dragon rampaged at will, killing the people and burning their homes. It seemed that very soon, men would be no more, and the dragon would have won.

“But one man had watched the others. He had seen them hesitate before the beast, so that their blades did not bite deep enough to harm him. He knew the only way to slay the dragon was to plunge a sword directly through the soft spot on his chest, deep into his flaming heart.

“It would be a terrible thing to do, but he knew that unless the dragon was stopped, everyone he knew and loved would die.

“So he put on his armor, and took up his sword, and went to face the dragon. And though the beast was terrible—the heat of its breath scalded him, and the heat of its skin burned him—he did not hesitate. He leaped upon the creature and plunged his sword, and his whole arm, into the flaming heart of the creature.

“The pain was terrible. He knew his arm would be lost, if not his life, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the beast expire before he himself fell into unconsciousness.

“The people came upon their rescuer. His arm was terribly burned. They took him back to the village to care for him. He hovered on the brink of death, until the Lady of the Stars came to him in a vision. She told him he was to be rewarded for his selfless bravery in the cause of the people.

“He found that he was well and whole again, and even his armor was restored to him, bright and polished. But what, he asked, had happened to his sword?