Mercenary's Star

As she began her slow slide down Norn's gravity well, the Invidiouswas silent, listening for the emissions and active search signals of Combine craft. There was considerable radio and microwave traffic from the region immediately around Verthandi and from Verthandi's single, giant moon, but the space close to the Invidiouswas clear. Slowly, the ship's jump sail began to unfurl, ru

"I don't like it," Tor said. He stood with Grayson in the conduit-lined, metal-webbed passageway along the Invidious'sspine, close by the locks leading through the DropShip docking rings and into her paired riders. Deimosand Phoboswere commercial inter-system freight haulers, similar in design and capacity to the standard UnionClass military DropShips of every Successor State, but lightly armed. The weapons had been added to unarmed hulls, and so the Deimosand Phoboswere not as well armored as the DropShips they outwardly resembled.

Using spray gear adapted to zero-G and vacuum, work crews had been painting Combine dragon insignias and a new name and numbers on the Phobos'sflanks during the journey from Galatea to the Galatean jump point. They'd worked feverishly, but none of Grayson’s staff dared guess how successful that deception would be. Computer ID scans and transponder broadcasts would identify a DropShip approaching a planet long before patrolling fighters could get close enough to eyeball a suspicious vessel. If they were challenged in flight, however, that could get serious. While still on Galatea, Grayson had thought long and hard about whether or not they might need better DropShip weapons, but there'd been no more money to purchase them. Having exhausted their meager resources, he and his men had no future now except for what they could win for themselves on Verthandi.

First, however, they were going to have to run the Combine blockade.

"I can't say I care much for it, either," Grayson said, "but if we can slip past the Dracos, we should be safe enough.”

“They'll be patrolling."

"And we'll be looking like a Kurita UnionClass. They won't be expecting us, but they're likely to put it down to a sloppy schedule. Besides, I doubt that they'll be watching for someone breaking in."

Tor did not look happy. "I'll be back. You have the beacon gear."

"Safely stowed. We'll send a coded pulse exactly 900 standard hours after we set down. Don't worry, O.K.?"

"Don't worry, the man says. Right. Well, Invidiousand me'll be right here, 980 hours from now. At that point, you can tell me what you need...or meet me yourself if you have to cut and run." The expression in Tor's eyes showed what they both knew. If it did turn out that the Legion were forced to abandon the system, it was unlikely they would be doing so according to a schedule.

They clasped hands a last time, and Grayson clambered through the docking ring and into the DropShip Phobos.Hatches sealed shut with the hiss of pressurization, while the Invidious’sintercom a

* * * *

The mournful keening of the jungle ornithoids known as chirim-sims carried quite well across the open, grassy, bluesward uplands to the University Gardens. They were loud enough to be heard even above the rumble and clatter of the city of Regis, much closer at hand. From the upper towers of the Administrative Complex, the jungle was visible as a low, shaggy line of black and gray against the green-tinged sky to the north. Governor-General Masayoshi Nagumo took another sip of his drink and scowled at the distant racket.

"Amnesty." Nagumo rolled the word across his tongue as though uncertain of the flavor. A slight man with heavy, oriental features and a mustache already graying to match the silver at his temples, he wore the severe, utilitarian black of a high-ranking officer of the Draconis Combine. The high-collared uniform's only ornament were the kana symbols spelling out the names of Kurita and Duke Ricol in gold and the black-on-red dragon circles above them. In the cross-draw holster at his belt, he wore a deadly Nakjima hand laser.

Behind him, Olav Haraldssen was struggling to control his expression. His own red and gold uniform was more richly adorned than Nagumo's, but there could be no doubt who was the master and who the servant on that terrace. The crest on Haraldssen's tunic was the emblem of the University of Regis. He was unarmed—native Verthandians were never permitted to go otherwise into the Governor-General's presence—and the terror in his face and posture was plainly visible.

"Your Council is actually suggesting that a writ of amnestybe issued for these...creatures?"

"My...my Lord, it seems the best way. The rebels will never come in, never agree to a cease-fire, unless we offer some promise that they will not be...be summarily slaughtered...."

Nagumo whirled to face the First Councilman of Verthandi's Council of Academicians. The planetary leader continued to speak, haste tumbling the words one upon the next. "Of course, the leaders will be taken, handed over to your department for questioning for...for whatever it is you want to do with them...."

"Oh yes, my learned friend. The leaders willbe taken. But do you seriously believe that an offer of amnesty is going to bring those people in out of the jungles? Eh?"

"Lord, we must... we must at least make the attemptto placate the people."

Nagumo was surprised at the man's boldness despite his obvious fear. Haraldssen's hands were clenched at his side, his tongue flicking across dry lips, but he plunged on in the face of the dragon. What had happened? This man had been chosen because of his haste to welcome Verthandi's new masters. Was he now having an attack of conscience...or had someone within the University's hierarchy gotten to him? Might revolt be flourishing again among the University faculty?

Regis University dominated the northern sprawl of Verthandi's capital city, and the Central Tower of the Administrative Complex commanded the University. From the garden terraces halfway up the broad Tower, Nagumo could see not only the distant jungle, but the sweep of Regis itself, beyond the walls of the University. Below him stretched the broad, parklike central Courtyard. From this height, students and faculty moving among the university buildings or passing through the main Courtyard Gateway into the city proper looked minute, mere insects on the pavement.

The government situation here was peculiar, a state approaching anarchy, directed by the faculty-elected Council of Verthandi's principal center of learning. The people seemed to think in abstract notions of learning, culture, and art rather than in terms of power. Nagumo had no personal quarrel with art. He found the University architecture stimulating, enjoyed the haiku of Ihara Saikaku and Matsuo Basho, and numbered among his dearest possessions an original oil painting by Chesley Bonestell...but what in hell's name did such things have to do with power?