Chapter Two
Chapter Two
“Thank you, Shaw,” said the tall man wearing the uniform of the Haven Volunteers.
The butler bowed himself out. Albert Hamilton, Baron of Greensward, turned and offered a seat to Brigadier Gary Cummings.
The two aging men might have been cast in the same mold, then customized by hand. The Baron carried just over ten kilos of fat over solid muscle; his complexion was ruddy from open-air life. Cummings carried no spare weight, but his tanned face was furrowed with worry lines and his eyes red from too many sleepless nights.
“Since you’re in uniform, I expect this is not a social call,” the Baron said.
“Quite right, Baron.”
“Christ on a stick, Gary! We’ve known each other long enough to drop that kind of court nonsense. You know my Christian name.”
“All right, Albert.”
“Al, to my friends.”
Cummings’ stern face broke into a grin. “You win, Al. We’ve got problems.”
“Personal, or does ‘we’ include the militia and the Shangri-La Valley?” the Baron asked.
“Everything. We had to decommission another regiment last week. That leaves us with exactly two understrength regiments for the entire Valley.”
“That’s ridiculous, Gary!” the Baron sputtered. “That scum—raiders, pirates or whatever you want to call them—hit us hard this spring. You’d think those politicians in the Assembly would be looking after our defenses, not undermining them—the incompetent bastards! Rapscallions; all of them. Another series of raids like those and civilization on Haven will be tumbling downhill with no brakes. Is this the Provos at work again?”
“For once, no. It’s this damned inflation; it’s killing the militia, Al. We barely have enough marks to keep the troops fed, much less trained and equipped!”
“Why doesn’t the government just print more money? The Chamber of Deputies has done that for less worthy causes in the past.”
Gary’s face puckered, as if he had just sucked on a lemon. “Oh, they’ve tried, but the value of their currency drops so fast that it’s practically worthless by the time my men get off the base. They’re lucky to be able to buy anything. Before much longer all the legal markets will be completely bare. After all, who wants to produce anything when they get less money for their final product than what they paid for the raw materials?
“The government steps in, of course. We escort the workers to their plants—and ‘escort’ is putting it politely. But what do we do when there’s nothing there for them to work with? The fabricators have had to run the iron ore down from the Atlas Mountains in convoys because bandits were hijacking the ore trucks and selling them and their contents.
“I swear, everything is going to the black market. I could do a better job for my troops if I just declared myself Warlord and started looting supplies!”
The Baron shrugged. “Why don’t you? The way the economy is going, it’s going to come to that sooner or later. Either that, or you turn your command over to some Provo hack, like that Steele fellow. We both know what that will mean….”
Brigadier Cummings grimaced. “Another socialist-workers’ hell, like Stalin. Ever seen it, Al?”
“No, but I’ve been on Diego.”
“Hereditary serfdom isn’t nearly as bad as what they had on Stalin. I don’t know why the Empire never got around to cleaning up that viper’s nest; maybe they were keeping it around as a horrible example of politics gone rotten. If we let one of these home-grown tyrants, like Steele, take charge, that’s how we’ll end up. If it’s not already too late.”
“Do you think it’s gotten that bad, Gary?” the Baron asked.
“It’s too close to call. The barbarians are already inside the gates, and it’s too late for housecleaning. But I’ll be damned if I join the barbarians. I gave my oath to this so-called planetary government; even if it doesn’t know a horse’s ass from its ear.”
That was a door closed politely, but firmly, in the Baron’s face; very much as he’d expected. To change the subject, he shrugged and said, “I suppose it’s too late for the Chamber of Deputies to do much about it now, even if they wanted to. They would have had to start even before the Imperial Marines left Haven. For us, that was like the last of the Roman Legions leaving Britain. After that, it was uncertainty—first bandit raids, then civil war and invasion. We’ve gotten as far as the bandits; my money is on civil war coming next.”
“I can see you believe that,” the Brigadier said. “I saw the new gate on the—well, let’s just call it what it is—your castle; that is, if you don’t mind me being frank.”
“Why not? I don’t mind admitting that I’m lucky to have this fortress. When Edwin Hamilton built Whitehall, back during the CoDominium days, there were convicts and unemployed transportees running in packs all through this area of the Valley. Nobody thought he was paranoid then, did they? Whitehall wasn’t the only fortified manor in this area, either. Most of them are long gone by now; and none of them were Whitehall—even at their strongest.
“Old Edwin was the first man to make a fortune on the shimmer stone trade; even if he did have to sell out to the corporate devil to do it. He emigrated because CoDominium Earth didn’t have room for self-made men anymore. Before he returned, after selling out to Dover, he collected plans of all the old Scottish castles and took the best features from each one. He was no architect, but that didn’t hurt. Instead of doing a stress analysis, he just piled on another truckload of stone anywhere things didn’t ‘feel’ right. By the time he was through, this castle was proof against even a low-grade nuke.”
Cummings nodded. “You owe him one. Now, how are your herds and flocks doing? One thing I can do is buy our meat, wool and leather on the hoof, cutting out all the middlemen. I’ve got enough butchers, weavers and tanners in the militia to do the rest. I also came to deliver this.”
The Baron looked over the sealed packet with the Imperial Seal on it; it was addressed to him. He sucked in his breath.
“Where did you get that?”
“From Fort Fornova. An Imperial courier ship on its way to somewhere else dropped off a message drone at Wayforth Station and programmed the autopilot to land the message pod near Fort Fornova. It took it six or seven months to get here.”
Haven was three Alderson Jumps, including many months of travel time between Alderson Tramlines, from Wayforth Station. Due to the Alderson flux, which hit computers as well as humans, the automated drone would have had to power down after every Jump, then continue its course through normal space to the next Jump Point. It was time consuming and expensive unless compared to the cost of a Navy ship making the same journey to drop off messages.
“How close was ‘near’?” the Baron asked.
“About twenty kilometers up into the hills around Fornova. Much farther and we’d have had to leave it. As it was we lost fourteen men to bandits, getting in and getting out.”
“I’m sorry, Gary. You shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t start feeling guilty, for God’s sake. We killed a score of them for every man we lost. A lot more of them are going to be looking over their shoulders instead of raiding the valleys—at least for a while. Besides, yours wasn’t the only message.”
“I suppose you’ve read it?” the Baron asked.
“We had to. These were the first Imperial communications in over two years! But I won’t keep you in suspense, it’s from Raymond.”
“Raymond!” The Baron hastily opened the packet, took out the enclosed comm stick, went to the viewphone and stuck in the slot. His eldest grandson, Raymond Hamilton, appeared on the screen, wearing his Imperial Navy dress blues.
Dear Grandfather,
Sorry it took so long to get this off, but we’ve been on the move for almost two years now.”
He noted that Raymond’s brown hair was streaked with gray and thinner; there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there when he left Haven eighteen years ago. Has it been that long!
They won’t let me say too much—security and all that. I’m sure that soon you’ll be hearing about the big victory off Tabletop. For the first time Raymond smiled. We whipped their asses, Gramps! I wish you could have been there. He grew sober. But it cost us….The words blurred into static and his image into swirling colors where the Imperial censors had wiped the message. I’m lucky to still be alive. And no matter what happens when we hit Sauron, it will be awhile before they release anyone from active duty. A lot of worlds have used the war as an excuse to—more static and distorted colors, lasting much longer than before.
They say my time’s just about up. Give my love to Maddie and John. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ve seen Aphrodite, Friedland, Levant—even Sparta. But it’s really true; there’s no place like home.
Goodbye, for now.
The Baron stood as rigid as a statue. He stared at the blank screen until he saw, from the reflection, that his face was expressionless. He turned to the Brigadier. “The Empire’s winning the war, but it’s killing them.”
“That’s what my security team guessed,” Cumming replied. “Did you catch the Imperial Cluster on his shoulder?”
The Baron shook his head. “I’m afraid all my attention was on his face. I’ll play it back later for the family.”
“The other three servicemen who sent messages also were wearing the Cluster. We’re pretty sure that’s why they were able to find a captain willing to make a one-way trip and willing to ‘lose’ a courier drone as he passed through the Haven System. Considering what it used to take to earn an Imperial Cluster, either the Board of Awards has gone around the bend, or—things are as bad as you suggested.”
“I’d like to have heard more about those ‘remote planets,’” the Baron said. I wonder—are we going to have an Outie problem again?”
Remembering the history of the early Empire and all the knockdown, drag-out fights with planets that refused to surrender their suzerainty, Cumming shrugged. The Outies had made a fair amount of trouble even when the Empire was young and strong. At that time, they hadn’t had Sauron and an organized alliance of secession behind them. If they outlasted the Saurons only God knew what wide-spread rebellions could cost the Empire.
“The Wars of Secession would go on for years, decades even,” the Baron concluded. “That means that Haven is really going to be on its own. We’ll be lucky to ever see another merchant ship in our lifetime.”
“What do you want the Empire to do, Baron?” Cummings snapped. “The Saurons have an old and ugly dream: a super race ruling over the rest of humanity as slaves. But we’ve learned something from Hitler, Stalin, Corrasco and other despots like them. We can’t leave a single Sauron alive, even if it means the war goes on for another fifty years and we have to bomb a dozen planets into radioactive slag!”
“You don’t think I disagree, do you Gary?” the Baron asked. “It’s just that knowing we’re on our own means that we have to start planning for the worst case scenarios all that much sooner. We certainly can’t rely on the Chamber of Deputies to provide any help. The Provos are living in cloud-cuckoo land and show no signs of leaving. The Governor-Elect and Parliament will need more than a few family letters to convince them the Empire isn’t returning. They’ll want a proclamation from an Imperial Envoy before they’ll appropriate a single mark for defense.
“And the Empire will never admit it deserted us. Back on Sparta some third assistant undersecretary will punch a button, another light on the Imperial wall map will go out and Haven will be listed: FILE CLOSED.” The Baron sighed. “If only we’d had a seat in the Imperial Senate, maybe then…”
The Brigadier shook his head, saying, “And maybe, just maybe, our grandchildren will live to see the Imperial Eagle on Government House again. But for right now, I believe you’re right. We have to make the best of a bad hand and, for starters, I suggest not worrying about the rest of Haven. Let’s concentrate on the Shangri-La Valley.”
“Fine, I agree,” the Baron said. “How are you equipped after the raid?”
“It could be worse. We have two shuttles left. That’s enough to service the satellite network, or what’s left of it. What else could we use them for? There’s no need for interplanetary craft since the only other place to go in the Haven System is the Ayesha refueling station. Those poor bastards are marooned there.”
The Baron knew where the bitterness in Cummings voice came from. He’d talked himself blue in the face—even before the Marines started leaving—trying to get the Castell spaceport fortified, then watched as it was wrecked by thugs in a few days.
“Manpower isn’t good. We only have two regiments, both at something like three-quarters strength. The raid cost us. Not that we didn’t eliminate about a third of the Castell’s gang members and thugs. Of course, there’s plenty more where they came from. The rest of it’s this cursed inflation. I can’t really crackdown on soldiers who desert to take care of families, not when I can’t feed and clothe them properly. But, Albert, maybe you can help me do something about that. Apart from your flocks and herds, I understand you’ve got quite a cache of silver and gold bullion stashed—”
“Where the devil did you hear that?! It couldn’t have been the servants; after all, only Mattie and John knew about it. I can’t imagine they’d talk—no, I won’t believe it. He couldn’t have!”
“As a matter of fact, John didn’t. It was George Morris at the First Imperial Bank.”
“That rat-bastard—!”
“Brigade Security had someone planted at the bank to keep an eye on where the money was going and he did his homework. What could George say, when I laid my cards down on the table? He knew you’d be mad as all get-out, but he stands to lose a lot if the militia can’t meet its payroll.”
The Baron shook his head in weary disgust. “So, what do you have in mind?”
“First of all, I’m not here to rob you. I’m desperate, not stupid. I’d like to propose a deal that should make us both reasonably happy. Al, I know you did your ten years in the Imperial Navy and you can count fingers held up before your face. If we have to pull all the troops out of Castell City to someplace else where we can feed them, what would you give for the Central Valley’s chances by next summer?”
“About one Haven mark.”
“I’d count them in pfennigs, myself. Bandits and gangs of marauders have been pillaging isolated villages and farms for several standard months. Their raids have emboldened them to the point where we’re getting reports of them sacking entire towns. The most we can hope for is to protect the Central Valley and Castell City, maybe help Graysontown and Falkenberg, Hell’s-A-Comin,’ and help some of the smaller towns train their own defensive forces.”
Cummings sat down before speaking again, straddling the chair with his chin resting on the back. “Al, I don’t want to lose your friendship and respect. I need to know if there’s some kind of way we can work out a trade or swap. The Brigade’s paychests are empty; I need hard currency to pay and supply my troops. In return, I’ll give you five armored cars, three tanks and a full company of militia assigned to protect Whitehall.”
The Baron shook his head. “Piss on the rest of Haven and I hope the pack of scavengers who call themselves the Planetary Chamber of Deputies drown in it. They bought and paid for their problems. But for an old friend, hell, I’d do anything. In fact, I bet I can make you a better deal than the one you just offered.”
The Brigadier perked up. This is going far better than I expected; for a minute there, I thought I’d insulted him. “What is it?”
“First, tell me how many tanks you have left?”
“Ten. My mechanics think they can cannibalize the rest and come up with two more working tanks. The armored cars are in pretty good shape, though. They make smaller targets, can go faster and use less fuel.”
“That means you’ve got durasteel to burn, I suppose.”
“You could say that,” Cummings said, who felt like a traveler who’s already waded halfway across a swamp and knows he won’t get any muckier if he goes the rest of the way.
“The machine shops and software survived the raid, or so I’ve heard.”
“You heard correctly,” Cummings replied. “We can make almost anything you want. So—what is it you need?”
The Baron told him.
For a moment Cummings wondered if the metaphorical swamp had just turned into quicksand. Then he laughed. “My first thought was, you’d slipped a cog. But now I’m not so sure; you may be crazy like a fox. Okay, I’ll deal. Let’s talk prices and delivery dates.”
They haggled for twenty minutes or so before coming to an agreement that they could both shake hands on. To commemorate the deal, the Baron poured two large tumblers of Covenant single-malt Scotch.
“That goes down smooth,” Cummings noted, as he filled his pipe barrel with tobacco.
“Are you sure you don’t want one of these,” the Baron asked holding up two cigars.
The Brigadier shook his head. “I’m a dedicated piper, at least until we run out of good leaf.”
“Don’t worry about that. One of my tenants has a nice tobacco patch; his family’s been growing since CoDominium days. Old Edwin I made him a good deal; free land in exchange for half his crop. We’ve all done well by it.”
Cummings nodded. “You have a sweet operation here, I have to admit. Maybe our deal will insure you can keep it.”
“I plan to,” the Baron said, his eyes pressed hard. “The Hamiltons have owned this land for almost five hundred years. And I mean to see that we keep it for another ten generations.”
“How’s John doing?” Cummings asked. John Hamilton was the heir who didn’t want the responsibility; he was a playboy first and a wheeler-dealer second. All of the Baron’s plans could come to naught if the boy—young man, that is—wasn’t brought to heel.
“He’s starting to shape up. It’s been hard for him, being the youngest and always second-best in everything to Raymond. Not that Edward was the greatest father, either. Then after Raymond left to join the Imperial Navy, there was the accident…”
The Baron paused. The car crash that had killed his son and daughter-in-law was a memory that still stung unless kept at arm’s length. “John’s always been a bit wild, but never mean-spirited. These last few months he’s really helped the Estate with his black-market currency dealings. It’s not a skill I’d ever expected any heir of mine would need, but in these times…well, I don’t have to tell you.”
Now I’ve said it, the Baron thought. I’ve called John my “heir.”
What else was John? Win or lose, his grandson Raymond wouldn’t be returning to Haven. The Empire had too much work to do and too few men to do it. Raymond would be trying to live up to that Imperial Cluster he wore so proudly, the same way he’d always responded to any honor or praise. His luck would run out on him long before the Empire ran out of work.
When he had control over his vocal cords again, he added, “John’s growing up, too. He helped keep a friend out of Steele’s grasp the other day. I was damned proud of him!”
“Loot, Pillage and Steele! He went up against David Steele?!”
“Of course. Did you expect him to crawl in bed with that contemptible opportunist who’s been making a fortune off of everyone else’s misfortune?”
“No, no. But Steele’s a dangerous man to cross.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” the Baron replied.
“Did you know that he has ambitions for the Planetary Governorship?”
“You’re kidding!”
“I wish I was, Al. Steele’s got more connections than the Provo Party and more money than the First Imperial Bank. He also has a short temper and a long memory for insults. Frankly, I’m beginning to think he has more ambitions than the Governorship.”
“You’re—no, it sounds like you aren’t joking.”
Cummings nodded. “Bad times can be good times for scoundrels with lots of ambition and no scruples. Steele has both in spades. I suggest that from now on you don’t let John go into Castell again without a couple of the toughest bodyguards you can find. If you can, keep him here at Whitehall.”
“If I can…Maybe my plan isn’t so crazy after all.”
“Crazy? It may turn out to be the best idea I’ve heard since the Imperial Marines left. If it wasn’t up to me to keep the militia together for a couple more years, I’d throw in with you.”
“Think it over, Gary. You’re always welcome; you’re family, too. The girls will be safe here.”
Cummings winced. He couldn’t imagine his wife moving here to what she called “the sticks.” Nor would his two daughters be happy about leaving ‘civilization’ and their friends, especially Ingrid, their surprise child who was still only ten standard years old. Still, if things get bad enough, I may take him up on it. “We’ll see how things go. With some hard currency I can beef up the Volunteers and maybe, just maybe, we can hold the tide back.”
“Good luck. It’s not just the barbarians outside the walls you have to watch, Gary, it’s the ones inside—like this Steele fellow—that you have to worry about.”
He nodded, “I know.”
“Remember, you and the family are always welcome at Whitehall.”
“Thanks,” Cummings replied. He stood up, draining the last of his Scotch and shook hands with the Baron. “I’d better be going. I want to get back to Fort Fornova in time for the evening briefing. I’ll get the machinists and techs working on our project right away. Expect the first shipment in about two months.”