John Ringo - Against the Tide

Harry Chambers had been an agent of New Destiny for nearly three years. He hadn’t intended to become an agent; it had just sort of… happened. A touch of bitterness and a bit of hubris had caused him to talk about things he shouldn’t have talked about. Small things. Then a little stroking, some favors granted and before he knew it he’d turned over real information, the sort that could get you hanged. After that, one thing had led to another.

If you’re two hundred years old and even half bright, it was hard in the middle of the night to lie to yourself. He’d been manipulated, sure, but he’d let himself be manipulated. What had the UFS done for him? What had Sheida and Edmund done for him? Edmund had damned near cut his leg off in the moments after the Fall. Sure, they’d been sparring and who knew that the personal protection fields were going to fall just then. But it had still been a damaging wound. He still limped from it, even healed. Sure, it should be “completely healed” and unnoticeable. But he could still feel the blade slicing into his quad. For a person who had always considered his body his best asset, that sort of wound was mentally crippling. And Sheida, the bitch, when Tanisha gave up her Key, who did it go to? Did it go to her closest aide? No, it went to a woman, an academic, somebody who didn’t know what was happening in the world without a ten-thousand-word briefing.

And he’d passed information right under their noses . Gotten them back for all the things they’d done to him. And New Destiny had money, lots of money, for the sorts of information he passed. No way to spend it, not yet, but there would be. He had a sack full of gems ready for a quick exit. Hit a couple of portals, get to the exterior of the teleport shield and he was golden.

He’d been considering taking just such an exit lately. He’d been Sheida’s aide since right after the Fall. But just last month he’d been “promoted” to a war department undersecretary position, a liaison to the House of Lords. Technically he should be getting even better information than before; he could call on any information available in the war department. But some of the information he had been sent… didn’t make sense. Didn’t quite fit other information he was sure about.

If he was being fed dis information, it meant that someone suspected him.

Sheida had become… cooler as well. And there were rumors, rather well-placed ones, that an intelligence service had been formed. Oh, there was already the Intelligence Coordination Committee, but this other service didn’t even have a name. “The Group” was the name most often associated with it, the head of it just known as “T.” There was a confidential budget, a rising one, but that was all he had heard about it.

He knew for a fact that the Intelligence Coordination Committee did not suspect him. But this other “Group” might. In which case, he should bolt.

The problem was, now he saw what used to be called a “main chance.”

“The problem is,” the stupid woman babbled, “Sheida’s sent me off like I’m some soldier of hers but without even that much briefing. I don’t know any of these people.”

“I know General Lanzillo,” Harry said, soothingly. “A good man, a good academic. He’s the local area commander but since most of what he handles is schools, he was chosen for his experience in military history and military sciences. He is a bit… uhm… gruff…”

“The problem is that Sheida is expecting me to handle some of the military aspects as well,” Elnora said, frowning. “I don’t know a battalion from a legion. This has to be held very closely you understand. I really need…”

“I’m free at the moment,” Harry said, smiling. “And… used to this sort of harum scarum military operation. I can leave a message that I’ve been called away on Council business. That won’t be questioned. If you would like me to accompany you and help…?”

“That would be wonderful.”

Rachel fingered the blade in the candlelight. It was somewhat like a long knife, a surgical blade designed for deep cutting in amputations. Good dwarven surgical steel, it was sharper than any dagger, with a razor-sharp point. She had made a scabbard for it under the noses of her guards, the guards now surrounding her tent, and slipped it into her bosom while in the latrine. It was her court of last resort.

The battle would probably start around dawn. By noon her father would have probably beaten the New Destiny forces, given what she had communicated. But win or lose, Conner would be able to take her back to Ropasa. And she wasn’t going to let that happen.

She placed the point of the scalpel at the top of her neck, just under the skull. She’d considered several options but all of the rest depended upon bleeding, something that could be fixed relatively quickly. No matter how good Conner was, he was going to be hard-pressed to revive her with a severed third vertebra. It was an interesting question in neural transmission and muscle flexion. Could she cut her spine before the signals to her arms became scrambled. A modern physician certainly had the strength to cut their own spine. But was it possible?

She thought she would probably find out tomorrow.

She pressed the scalpel in a bit harder and flinched as she felt the fine tip cut into her skin. She could find out now.

She withdrew it from her thick hair, a problem that she’d already considered, and wiped the tip off on a cloth. Then she slid it back into the scabbard and down into her bosom.

Tomorrow would be soon enough. As the thief said, maybe the pig would sing. As long as she was still on this side of the portal, there was hope.

“Too many things to go wrong, boss,” Herzer said as Edmund mounted the wyvern.

“If some go right, we’re no worse than we’d be otherwise,” Edmund said. “If most go right, we’ll be better. If none of them go right, we’re up a creek.”

“Well, we’ll be there,” Herzer said, saluting. “Good luck.”

“Same to you,” Edmund replied, then tapped the wyvern-rider on the shoulder. The dragon hopped onto the catapult and was launched into the sky, the leader of the UFS now headed to join the First Legion.

Herzer went down into the wyvern bay, which was crowded with extra dragons, and passed through it to the flight ready room. The riders were crowded too; it was standing room only on the last dragon-carrier in the UFS fleet. The riders were joking, the sound was good but… strained. Many of them were from carriers that were burned, sunken, wrecks. And all of them had been at sea for too long in the crowded ships. They also felt the tension of the day that had yet to dawn. Everyone knew that throwing the enemy back was important. None of them, besides Herzer and Joanna, knew how important.

“Settle down,” Herzer said, stepping up in front of a plywood-covered map board. “Everyone know the mission?” They’d had the initial brief the night before so there was a scattered chorus on the varied theme of yes.

“Sergeant Fink?” Herzer said, pointing at the junior rider.

“We take off in…” Fink looked at the bulkhead-mounted clock and gulped, “one hour. Assemble off Wilamon Point. Wait for first engagement then, on signal from Commander Gramlich, split into two echelons and bombard the New Destiny field force. Return by divisions and continue sorties until exhaustion or defeat of the New Destiny force. In the event of retreat on the part of our own forces, we cover the retreat.”

“Very good,” Herzer said, nodding and looking around the room. “Everybody got that?”