Кристофер Банч - Vortex

To the First Guards Division, Mahoney was not just one of them, having begun his military service in their ranks, but their most venerated commander. During the Tahn war, he had been their commanding general.

Their current commanding general, Paidrac Sarsfield, had even been a company commander under Mahoney, back on a hellworld called Cavite.

None of them understood what mistake, let alone what nameless crime, Mahoney had committed.

Not that they talked about it.

The event, and the situation, were too objectionable for that. The soldiers didn't even bitch about what had happened.

Sten would have had to take some sort of action to build the esprit back up to a functional level—he was unsure what it could be—if there weren't a worse nightmare approaching:

The Suzdal/Bogazi invasion fleet, oncoming at full speed. There was no way Sten could see to stop the invasion.

Two elements kept their own council on the relief of Mahoney:

The Gurkhas.

And Fleet Admiral Mason.

Alex slammed into Sten's office, crashing the door behind him. The jamb splintered, but held.

"Ah hae," he said, sans preamble, "jus' decoded our marchin' orders. Except thae'll be none ae us marchin't. Eyes Only. Nae frae our clottin' respected Emperor, lang may he wave, but frae some clot i' th' Imperial office."

He spun the printout across to Sten.

It was brief:

CONTINUE MISSION AS OUTLINED. IMPERIAL DIRECT RULE WILL CONTINUE. MAINTAIN PUBLIC ORDER.

"Wi" no suggestion ae how," Alex said. "There's some clot oot there gone sarky—an' Ah know who. Thae braw flyin't ray was right."

Sten wasn't paying any attention to Alex's ravings.

"So whae d' we do?"

Sten made up his mind. "Can you mickey the code log?"

"Wi' m' left foot. Y' wan' a bogere message sayin't 'tis time t' haul, or what?"

"Negative. Too hard to back up. We just never received this."

"Aye, sir."

Kilgour turned to go. "Y' know, lad. When we gie our arses off an' away, Ah'll no be servin't th' Emp. F'r better 'r worse, he dinnae deserve m' oath no more."

"Let's worry about asses and away first. That's unlikely enough to happen anyway,'' Sten advised in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

"Admiral Mason, I'm detaching you from command of the Victory ."

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to take over what remains of that clot Langsdorff's fleet—and the escort ships that were left with the Guard's transports."

"Yes, sir."

"The Victory will be detached and placed under my direct command, as with the tacship carrier that made it back."

"The Bennington , sir."

"Thank you."

"What are my instructions?" Mason asked, still in that chilling neutral voice.

"We're preparing to evacuate all Imperial elements from Jochi and the Altaic Cluster. How that'll be done, with the minimum casualties, I'm not sure."

"What about the First Guards?"

"I'll be responsible for them, as well."

"Yessir. May I comment?"

"You may," Sten said.

"Do you really think you're qualified as a general?"

"Admiral, I don't think anybody is qualified to lead a retreat under fire, which is what we're going to undertake. But I'll remind you I've stumbled through one. During the war. On a planet called Cavite. Now, if you have any other insults?"

"No. But I have another question."

Sten nodded.

"What changed things? I thought the Emperor wanted the Altaics held. I thought this armpit had some great diplomatic significance that I'm not aware of."

"I filed an operations order this morning to Prime," Sten lied. "Saying the Altaics cannot be held. I've had no response. So I propose to proceed with the withdrawal. If the situation changes, you'll be among the first to be told.

"That's all."

Picket ships announced that the Suzdal/Bogazi fleet was three E-days from Jochi's solar system.

"General Sarsfield, if you're alone?"

"I am, sir."

"I want you to saddle up your division. Get all noncombat items wrapped and ready. Anything that's not absolutely vital to an on-planet combat mission can be stashed on the transports. What's the minimum time your division requires for a move?"

"The regs say ten E-hours when we're at full alert. We can do it in five."

"Good."

"Might I ask where we're going?"

"Home. I hope. But there might be a few detours on the way.''

"That's enough,'' Sten ordered, rubbing eyes that were feeling, from the inside and out, like hard-poached eggs. He blanked all of the screens in the conference room, and as the yammer of impending doom stopped, the room fell silent.

He went to a table, where a previously unnoticed covered tray sat. He lifted one of the salver covers and picked up a sandwich. It was only a little stale. He tossed it to Alex and took one for himself.

Beside it was a decanter. He took the stopper out and sniffed. Stregg.

Was that advised?

Why not? Disaster would be the same sober as boiled.

He poured drinks, handed one to Alex, and they toasted.

Bless Cind. She must have had someone slip the refreshments in sometime after she had taken over as commander of the embassy guard.

"Y' hae any gran' strat'gy developed?" Alex wondered as he inhaled the sandwich and scooped for another.

"Not much more'n it better be better than Cavite," Sten said. Mahoney had begun the withdrawal of the outmanned, outgunned Imperial Forces from that world, and Sten had finished the task. He had gotten the civilians out, and less than two thousand of the Imperial soldiers. Sten himself had ended up a prisoner of war.

He had been given the highest medals for this accomplishment, and he had been celebrated as a brilliant war leader. Sten had never considered that true—he thought Cavite a complete disaster and his efforts no more than damage control at best.

At least this time there weren't very many Imperial civilians, beyond the embassy staff.

"Aye," Alex agreed, although he had never judged Cavite as harshly as Sten did.

"I have a couple of ideas," Sten continued, "but right now my brain seems to have spun out."

" 'Tis nae wonder," Kilgour said. "It's lackin' but an hour 'til dawn. P'raps we'd best have a bit of a lie-down."

Sten yawned, suddenly very sleepy. "Good thought. Put a wakeup in for two hours."

There was a tap on the door.

"I'll chase th'—"

"Enter," Sten said.

The door opened. Three Gurkhas stood there. Sten felt quite grimy suddenly. In spite of the hour, all three of them were dressed as if for barracks inspection.

He held back a groan. The Gurkhas were Jemedar Lalbahadur Thapa, and newly promoted Havildars Chittahang Limbu and Mahkhajiri Gurung.

The last time the trio had confronted him was on Prime, when they had offered themselves and twenty-four other Gurkhas for Sten's service, breaking the long tradition that the Nepalese mercenaries served only the Eternal Emperor, an offer that had visibly put the Emperor's teeth on edge.

The Gurkhas saluted. Sten returned the salute and told them to stand at ease.

"We are sorry to both you at this hour," Lalbahadur said formally. "But this was the only time we could find. We would like to speak in private, if it is possible."

Sten nodded—and Alex swallowed the sandwich, washed it down with stregg, and vanished. He offered them seats. They preferred to stand.

"We have a question or two about the future that we are unable to answer," Lalbahadur went on. "This is utter foolishness of course, since without question those evil feathered capons who are flocking toward us will peck us into tiny bits and hurl those bits into the garbage pits, to be torn at by their jackal friends. Am I not correct?''

"You are without a doubt correct," Sten agreed. All four of them smiled—or at least bared their teeth.