March To The Stars

Pahner consulted his toot and nodded. 'It doesn't appear on the map,' he said, 'but at this resolution, it wouldn't.'

'But there is a line of mountains on the eastern verge of the continent,' Roger pointed out, projecting a hologram from his pad. He pointed at the light-sculpture mountains for emphasis. 'They could be volcanic in nature. Which would probably make this a southern extension of that chain.'

'Hullo, the deck!' the lookout still at the crosstrees called. ' 'Nother to the south! We're sailing between them.'

None of the islands were visible from deck-level, yet, but Captain T'Sool, more accustomed to the shallow, relatively confined waters of the K'Vaernian Sea than the endless expanse of the open ocean, looked nervous.

'I'm not sure I like this,' he said. 'We could hit shoals anytime.'

'Possibly,' Roger conceded, with a glance at the azure water over the side. 'It's more likely that we're still over a subduction trench or the deep water around one. Water tends to be deep right up to the edge of volcanic formations. I'm glad to see our first landfall be volcanoes, actually. You might want to slow the flotilla and get some depth lines working, though.'

'What are these 'volcanoes' you keep speaking of?' T'Sool asked. Roger checked his toot and realized that it had used the Terran word because there was no local equivalent.

'Have you ever heard of smoking mountains?' he asked.

'No,' the seaman said dubiously.

'Well, you're in for a treat.'

* * *

'Why does smoke come from the mountain?' Fain asked in awe.

The flotilla had slowed as it approached the chain, and now it proceeded cautiously between two of the islands. The one to the south was wreathed in thick, leafy, emerald-green foliage that made it look like a verdant paradise. Of course, as the Marines had learned the hard way, it was more likely to be a verdant hell, Mardukan jungles being what they were.

The island to the north, however, was simply a black hunk of basalt, rising out of the blue waters. Its stark, uncompromising lines made it look bigger than it actually was, and the top—the only portion formed into anything resembling a traditional cone—trailed a gentle plume of ash and steam.

'I could tell you,' Julian replied with a grimace. 'But you'd have to believe me rather than your religion.'

Fain thought about that. So far, he'd found nothing that directly contradicted the doctrines of the Lord of Water. On the other hand, the dozens of belief systems he and the other infantry had encountered since leaving Diaspra had already indicated to him that the gospel of the priests of Water was not, perhaps, fundamentally correct. While there was no question that the priests understood the science of hydraulics, it might be that their overall understanding of the world was less precise.

'Go ahead,' he said with a handclap of resignation. Then he chuckled. 'Do your worst!'

Julian smiled in response and gestured at the vast expanse of water stretched out around the flotilla.

'The first thing you have to accept is that the priests' description of the world as a rock floating in eternal, endless waters isn't correct.'

'Since we're intending to sail to the far side, I'd already come to the conclusion that 'endless water' might not be exactly accurate,' Fain admitted with another handclap.

'What the world really is, is a ball floating in nothingness,' Julian said, and raised both hands as Fain started to protest. 'I know. How is that possible? Well, you're going to have to trust me for now, and check it out later. But what matters right now is that the center of the ball—the world—is very, very hot. Hot enough to melt rock. And it stays that way.'

'That I have a hard time with,' Fain said, shaking his head. 'Why is it hot? And if it is, when will it cool?'

'It's hot because there's ... stuff in there that's something like what makes our plasma cannon work,' Julian said, waving his hands with a sort of vague frustration as he looked for an explanation capable of crossing the technological gulf yawning between his worldview and Fain's. 'Like I said,' he said finally. 'You'll just have to trust me on some of this. But it is—hot, I mean—and somewhere under that mountain, there's a channel that connects to that hot part. That's why it smokes. Think of it as a really, really big chimney. As for when the inside of the world will cool, that won't happen for longer than I can explain. There will no longer be humans—or Mardukans—when it starts to cool.'

'This is too strange,' Fain said. 'And how do I explain it to my soldiers? 'It's that way because Sergeant Julian said so'?'

'I dunno,' Julian replied. 'Maybe the sergeant major can help you out. On the other hand ...'

* * *

Roger watched Bebi's team begin the entry. The team had already worked on open area techniques. Now they were working on closed ... and they looked like total dorks.

There was nowhere to create a real shooting environment on the flotilla's ships, so the troopers were using the virtual reality software built into their helmet combat systems and their toots. The 'shoot house' was nothing more than the open deck of a schooner, but with the advanced systems and the toots' ability to massage sensory input, it would be as authentic to the participants as if there were real enemies.

But since their audience could see that they were standing on nothing more than an unobstructed stretch of deck planks, the 'entry team' looked like a group of warrior-mimes.

The virtual reality software built into the troops' helmets would have been a potent training device all by itself, and its ability to interface with the Marines' toots was sufficient to make the illusion perfect. Now Macek smoothed thin air as he emplaced a 'breaching charge' on the fictitious door he could both 'see' and 'feel' with total fidelity, then stepped to the side and back. As far as he could tell, he was squatting, nearly in contact with a wall; to everyone else, he looked as if he were getting ready to go to the bathroom on the deck.

The sergeant major next to Roger snorted softly.

'You know, Your Highness, when you're doing this, one part of you knows how stupid you look. But if you don't ignore it, you're screwed. I think this is one of His Wickedness' little jokes on Marines.'

Roger smoothed his ponytail and opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

'Yes, Your Highness?' Kosutic said softly. 'I take it there's something about that statement that bothers you?'

'Not about your observation,' Roger said as Bebi triggered the notional charge and rushed through the resulting imaginary hole. The prince had set his helmet to project the 'shoot house' in see-through mode, and the team seemed to be fighting phantoms in a ghost building as he watched. Combined with his question, the ... otherworldly nature of their opponents sent something very much like a shiver down his spine.

'It was that last comment,' he said. 'I've been wondering... . Why is Satanism the primary religion of Armagh? I mean, a planet settled by Irish and other Roman Catholic groups. That seems a bit ... strange,' he finished, and the sergeant major let out a chuckle that turned into a liquid laugh Roger had never heard from her before.

'Oh, Satan, is that all? The reason is because the winners write the history books, Your Highness.'

'That doesn't explain things,' Roger protested, pulling at a strand of hair. 'You're a High Priestess, right? That would be the equivalent of—an Episcopal bishop, I guess.'

'Oh, not a bishop!' Kosutic laughed again. 'Not one of those evil creatures! Angels of the Heavens, they are!' Roger felt his eyes trying to cross, and she smiled at his expression and took pity on him.

'Okay, if you insist, Your Highness, here's the deal.

'Armagh was a slow-boat colony, as you know. The original colonists were primarily from Ireland, on Old Earth, with a smattering from the Balkans. Now, Ireland had a bloody history long before Christianity, but the whole Protestant/Catholic thing eventually got out of hand.'

'We studied the nuking of Belfast at the Academy as an example of internal terrorism taken to a specific high,' Roger agreed.

'Yes, and what was so screwed up about those Constables was that they killed as many—or more—of their