Warlord

as you should, raj whitehall, Center said, as you must.

* * *

'Hear us, O Spirit of Man of the Stars,' the priest intoned.

'Hear us,' the massed troops answered. Everything was aboard except the men; the tide was making, and a breeze blowing down from the hills and out to sea.

The priest lifted his hands to the last of the stars, vanishing as night faded under the spear-rays of the sun.

'Code not our sins; let them be erased and not ROMed in Thy disks.'

'Forgive us, O Star Spirit!'

As Raj led the response, another voice spoke in the back of his mind:

observe Center said.

* * *

— and a high surf beat on a rocky beach under a gray sky. Dinghy-loads of troops and the light transports drove in regardless, men leaping into head-deep water and wading ashore with their rifles over their heads or clinging to the saddles of swimming dogs. The first of them were just forming up when the Squadron troops rose from behind the dunes, their double-barreled muskets blasting at point-blank range-

— and viewpoint-Raj was clinging to a rope-line, on the deck of a ship lost in sea and spray. The sound of the storm was beyond belief, a solid roar in all the frequencies a human ear could perceive. Walls of water rose higher than the masts, but the wind tore off their tops and flung them as a horizontal sheet of spray like low cloud, until there was no telling where air began and sea stopped. The ship rose as a wave belled out beneath it, and for a moment they could see the rocks ahead. Then they struck, and the hull exploded into fragments beneath their feet-

— and the fleet was crowding into the bay, the beach black with men and the sea with dinghies and swimming dogs. Everyone's head came up at the first cannon shot. The Squadron warships came around the headland in a surge of gilded beaks and vermilion oars, the first flying the sword-and-comet banner of Commodore Curtis. Its bow-guns cut loose, the roundshot skipping over the low waves and into the side of the first Civil Government warship. Timbers smashed over the paddle wheel, and then the deck came apart in a shower of splinters and white smoke as the boiler ruptured. Behind the galleys came the transports, their rigging thick with the elite troops of the Squadron roaring out their war cries. .

* * *

'The Spirit of Man is of the Stars and all the Universe; this we believe.'

'Witness our belief, O Star Spirit!'

'As we believe and act in righteousness, so shall we be boosted into the Orbit of Fulfillment.'

'Raise us up, O Star Spirit!'

'Deliver us from the Crash; from the Meltdown; from the Hard Rads; spare us.'

'Spare us, O Star Spirit!'

'We receive diligently the Input from Thy Holy Terminal, now and forever.'

'Forever, O Star Spirit.'

'As we believe, so let Thy Holy Federation be restored in our time, O Spirit of Man of the Stars; and if the burden of a faithless generation's sin be too great, may our souls be received into the Net. Endfile.'

'Endfile!'

Raj looked out over the sea of bared heads. 'Right, lads. Enter your sins at the Terminal, and fight with the Spirit at your side.'

The priest lowered his hands. 'The Spirit be with you.'

'And in thy soul.'

Chapter Seven

The longboat cut through the darkening purple of the waves toward the shore of the bay. Senior Lieutenant Antin M'lewis crouched in the bows, his eyes flickering restlessly as the muffled oars beat behind him. No way of telling if the barbs were waiting for them. . probably not. He looked up for a second; low scudding clouds, and a wet breeze from the east, overland. Rustler's weather, they called it at home in Bufford Parish. Home to the only men in Descott County, or so his Pa had told him the first time he took him out to try for some of Squire Rahmirez's sheep. It had been Squire Rahmirez got him into the Army, too, after the little matter of those two riding dogs he'd sold him. Well, good Spirit bless, did the man think he'd bought them, to be selling them at that price? Good-hearted of him to sponsor M'lewis's enlistment, though. 'The Army will be the making of you, me lad,' he'd said.

Truer words never passed yer teeth, Squire, M'lewis thought, and spoke under his breath:

'An' if you treat a barb to a dose a' cleanin'-rod

He's like to show ye everthin' he owns

When he won't produce no more, summat water on

the floor

Where yer hear it answer hollow to yer boot

When the ground begins to sink, shove yer

baynet down the chink-'

'El-Tee?'

'Jist some ol' Army musik,' M'lewis said.

The keel grated on sand, very quiet. He turned to look at the other boats, half a dozen, with the tethered dogs swimming alongside. None of them made any sound as the men leaped overboard with their rifles over their heads and led the animals up beyond the high-water mark before crouching down beside them. M'lewis slapped palms with the petty officer in charge of the detail-to whom he had been careful to lose money as yet unpaid-and vaulted over the bow, running quickly through the shallow water before too much could soak into his boots. His dog followed with the reins in its mouth, silent-trained, and they all ran crouching up to the lee of the ridge six hundred meters inland. It was good to feel solid land again; the last night had not exactly been a storm, but the wind had been up high enough.

'All right,' he whispered, as the others crowded round; there were twenty-two, not forty as battalion legend had it. I has me standards, he thought ironically. 'Ye bastids all know yer assignments,' he said. 'One last word. Yer here t' scout, not finger. Any one a yer stops to lift a shiny pretty or a skirt, better run fuckin' fast an' far.'

His hand blurred, and suddenly the man across from him was gasping, hands clawing up to his neck at the coil of wire that had whipped around it. Then he froze, his eyes rolling down in a frantic effort to see the knife-point pricking just above his belt-buckle.

'Fast an' far, because I'll be behind him wit' me little friend here t' take yer breath away. That means ye partic'lar, Dommor Alleyman. Comprene?'

'Grrk! ci!'

M'lewis flipped the toggle and unwound the wire, patting the man on the cheek. 'Good. When th' fightin's done, ye'll all have more gold 'n yer can carry, more likker n' ye can hold, 'n big-titted barb princesses spreadin' wide and askin' fer it. Until then, do yer fuckin' jobs!'

Silent nods, and then they dispersed; two began to put up the big tripod-lantern that would flash directions to the fleet and guide them in safe to the center of the bay. M'lewis smiled to himself; he had chosen them all well. Most were old neighbors-some even from Hole Canyon, his family's subdistrict-and they all had a professional's deep respect for a really successful operator. He pulled the pocket compass out of its case at his belt and took a reading. Surprising how few men realized the value of tricks like that. Gentry-doings, they'd say. How did they think the gentry got on top in the first place?

'Thissaway,' he said to the six with him, straddling his dog. 'Go.'

The felt-muffled surfaces of the stirrups made no sound as he slipped the toes of his boots into them.