Miyatovich even asked through his flagship’s rustling stillness: “Must we bombard?”
“Yes,” Flandry said. “I hate the idea too.”
Qow of Novi Aferoch stirred. Lately taken off his crippled light cruiser, he was less informed than the rest. “Can’t sappers do what’s needful?” he protested.
“I wish they could,” Flandry sighed. “We haven’t time. I don’t know how many millennia of history we’re looking down on. How can we read them before the Merseian navy arrives?”
“Are you sure, then, the gain to us can justify a deed which someday will make lovers of beauty, seekers of knowledge, curse our names?” the zmay demanded. “Can this really be the center of the opposition’s Intelligence?”
“I never claimed that,” Flandry said. “In fact, obviously not. But it must be important as hell itself. We here can give them no worse setback than striking it from their grasp.”
“Your chain of logic seems thin.”
“Of course it is! Were mortals ever certain? But listen again, Qow.
“When the Merseians discovered Chereion, they were already conquest-hungry. Aycharaych, among the ghosts those magnificent computers had been raising for him—computers and programs we today couldn’t possibly invent—he saw they’d see what warlike purposes might be furthered by such an instrumentality. They’d bend it wholly to their ends, bring their engineers in by the horde, ransack, peer, gut, build over, leave nothing unwrecked except a few museum scraps. He couldn’t bear the thought of that.
“He stopped them by conjuring up phantoms. He made them think a few million of his race were still alive, able to give the Roidhunate valuable help in the form of staff work, while he himself would be a unique field agent—if they were otherwise left alone. We may never know how he impressed and tricked those tough-minded fighter lords; he did, that’s all. They believe they have a worldful of enormous intellects for allies, whom they’d better treat with respect. He draws on a micro part of the computers, data banks, stored knowledge beyond our imagining, to generate advice for them … excellent advice, but they don’t suspect how much more they might be able to get, or by what means.
“Maybe he’s had some wish to influence them, as if they learned from Chereion. Or maybe he’s simply been biding his time till they too erode from his planet.”
Flandry was quiet for a few heartbeats before he finished: “Need we care which, when real people are in danger?”
The Gospodar straightened, walked to an intercom, spoke his orders.
There followed a span while ships chose targets. He and Flandry moved aside, to stand before a screen showing stars that lay beyond every known empire. “I own to a desire for vengeance,” he confessed. “My judgment might have been different otherwise.”
Flandry nodded. “Me too. That’s how we are. If only—No, never mind.”
“Do you think we can demolish everything?”
“I don’t know. I’m assuming the things we want to kill are under the cities—some of the cities—and plenty of megatonnage will if nothing else crumble their caverns around them.” Flandry smote a fist hurtfully against a bulkhead. “I told Qow, we don’t ever have more to go on than guesswork!”
“Still, the best guess is, we’ll smash enough of the system—whether or not we reach Aycharaych himself—”
“For his sake, let’s hope we do.”
“Are you that forgiving, Dominic? Well, regardless, Intelligence is the balance wheel of military operations. Merseian Intelligence should be … not broken, but badly knocked askew … Will Emperor Hans feel grateful?”
“Yes, I expect he’ll defend us to the limit against the nobles who’ll want our scalps.” Flandry wolf-grinned. “In fact, he should welcome such an issue. The quarrel can force influential appeasers out of his regime.
“And … he’s bound to agree you’ve proved your case for keeping your own armed forces.”
“So Dennitza stays in the Empire—” Miyatovich laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Between us, my friend, I dare hope myself that what I care about will still be there when the Empire is gone. However, that scarcely touches our lifetimes. What do you plan to do with the rest of yours?”
“Carry on as before,” Flandry said.
“Go back to Terra?” The eyes which were like Kossara’s searched him. “In God’s name, why?”
Flandry made no response. Shortly sirens whooped and voices crackled. The bombardment was beginning.
A missile sprang from a ship. Among the stars it flew arrow slim; but when it pierced air, hurricane furies trailed its mass. That drum-roar rolled from horizon to horizon beneath the moon, shook apart wind-carven crags, sent landslides grumbling to the bottoms of canyons. When it caught the first high dawnlight, the missile turned into a silver comet. Minutes later it spied the towers and treasures it was to destroy, and plunged. It had weapons ready against ground defenses; but only the spires reached gleaming for heaven.
The fireball outshone whole suns. It bloomed so tall and wide that the top of the atmosphere, too thin to carry it further, became a roof; therefore it sat for minutes on the curve of the planet, ablaze, before it faded. Dust then made a thick and deadly night above a crater full of molten stone. Wrath tolled around the world.
And more strikes came, and more.
Flandry watched. When the hour was ended, he answered Miyatovich: “I have my own people.”
In glory did Gospodar Bodin ride home.
Maidens danced to crown him with flowers. The songs of their joy rang from the headwaters of the Lyubisha to the waves of the Black Ocean, up the highest mountains and down the fairest glens; and all the bells of Zorkagrad pealed until Lake Stoyan gave back their music.
Springtime came, never more sweet, and blossoms well-nigh buried the tomb which Gospodar Bodin had raised for St. Kossara. There did he often pray, in after years of his lordship over us; and while he lived, no foeman troubled the peace she brought us through his valor. Sing, poets, of his fame and honor! Long may God give us folk like these!
And may they hearten each one of us. For in this is our hope.
Amen