“Because I’ve moved in on your operation?” he asked gently. “Or for another reason, as well?”
“Of course there’s another reason, and I see you know what it is. But can you blame her? Can’t you see it from her side? You’re the commanding officer of Dahak, a starship that’s like a dream to all of us Terra-born, a combination of heaven and hell. But it’s a dream whose decks ’Tanni actually walked … and lost for something she never did. She’s spent her entire adult life fighting to undo the wrong others did, and now you, simply by virtue of being the first Terra-born human to enter the ship, have become not just a crew member, but its commander. Why should you have that and not her? Why should you have a complete set of implants—a bridge officer’s, no less—while she has only bits and pieces?”
Isis fell silent, studying his face as if looking for something, then nodded slightly.
“But worst of all, Colin, she’s a fighter. She wouldn’t stand a chance hand to hand against an Imperial, and she knows it, but she’s a fighter. She’s spent her life in the shadows, fighting other shadows, always indirectly, protected by Dad and the others because she’s weaker than they are, unable to fight her enemies face to face. Surely you understand how much that hurts?”
“I do,” Colin said softly. “I do,” he said more firmly, “and I’ll bear it in mind, but we all have to fight Anu, Isis. I can’t have her fighting me.”
“I don’t think she will.” Isis paused again, frowning. “I don’t think she will, but she’s not feeling exactly … reasonable, just now.”
“I know. But if she does fight me, it could ruin everything. Too much depends not only on smashing Anu but finding a way to stop the Achuultani. If she can’t work with me, I certainly can’t let her work against me.”
“What … what will you do?” Isis asked softly.
“I won’t hurt her, if that’s what you’re afraid of. She’s given too much—all of you have—for that. But if she threatens what we’re trying to do now, I won’t have any choice but to put her back into stasis.”
“No! Please!” Isis gripped his arm tightly. “That … that would be almost worse than killing her, Colin!”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know what it would do to me, and I don’t want to. Before God, I don’t want to. But if she fights me, I won’t have a choice. Try to make her understand that, Isis. She may take it better from you than from me.”
The old woman looked at him with tear-bright eyes and her lips trembled, but she nodded slowly and patted his arm.
“I understand, Colin,” she said very softly. “I’ll talk to her. And I understand. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“Thank you, Isis,” he said quietly. He met her eyes a moment longer, then squeezed the hand on his arm very gently and rose. An obscure impulse touched him, and he bent to kiss her parchment cheek.
“Thank you,” he said again, and left the command deck.
Chapter Twelve
“Colin?”
Colin looked up in sudden relief as Horus stuck his head in through his cabin door. The old man had been more than two hours overdue the last time Colin checked with Nergal’s operations room.
“About time you got back,” he said, and Horus nodded and gripped his hand, but his smile was odd, half-way between apology and a sort of triumph.
“Sorry,” Horus said. “I got tied up talking to one of our people. He’s got a suggestion so interesting I brought him back with me.”
The old Imperial gestured to the tall man behind him, and Colin glanced at the newcomer, taking in the hard-trained body and salt-and-pepper temples. The stranger’s nose was almost as prominent as Colin’s, but on him it looked good. He also wore the uniform of the United States Marine Corps and a full colonel’s eagles, but the flash on his right shoulder bore the crossed daggers and parachute of the Unified Special Forces Command.
Colin’s right eyebrow rose as he waved his guests to chairs. The USFC was the elite of the elite, its members recruited from all branches of the service and trained for “selective warfare”—the old “low-intensity conflict” of the last century—and counter—terrorism. Labels meant little to Colin. Insurgent, terrorist, guerrilla, or patriot. As far as he was concerned, anyone who chose violence against the helpless as his means of protest deserved the same labeclass="underline" barbarian, and the USFC was the United States’ answer to the barbarians.
Like their ConEuropean, Australian-Japanese, and Russian counterparts, the men and women of the USFC were as adept at infiltration, information-gathering, and covert warfare as they with the conventional weapons of the soldier’s trade. Unlike the rest of the US military, they were an integral part of the intelligence community, as much policemen and spies (and some, Colin knew, would add “assassins”) as soldiers. Not that it kept them from being elite troops. USFC personnel were chosen only after proving themselves—thoroughly—in their regular arms of service.
“Colin, this is Hector MacMahan. In addition to his duties for the USFC, he’s also the head of our Terra-born intelligence network.”
“Colonel,” Colin said courteously, extending his hand again and reading the four rows of ribbons under the parachutist and pilot’s wings—both rotary wing and fixed. And the crossed dagger and assault rifle of the USFC’s close combat medal. Impressive, he thought. Very impressive.
“Commander,” MacMahan said. Then he grinned-slightly; his was not a face that lent itself to effusive expressions. “Or should I say ‘Fleet Captain’?”
“Commander will do just fine, Colonel. That, or Colin.” His guests sat, and Colin moved to the small bar in the corner as he looked back and forth between them. “You do seem to recruit only the best, Horus,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” Horus said with a smile. “In more ways than one. Hector is my great-great-great-great-great-grandson.”
“I prefer,” the colonel said without a trace of a smile, “to think of myself as simply your greatest grandson.”
Colin chuckled and shook his head.
“I’m still getting used to all this, Colonel, but I was referring to your military credentials, not your familial ones.” He finished mixing drinks and moved out from behind the bar. “I’m impressed. And if your suggestion was interesting enough for Horus to bring you back with him, I’m eager to hear it.”
“Of course. You see—thank you.” MacMahan took the drink Colin extended, sipped politely once, then proceeded to ignore it. Colin sat back down in his swivel chair and gestured for him to continue.
“You see,” the colonel began again, “I’ve been giving our situation a lot of thought. In my own humble way, I’m as much a specialist as any of you rocket jockeys, and I’ve nourished a few rather worrisome suspicions of late.”
“Suspicions?” Colin asked, his eyes suddenly intent.
“Yes, Com-Colin. I’m in a unique position to study the terrorist mentality, and I’ve also had the advantage of Granddad’s input and Nergal’s surveillance reports. That’s one reason I’m a colonel. My superiors don’t know about my other sources, and they think I’m a mighty savvy analyst.”
Colin nodded. The northerners’ intelligence network—especially the old battleship’s carefully stealthed sensor arrays—would be tremendously helpful in MacMahan’s line of work, but the ribbons on his chest told Colin the colonel’s superiors were right about his native abilities, as well.
“The point is, Colin, that Anu’s people have been digging deeper and deeper into the terrorist organizations. By now, they effectively control Black Mecca, the January Twelfth Group, the Army of Allah, the Red Eyebrows, and a dozen other major and minor outfits. That’s ominous enough, if not too surprising—they’ve always been right at home with butchers like that—but what bothers me are certain common ideological (if I may be permitted the term) threads that have crept into the policies of the groups they control.