Damn, I've never seen troops move that fast, he thought. They were in full marching kit, and they moved like leopards.
an all-chosen unit, Center observed. Jeffrey's vision took on a flat brightness. identifying markers-The brightness strobed over unit badges.
They've been culling out the weakest ten percent of their own breed every generation for four hundred years, Raj said. And skimming off the top one or two percent of their Proteges at the same time. You'd expect it to show.
Jeffrey shuddered, even with rounds still splitting the air above him. It's a good thing there aren't more of them, he thought. There'd be no stopping them.
if there were more, Center observed, it would be impossible to support so large and so specialized a nonproductive class.
Always a lot fewer carnosauroids than grazers, Raj amplified.
The image that came with the thought made him shudder a moment even then: something man-sized and whip-slender, leaping to slash a bloody gouge in an ox's side with a sickle-shaped claw on its hind foot, like a fighting cock grown big enough to scythe his belly open.
Heinrich was back on his feet, bellowing orders. Protege troopers broke open boxes of ammunition, dashing back to their positions with cotton bandoliers around their necks and boxes of machine-gun belts in their hands.
Jeffrey did a three-point spin at a sound behind him, landing on hip and one hand. He froze as he found himself looking down the use-pitted muzzle of a Land automatic. A Chosen woman with captain's insignia on her field-gray rose; short for one of that race, and dark, he could tell that even in the moonlight. Blood was runneling black down one thigh, where the uniform had been ripped open by a grazing shot.
"What the hell is a Santy doing here?" she said, standing, favoring the wounded leg a little.
"You!" Heinrich said, turning, a broad grin on his square face. "I might have known."
"I was the closest-the marching reliefs ought to get here about dawn," the woman said. "What the hell is a Santy officer doing with you, Heinrich?"
Closer, he could see the General Staff Intelligence Commando flashes on cuff and collar. Must be-
gerta hosten, captain, intelligence branch, Center supplied helpfully.
A dangerous one, son, Raj said. Be very careful.
Jeffrey could have told that. The eyes fastened on him were the coldest he'd ever seen, colder than the far side of the moon.
"Oh, we picked him up in Corona," Heinrich said.
"You should have turned him over to us, or the Fourth Bureau."
"Well, he's a neutral-and a relative of sorts, Johan's foster-brother. At loose ends, the Santy legation in Corona stopped a couple of thousand-kilo bombs with its roof."
"Jeffrey Farr," Gerta said; she seemed to be filing and sorting information behind her eyes. "He's a spook, Heinrich. You ought to shoot him."
"I haven't been showing him the plans for the new torpedo," Heinrich said, a slight exasperation in his voice.
Gerta shrugged, and holstered her automatic. Jeffrey felt a slight prickle of relief. Unlikely that she'd just shoot him down as he stood-
probability 27 %, ±7, Center said.
— but it was still a relief. She shrugged.
"It's your command. Let's get this ratfuck organized, shall we?"
"Ya." Heinrich turned his head slightly, towards Jeffrey: "My wife, Captain Gerta Hosten." Back to her: "What's the theater situation?"
"FUBAR, but we're winning-not exactly the way we expected to, but we are. Once this position's blocked, General Summelworden's got them in the kettle and we can turn up the heat; Ciano next. Where do you want my machine guns? And get me something to stop this leak, would you? I can't keel over just yet."
"Automatics over by-"
The conversation slid into technicalities. Heinrich waved at a passing medic who then knelt to put a pressure bandage on Gerta's thigh.
Ciano next, Jeffrey thought. That's going to be ugly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Everything was calm and unhurried in the Imperial situation room. There was a huge map of the Empire on one wall, stuck with black pins to represent Land forces and green ones for Imperial. A relief map of the same territory stood in a sunken area in the center of the floor, with a polished mahogany rail around it, and enlisted men pushed unit counters with long-handled wooden rakes. One wall of the big room was all telephones and telegraphs, their operators scribbling on pads and handing them to decoders.
Aides in polished boots and neat, colorful uniforms strode back and forth; generals frowned at the maps; the Emperor tugged at his white whiskers and bunked sleepy, pouched eyes. Behind him stood guards in ceremonial uniform, and several civilians. .
No, John Hosten thought, appraising them. Their eyes flickered ceaselessly over the room, appraising, watching. Waiting. The real guards. And by their looks, the only people in this room who're doing their jobs.
John Hosten approached, flanked by two ushers, and made his bow. Behind the surface of his mind he could feel Raj and Center examining the maps, the computer's passionless appraisal and Raj's cold scorn.
Systematic lying, Raj thought. All the way up the chain of command. It's always the commander's fault when that happens. Once you let people start telling you what you want to hear, you're fucked-and everyone else with you.
"Rise, Signore Hosten," the Emperor said.
He was an old man, but John was slightly shocked at his appearance; there was a perceptible tremble to his hands now, and a faint smell of sickness. Count del'Cuomo beside him looked even worse, if possible-but then, he probably had better information available, as Minister of War.
"Your Majesty," John said.
He handed over the folder of documents, neatly tied with a green-and-red ribbon.
"My credentials, Your Majesty. And my regrets, but my government requires my services at home. I will be returning to Santander City."
The Emperor smiled absently. "And taking one of our fairest flowers with you. . where is young Pia?"
"Currently, she's working as a volunteer nurse," John said. Against my advice.
The Emperor frowned. "Not. . not really suitable, I'd have thought," he murmured.
Count del'Cuomo shrugged. "She was always too much for me, your Majesty," he said. He looked up at John. "But my son-in-law will take good care of her, and return in happier times, when we have driven the tedeschi back to their island, as we did before."
John bowed again, more deeply, and took the required four paces backward. That nearly ran him into an aide with a stack of telegrams, but he ignored the man. Ignored everything, until a turn down the corridor gave him a view down over the city. Then he took in a sharp breath.
It was early morning, still almost dark. The news of the fall of Milana must have reached the people in the hour or so he'd spent waiting. Not from a courier or coded message, surely; the Imperial armies hadn't fallen apart quite that drastically. . yet. More probably from a refugee on a fast riverboat. As for official statements, by this time they just confirmed what they denied. Even when they were sincere, and he'd bet it just meant that the lower-level functionaries writing them had been suckered by their own propaganda.
John Hosten stood for a moment looking down at the rioting and the fires, past the gardens of the palace and the cordon of Guard troops stationed along the perimeter. A man of thirty, tall and a hard-faced, in a diplomat's black morning coat, wing collar and dark-striped trousers. A servant almost walked into him, saw his face and silently stood aside.