"They'll hold for maybe two days. After that, Lellan and her traitors will have control."
"We could use the fleet to bombard them from orbit," Loman suggested.
Aberil shook his head. "Much as the idea appeals, that would mean our effectively losing the surface of the planet. The only weapons the fleet possesses for direct bombardment from orbit are atomics, and Lellan's forces are already well into the croplands and getting near to the city and spaceport." He hesitated. "Though, should circumstances permit…"
Loman walked to one of the long overstuffed sofas and sank down upon it. "Then what do you suggest, brother?" he asked.
Aberil replied, "Our soldiers have spent time enough in Charity, training for Amoloran's ridiculous schemes. Their purpose has always been military landing and limited ground warfare. So let's use them for that."
"There will be objections," said Loman. "Many would call this a police action and beneath the dignity of soldiers who were essentially trained to attack the Polity."
"Then by their objections they will reveal themselves as showing loyalty to a dead Hierarch rather than to yourself — and to God. The soldiers themselves will not object, and they are the most important factor. Other objectors — perhaps some of the officers coming from the high families — can visit the steamers should they feel their objection strongly enough. But I suspect they won't."
Loman studied his brother as he stood with his hands slack at his sides, and his expression and entire mien without animation. "Very well," said Loman, "I gave you the title First Commander, and now you will use it. Get your men out of Charity and down to the surface. Use them to destroy our enemies." Sending to the doors again Loman had them already opening behind his brother. The fleeting expression that crossed Aberil's face was almost like pain, as he turned abruptly and departed. Loman watched the doors close again, and once more reached out across the realms of the Gift and wondered how closely he could grasp control of them and make them his own, as he had done in this physical realm.
With something of bemusement, Thorn sat himself down in the rim of a huge balloon tyre belonging to one of the ATVs, and removed the helmet of his uniform, dropping it over the barrel of the pulse-rifle he had already propped against the tyre. The infantry — mustering to follow the four tanks once this nearby tunnel was ready — were similarly armed and uniformed as himself. Thorn was reminded of like occasions in his past, even before his Sparkind days, and before he had removed his uniform and sloughed away some of the apparent clean morality of straight face-to-face combat. Within him was the temptation to just go with these men and women, to shrug at responsibility and just obey orders, but he could not do that. His Sparkind training and his subsequent training as an ECS agent had made him, surprisingly, more moral, and more inclined to look for the really dirty jobs to do. It had also been his experience that they were never too difficult to find.
"Agent Thorn, reply please."
The voice from the helmet was tinny, but recognizably that of Polas, the man in the rebels' operations room. Thorn again donned the helmet, levering its side-shield, with contained transceiver and other military tech, down into position.
"Thorn here," he spoke into the mike just to one side of his mouth.
"I've sent those co-ordinates you required. They'll be in there as message number six. All other messages relate to the ground attack."
"Okay," said Thorn, reaching up and pressing one of the touch-pads on the side-shield. With a low whir, a rose-tinted visor slid down from the rim of the helmet. On one side of this, a menu was displayed in the glass.
"Cursor," Thorn said, and a red dot appeared at the centre of his vision, and tracked with the subsequent movement of his eyes. Looking to the menu he selected Messages, and kept one eye closed until the dot flashed into a cross. Upon opening his eye, ten messages were displayed, but rather than go to the one Polas had sent he opened some others at random. The message 'Medtech personnel are reminded that ajectant will be available from the manufactories now being set up in PA fourteen, and that all ATV ambulances must carry at least four cartons for distribution amongst the surface workers' he thought was in amusing counterpoint to 'Second and third hand-assault weapons are now available in PA twelve — these are for distribution amongst those field workers prepared to fight. It seemed that the cargo being unloaded from Lyric II had brought succour and death in equal proportions. He now went to message six: 'Lander came down at these co-ordinates'. Thorn ignored the co-ordinates and went straight to the Go to Map prompt below it. The craft had come down in the wilderness two hundred kilometres from this particular cavern, and though the map was detailed, the contour lines, colours, and biblical names gave him no idea of what might lie between him and it.
"Trooper Thorn," said a grating voice.
"Off," said Thorn, and the visor snapped back up into his helmet. He looked up at the old Golem, Fethan, behind whom stood the girl Eldene. Both of them wore the same combat gear as himself. He noted that the girl's fingers were white on her pulse-rifle, as if she was frightened that someone might take it away from her. Thorn doubted this — he had already seen kindergarten infantry troops younger than her.
"That's something I haven't been called in a while," said Thorn at last.
"Something you were called, though," said Fethan.
Thorn stood up from the rim of the balloon tyre and inspected him. That Fethan was a machine had been evident from the first — him being the only one of Lellan's party not requiring breathing apparatus — but Thorn was now beginning to wonder just what sort of machine Fethan really was. He did not move with that seemingly obdurate disconnection from his surroundings that was the hallmark of all Golem — even the newer ones. Sometimes it was difficult to spot them but Thorn was trained to it and had been used to working with such constructs for much of his life. Fethan, though, moved with more connection to his surroundings — as if he knew what it was to have to breathe, to feel his own heartbeat, to know real pain and real pleasure, and not some emulation of it.
"What are you?" Thorn asked abruptly.
Fethan grinned, exposing the gap in his front teeth.
He held up two fingers. "I'll give you two guesses."
Thorn considered what those two guesses should be. "Either you're a memplant loading to a Golem shell, or you're a cyborg. I would guess at the latter."
"Correct first time," said Fethan, lowering his hand.
"Then," said Thorn hesitantly, "you have been around for a while. I don't think anyone has gone cyborg for the last hundred years."
"Maybe," Fethan replied, obviously reluctant to volunteer further information about his own history. "Now, tell me, you're going to find out what's going on with this lander Dragon was carrying, ain't you?"
"I had considered that," said Thorn cautiously.
Fethan stepped close to one side of Thorn and slapped a hand down onto the thick foamed-neoprene tyre of the ATV.
"Then we'll be needing one of these," he said.
"I don't think Lellan would appreciate one of these vehicles being taken and, incidentally, what's your interest?"
"Lellan's interest, in fact. She took to heart your comments about Dragon, and she wants to be certain it's dead. I'm to head out there to make sure. And where Dragon came down is not far from where that craft came down. Two birds with one stone you might say."
"Yeah, you might," Thorn replied.
The autogun tower opened up with a staccato rattling, and Proctor Molat swore unremittingly after jumping up startled and banging his bald pate on the corner of his office cupboard. It took him a moment to realize just what he was hearing, as the last time those guns had fired had been during a test, so long ago, Molat recollected, that he still had thick black hair on his head. Flipping up his breather mask he rounded his desk — his feelings about leaving the stack of paperwork there, and the reasons for leaving it, somewhat ambivalent — yanked open the sealed door, and stepped out into the grey day. Only to have that day turned terribly bright when the autogun tower disintegrated in a ball of light.