Starfist: Kingdom's Fury (28 page)

The fighting didn't last much longer. Thanks to Schultz, the Skinks took too many casualties before they began their assault. Someone shrilled an order, and the few Skink survivors of the melee began to retreat, flaming their fallen companions as they fled. None of them reached the cover of the deep forest before the Marines flared them, but they had done their job—only charred spots remained on the ground where dead and dying Skinks had lain.

When they were sure the Skinks were gone, the Marines gathered their casualties and moved to a new defensive position on the river bank. The boats arrived soon after.

The squad leader and gunner of the second assault squad weren't the only Marine casualties, though the gunner was the only Marine who died. Sergeant N'ton suffered first and second degree burns when the prisoner he was guarding flared. First squad's Corporal Pasquin, Lance Corporal Godenov, and PFC Gray all suffered knife wounds, as did second squad's Sergeant Linsman, Corporal Doyle, Lance Corporal MacIlargie, and PFC Little. In the gun squad, only Lance Corporal Kindrachuck was injured. None of the Marines suffered wounds from the acid shooters.

Third platoon had no further contact on its return to Haven.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The headquarters of the Collegium crouched in the shadow of Mount Zion. Since the hill gave it some protection, the complex had sustained no damage from Skink bombardments. In any case, most of the facilities were housed safely underground, as befitted de Tomas's secret agendas.

Years before, when he had taken over as dean, de Tomas embarked on a major construction project to expand the facility, renaming it Wayvelsberg, after a medieval European fortress he'd read about that had impressed him. He designed the main entrance to the building after the portcullis of an ancient castle, except that the massive doorway was framed on each side by a huge bas relief of knights in armor, each of which stood fifteen meters high. Armed officers of the black-uniformed Special Group always stood guard just inside the dimly lighted entrance hall, which was draped in heavy tapestries depicting the Collegium's logo: a silver goshawk perched on golden lightning bolts. All of this gave the visitor the impression he was entering a dungeon. For many visitors, that was just what Wayvelsberg was, and if they emerged alive, they were never the same again afterward.

Behind the portcullis there was a courtyard paved with flagstones so that when a visitor's escorts marched him across it, their footfalls echoed sharply from the surrounding walls. In the center stood the statue of a horseman with a hawk, wings outspread for flight, perched on one outstretched arm; the other arm's massive mailed fist rested on the hilt of a sword. On the figure's head was the royal crown of Heinrich I, studded with precious stones; on bright days, the sunlight glinted off them. Those passing through who were not preoccupied with what might await them in the chambers deep below the surface of Wayvelsberg often noted a striking similarity between the facial features of the stone Heinrich and the dean of the Collegium.

The visitor on this occasion was none other than Archbishop General Lambsblood, commander of the remains of the Army of God, still fuming from the dressing down Brigadier Sturgeon had given him during the Convocation of Ecumenical Leaders. His escort guided him down one of the many gloomy corridors that led off the courtyard to an elevator bank. Once inside, it seemed to take a long time for them to reach the subbasement where de Tomas kept his working offices, which, in contrast to the atmosphere on the surface of the complex, were ultramodern and brightly lit, bustling with clerks and officials of the Collegium, who stood politely aside as Lambsblood was marched down the corridors to de Tomas's office suite. His escorts ushered him into a waiting room and, saluting smartly, left him there to wait for de Tomas.

The general was impressed. The waiting room was more like a book-lined private study than a place to cool one's heels. The furniture, covered with genuine leather, was a bit heavy for the general's personal taste, but it blended well with the ceiling-high bookshelves stuffed with hundreds of volumes printed on paper.

Casually, Lambsblood inspected the spines, and after looking at a few of them, gasped in surprise. They were forbidden volumes! Obviously confiscated, he concluded quickly. One caught his eye, a thin, leather-bound volume with bright gold lettering: The
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
in the English translation by Fitzgerald.

Lambsblood had heard of that volume of salacious poetry by the apostate Khayyam, but had never seen an actual copy. He was alone and the room was dimly lighted from widely spaced lamps. He was just pulling it from its place between a volume of Lord Chesterfield's letters to his son bound in buckram and Hogarth's etchings when—

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Archbishop General," a voice boomed from behind him. Lambsblood started and whirled around, his face turning a dark crimson. There stood Dominic de Tomas, dressed in the black uniform of the Special Group, a golden goshawk on each lapel. "Interested in English literature?"

De Tomas grinned, nodding at the shelf of books behind the general.

"Ah, well, um, confiscated items, I presume?" Lambsblood stuttered.

"Yes, Archbishop General," de Tomas replied, still grinning. "Some from the public library system, but most from the private collection of J. Benton Pabst, Master Librarian to the Ecumenical Council. Do you know him, perhaps?"

"Uh, yes . . . yes, I do. Haven't seen him in a while, though," Lambsblood answered nervously. There were rumors about Pabst . . .

"Nor will you be seeing him again." De Tomas grinned unpleasantly. "Please be seated." Grateful to be dismissed on the matter of the books and the late Master Librarian, Lambsblood plopped down in one of the leather armchairs. The cushions hissed as his weight gently settled into them. "All the books you see in here, General," de Tomas took in the shelves with a sweep of his arm, "are, as you say,

‘confiscated.’ But I did not burn them as we usually do with such filth. I have the works of all the ancient philosophers; Bertrand Russell, Ayn Rand, Norman Vincent Peale, terrible filth. But I keep them here on display because you must know your enemy, yes, General? Cigar?"

Lambsblood took the humidor offered and selected a cigar. "Anniversarios!" he exclaimed quietly. "These must cost a fortune," he said as he cut the end of his. He leaned forward as de Tomas offered a light.

De Tomas lit a cigar too, and they both smoked for a few moments. "Archbishop General," de Tomas continued, "I know you are spending valuable time here and you're anxious to get back to the front, but I have something to discuss with you.

We both know that a successful soldier must know his enemies. Do you know who yours are, Archbishop General?"

Caught off guard by the blunt question, Lambsblood hesitated and then blurted,

"Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon!"

De Tomas smiled cryptically. "Yes, I was there at the meeting, when he insulted you so grievously. That was uncalled for. But Sturgeon will leave here one day and we will be faced with putting our world back together again. Let me put it to you this way: When that time comes, who will be your friend?"

Again Lambsblood hesitated. He shrugged. Whatever his failings as a military commander, he had always followed his orders to the best of his ability. He never thought like a politician.

"Archbishop General," a strong note of iron in de Tomas's voice now, "I want to show you something." Lambsblood's armed escort, responding to some secret signal de Tomas had evidently triggered, came back into the room. Lambsblood stood as de Tomas got up, gesturing that he should follow the escorts. The four of them returned to the elevators, aromatic cigar smoke trailing behind them, and descended rapidly to another floor. "This is the deepest level of Wayvelsberg," de Tomas said as they exited the elevator. "It's where we conduct our interrogations.

One is in progress just now, and I would like you to sit in on it."

Lambsblood was ushered into a small soundproofed room. The one-way glass looked into an interrogation chamber where a middle-age man lay naked, strapped to an operating table. His body was covered in a sheen of perspiration. A technician dressed in white stood on the other side of the glass. He put a question to the man on the table, something about the Koran. Lambsblood could not quite hear the man's answer, but then the technician threw a switch on a console in front of him and Lambsblood jumped involuntarily as the man on the table screamed in agony. This went on for ten minutes. Lambsblood's cigar had gone out by the time the man on the table was fed feet first into a blast furnace.

"Archbishop General, it is time you were getting back to your command," de Tomas said, clapping Lambsblood heartily on the shoulder.

"Why—Why . . .?" Lambsblood croaked. His clothing was soaked with perspiration and he felt sick to his stomach.

"I want you to know that you have a friend and ally in me, General," de Tomas answered. "I support and reward my friends. My enemies, well . . ." He gestured toward the interrogation chamber where the technician was busy cleaning things up.

"That business with Sturgeon—forget it. It will clear up by itself and you will get back the command of your armies. I will be calling on you soon."

De Tomas shook Lambsblood's hand. Somewhat dazed, Lambsblood allowed his escort to take him back to the surface. On the way up he reflected on what de Tomas had told him, especially, "you will get back the command of your armies."

Yes. The Dean of the Collegium was a powerful man on Kingdom. His powers exceeded even those of the army commander and the Council of Ecumenical Leaders. This fact was so well understood that Lambsblood had never even bothered to ask what the man on the table down there had been accused of, that his life should be ended so horribly. The Archbishop General had just assumed the man had committed some terrible heresy and deserved what he got.

De Tomas's next guest proved not to be as educable as General Lambsblood.

"I do not approve of your methods," the visitor announced as soon as de Tomas entered the room.

"A cigar, Reverend?" De Tomas offered him the humidor, ignoring the remark. He knew very well what his visitor thought of the Collegium.

"I don't engage in that dirty habit," the guest replied curtly, waving the humidor away.

"A seat, then?"

The Reverend, as he was known to members of his sect, sat. "I want to know why you felt it was necessary to get me here personally, Dean. I have important business to attend to. This is a time of crisis, and change is in the air."

De Tomas nodded. "Change," he repeated. "Sometimes that can be a good thing.

Your sect has long advocated change in the way the Convocation does its business."

"Yes. I wonder why you haven't made any of my people ‘disappear’ because of our opposition to the Convocation." The Reverend was a small red-faced man with orange-red hair, which many suspected he dyed. His small, almost elfin features disguised a monumental ego combined with a powerful intellect. Born into a society where the benefits of genetics were loudly denounced, one of his legs was several millimeters shorter than the other, forcing him to wear one shoe with a built-up sole.

While the sect he led was not the largest of the many to be found on Kingdom, it was one of the most vocal, and people listened to what its leader said. He had a deep and powerful voice that could mesmerize even those who disagreed with him.

"Mind if I smoke?"

The Reverend waved a hand indicating he did not care. De Tomas took his time lighting up. He blew a large cloud of smoke into the space separating them. The Reverend winced and waved it away.

"I could have crushed you a long time ago," de Tomas announced.

"Yes. So why didn't you?"

"Because I happen to agree with you."

The Reverend was not prepared for this degree of frankness. "You do?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes. And change is in the air. This invasion changes everything. We have suffered terribly. The entire City of God sect, for instance, was wiped out."

"Yes, I can see the tears forming now in the corners of your eyes," the Reverend replied cynically. They both laughed.

"I have studied the military situation very carefully," de Tomas said, "and while I do not know the precise details of this Brigadier Sturgeon's battle plan, it is evident to me that he is devising a master stroke to break the siege here and expel the invaders. These creatures are powerful and ruthless, but I do not believe they are as smart as we humans. They have suffered enormous casualties bringing about this siege. I do not believe they are very good strategists. The Marines will break this siege, and then . . ."

The Reverend leaned forward, interested now. "And then?"

"And then we will have to go about rebuilding our world. We will have to restore the people's faith in themselves. Changes will have to be made in how we do things here."

"Precisely how?"

De Tomas hesitated. He looked into the Reverend's eyes. There was interest there, ambition too, vast ambition. How far would that take the man? Would he be a rival?

Yes, de Tomas concluded. But not for long. He smiled. "Consolidation of decision-making authority," he replied.

The Reverend leaned back. "How do I fit in?"

"I need a spokesman," he responded. "I need a propaganda minister."

The Reverend did not respond at once. "When?"

"Soon. I will let you know."

"My dear dean, you are planning to overthrow the Convocation, that is very clear to me. That is treason. What makes you think I won't run to the Convocation and warn them?"

"That is a very stupid question, my dear fellow. Do you care for a demonstration?" De Tomas's voice was hard now.

"No!" the Reverend answered quickly. "You can count on me." They shook hands.

Several other guests visited Wayvelsberg that day. Two of them were never seen again. By the time Dominic de Tomas retired to his private rooms to enjoy a quiet bottle of Katzenwasser '36 before bed, he was ready to move.