Traitor's Sun (71 page)

 

Lyle Belfontaine strode along a narrow street, ignoring the raw day and the faint feeling of unease in the back of his mind. He was not worried about capturing Comyn Castle, for he was sure the servants that were left in the huge building would not try to stop him. It was the other, the assault along the road, that concerned him. He had sent orders for the attack the night before, and he knew that the forces from the Aldaran Domain had left there. He had had a lot of trouble with Commander Shen, who was in charge of the Federation troops in the Hellers. He was old-line military, from some family that had been serving the Federation for generations, and he had protested Lyle’s orders. Some nonsense about attacking civilians without provocation. Belfontaine had insisted that the funeral train was harboring dangerous enemies of the Federation—namely Hermes Aldaran, but others as well—and Shen had finally, if reluctantly, agreed. With any luck at all, Shen and his honor would not survive. It was only a pity he could not reach Vancof and tell the scrawny assassin to make sure of that, but the shortbeam was not responding. How dare Shen question his orders!

It had taken several frustrating hours of transmissions back and forth before Shen had obeyed, and Lyle had wondered if the entire plan would fall apart from the failure of the technology they depended on. Cottman’s star was going through one of its periods of sunspot activity, and that had interfered with the proper functioning of their equipment. And he wasn’t worried about the actual attack on the funeral train—it would either work or it would not. No—it was the trail of transmissions which disturbed him more than a little—the evidence that could hang him if things went awry. But it was worth the risk, to pay back these stupid and stubborn people for refusing to join the Federation. They had brought this on themselves!

And there was always the possibility that the Federation would never know what he was about to do—that they would not come back to remove the personnel from HQ at all. When Granfell had made that suggestion a few days before, he had dismissed it. But now, as the silence from the relay station continued, Belfontaine was not so sure. Perhaps they would be abandoned. Well, if they were, he would have the planet in his own control.

There would be no one to challenge his authority. Granfell would be dead, if Vancof followed his orders, and so would anyone else who might dare to oppose him. Really, he should be more grateful to Miles, for coming up with the idea in the first place. A shame the man was not to be trusted. But he could not have a second-in-command who might be a traitor, could he?

Belfontaine had not been in this section of Thendara very often, for he rarely left the comfortable confines of the base. He looked at the buildings on either side of the street—wide for Cottman IV but narrow by the standards of any civilized city—their high stone walls looming above him. He saw the painted signs that hung out from the shops, and noticed that the shutters were drawn in. It did seem rather quiet for midday—the streets seemed almost empty of the normal traffic, and if anyone was alarmed by the sight of several squads of armed men marching along this avenue, there was no indication of it. Perhaps this was a day of mourning.

Belfontaine’s few spies had assured him that the funeral train had left that morning with everyone from the castle, including the Guardsmen, accompanying it. So why was he increasingly anxious? Could he trust his agents? What if someone had anticipated his attack, and made it appear that the castle was a ripe plum just waiting to be plucked? No, there was no one that clever, was there?

Ahead, he saw the gleaming white walls of Comyn Castle and his worries began to slip away. How he hated the building, which represented his failure to bring Cottman to heel for the Federation! It was payback time, and he felt exultation swell in his chest.

Then his previous anxiety returned. He almost felt as if the building were watching him, observing his march somehow. It was an eerie sensation, and Belfontaine realized his nerves were not as steady as he had previously thought. He almost wished that it were not empty, that he would have the opportunity to slaughter its obstinate, arrogant inhabitants. What victory was there in seizing an empty palace? A sour taste filled his mouth, and he knew that he would never have dared to attack Comyn Castle unless it was unguarded. This honest insight rattled him badly, and he gritted his teeth. He had to get a grip on himself!

He glanced at the readouts on his visor, little specks of light that encoded information, showing him the position of his men. It calmed him to see that, and the momentary self-awareness of fear faded away. He liked the smell of the helm, and the sense of command it gave him. With it, he could direct his men instantly, and also have a view of any opposition. Not that he expected any. The Castle Guards had gone with the funeral train, and he had arranged for trouble in the Horse Market to draw the City Guards to the other side of Thendara. So why did this litany of certainty fail to reassure him?

It was too quiet—that was what was getting on his nerves! There should be people in the streets, even if it was a day of mourning. He swallowed the foul taste in his mouth.

It was actually better this way, Belfontaine told himself almost desperately now. Dead civilians tended to arouse the interest of Boards of Inquiry, and if he could manage a bloodless coup, it would be to his advantage. He wished he knew more about the actual layout of the Castle. He had tried to find out, during the years, and he knew that by repute it was a regular warren of corridors and rooms, large enough to hide a thousand men. Except that even if one combined all the City and Castle Guards, they did not number that many.

There was something uncanny about the white building ahead of him. Was that someone on the roof? No, just a shadow. But he looked at the surrounding buildings, at the rooflines of the nearest ones, trying to see if there were any watchers there. Supposedly, his combat helm should have indicated the presence of anyone, the heat of their bodies making a signal, but the local stone seemed to block that function. Typical—whenever you really needed them, machines let you down. It was some kind of law, wasn’t it?

Quelling his rising anxiety, Lyle Belfontaine advanced, his boots and those of his company making a steady beat against the cobblestones of the avenue. It was a regular, rhythmic sound, and it began to steady his nerves. He knew that men going into combat were often nervous, and decided that he must be experiencing that. It was nothing to be concerned over.

Now he stood at the bottom of two flights of wide stairs, leading up to the main doors of Comyn Castle. For a moment he stood and gazed at the great carved doors, allowing himself the pleasure of anticipating their destruction. He barked a command into his helm, and two squads started to move up the stairs. It was all going just as he had planned, and he let himself grin behind his visor.

He was admiring their efficient progress, the splendid way they moved together as the squads advanced up the first flight of stairs. Then the men seemed to hesitate, and he saw one man bat his helm with a gauntleted hand, as if trying to get the mechanism to function correctly.

Before he could wonder what was happening, he felt an itch begin to crawl across his scalp beneath the helmet. It seemed to have a lot of legs—some sort of insect. How could the damn thing have gotten under his helm? And he could not get at it without taking the accursed thing off! He shook his head to one side, trying to dislodge whatever it was, and felt the itching increase. It seemed like several large crawly things were on his scalp, and his skin began to roughen in the warmth of the combat suit. Visions of centipedes began to rise in his mind, the sort that were common on Lein III. Perhaps the suits had become infested with some local insect, and the heat of his body had roused them. He held back a shudder and tried to concentrate on the readouts again.

Something was wrong! Where a minute before he could place every one of the eighteen soldiers on the steps without actually looking at anything except the dots of colored light in his display, now eight of them were gone! Simply vanished! Stupid machinery! The things were supposed to be foolproof, but of course they would go off-line just when they were most needed. Damn the Federation for giving him old equipment, years out of date! He shook the helm with both hands—there must be a loose connection. His attempt to fix things did not improve matters at all.

A thin, wailing sound came over the comlink, nearly deafening Belfontaine as the scream pierced his eardrums for several seconds before bubbling into silence. Then all the displays in his helm burst into life, leaving dazzling spots dancing before his aching eyes. There were shouts all around him, penetrating the thick insulation of the helm. A sputter of light surged again, and then the helm went dead. The nasty stink of burning insulation rose in his nose, and he tried to pull the thing off without disengaging the toggles that held it to his combat suit. Smoke began to cloud the visor as he scrabbled to release the clasps that held the helm in place.

After what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a few seconds, Belfontaine managed to get his gloved fingers around the toggles and undo them. He pulled his helmet off and gasped for air. The cold wind chilled his skin, but it felt wonderful for a moment. His eyes teared with the combination of smoke and wind, and he blinked to clear them.

A scene of chaos met his burning eyes. He stared in astonishment as the eighteen men who had reached the landing between the two flights of stairs screamed and tore at their helms and protective garments. He watched expensive helmets being smashed against stones, and saw one man ram his fingers into his own eyes. Several others turned and started to run down the stairs toward him.

“Stop!” His command was borne away on the wind, and it had no effect. A trooper dashed past him, discarding his weapons as he ran, screaming lustily. The eyes of the man seemed glazed and vacant, and a line of spittle drooled from the gaping mouth. Belfontaine reached out to restrain him, but the man just pushed him away, knocking him down so hard that all the air left his lungs.

The combat suit protected him, but Belfontaine could feel the impact of the fall. Dazed, he watched the troopers still on the landing dance around, pulling off their suits, screaming and vomiting. Then he turned and looked behind him, to find that the rest of his small force had gone mad as well.

He tottered to his feet, desperately trying to regain his own control. The suit suddenly felt too hot, and remembering how his helm had shorted out, he looked down to see if there were any telltale wisps of smoke. It became hotter and hotter, until it was intolerable, although he could see nothing wrong.
Get out of the suit!

Belfontaine pulled at the closures, and felt the suit slip down his body, puddling around his knees and leaving him in his thermal undersuit. The brisk wind cooled his overheated body quickly, and he tried to understand what was happening.

You always were worthless, Lyle. You were a failure from the day you were born!
He heard the words and knew the voice, even as his mind rejected them. Then he saw the speaker standing in front of him, his tall and powerful father, sneering at him and making him feel smaller than he was. The vision was transparent at first, but then it solidified and began to move closer. Reflexively, he lifted his arm to deflect the blow he anticipated, now totally unaware of the actions of his troopers around him.

He cowered before the image of his father, trying to make his voice work, to say anything that would keep him safe. But his throat was closed with terror, and he felt his bowels loosen. The smell wafted upward, and Belfontaine trembled with shame.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision of his father vanished, and he could see that there were men sitting on the landing, sobbing or screaming. He turned to look at the rest of his troopers, and saw that most of them were in retreat. And worse, riding toward them, was a company of City Guards. Were they insane, to ride against energy weapons? Then he saw that none of his soldiers were even reaching for their blasters—they were too busy jumping around and trying to get out of their suits. This damn planet was driving them crazy!

Before he could quite grasp this new development, he heard another sound, of stone sliding over stone, and turned toward the noise. An opening had appeared in the wall of the castle, to one side of the great doors, and the Castle Guards he had been assured were gone poured out.

Belfontaine reached to his side, where a blaster should have been, and felt his fingers brush against the weave of his thermal undergarment. He leaned down to the discarded combat suit which lay around his ankles, trying to find the weapon.

The words boomed in his mind, echoing like cannons, familiar and not at the same time. It was too much, and for the first time in his life, Lyle Belfontaine fainted.