The Chosen Read online

  She nodded towards Gerta. Ah. They sent Gerta along as an earnest of good faith. The offer probably was genuine. And to the Chosen's way of looking at it, perfectly natural. Perhaps if he'd never been contacted by Center, it might even have been tempting.

  There were times he woke up at night sweating, from dreams of the man he might have become in the Land.

  "Let me think," he said.

  "Agreed. But not for long."

  He dropped his head into his hands. Jeff, you following this?

  You bet, brother. You going to ask them for something in writing?

  Out of character, he answered. A Chosen officer's word is supposed to be good. I don't have much time.

  Although surely they knew that he knew he'd never leave the room alive if he refused. The embassy could be relied upon to have a way of disposing of bodies.

  He raised his head again. No problem in showing a little worry, and he could smell his own sweat, heavy with the peculiar rankness of stress.

  "I'm engaged to be married to an Imperial," he said.

  The colonel shrugged. "Marriage is out of the question, of course, but after the conquest, you can have your pick for pleasure. Take the bitch as you please, or a dozen others."

  Gerta winced and touched her superior on the sleeve, whispering in her ear.

  John shook his head. "Anything that applies to me, applies to Pia. Or no deal."

  The colonel's eyes narrowed. "You have already been offered more than is customary," she warned.

  "No. Pia, or nothing."

  Gerta touched the colonel's sleeve again. "We should discuss this, sir," she said.

  "Agreed. Hosten, retire to the end of the room, please."

  He obeyed, facing away from the table. The two Chosen leaned together, speaking in whispers. Far too softly for anyone to overhear . . . anyone without Center's processing power, that was. The computer was limited to the input of John's senses, but it could do far more with them than his unaided brain.

  "What do you make of it, captain?" the colonel asked.

  "I'm not sure, sir. If he'd agreed without insisting on the woman, I'd have said we should kill him immediately—that would be an obvious fake. The woman . . . that makes it possible he's sincere . . . but he'd also know that I know him well."

  Thanks a lot, Gerta.

  "As it is, I still suspect he's lying. Immediate termination would be the low-risk option here."

  "I was under the impression that you thought highly of this Johan Hosten."

  "I do. Heinrich and I named a son after him. I respect his courage and intelligence; which is why he's too dangerous to live unless he's on our side."

  "He seems inclined to agree to the proposition."

  "He'd have to anyway, wouldn't he?"

  "What evidence do you have to suppose he lies?"

  "Gestalt. I lived with him until he was twelve and we've corresponded since. He's committed to the Republic, absurd though that may sound. He believes. And John Hosten would never betray a cause in which he believed."

  A long silence. "As you say, the Republic's ideology is absurd—and he is, from the records, not a stupid or irrational man. Termination is always an option, but it is irrevocable once exercised. We will test him; his position is potentially a priceless asset. And we are offering him the ultimate reward, after all."

  "Colonel, please record my objection and recommendation."

  "Captain, this is noted." Aloud: "Johan Hosten, attend."

  When he was standing beside the chair, she continued: "We will concede this woman Probationer-Emeritus status."

  Second-class citizenship, but if married to one of the Chosen her children would be automatically entitled to take the Test of Life. Although they'd know he could sire no children. He blinked, keeping his face carefully neutral. Pia had wept when he told her that, and he'd been afraid, really afraid.

  "This is . . ." He stopped and began again. "You understand, I've been growing more and more frustrated with Santander. You must know that, if your sources inside the Foreign Office are as good as I suspect. I keep telling them the risks, and they ignore them." He shrugged. "As you said, it makes no sense to fight for those who won't fight for themselves." He stood, and gave the Chosen salute. "I agree. Command me, colonel!"

  The colonel returned the gesture. Gerta stared at him with cold appraisal, biting at her lip thoughtfully. Then she shook her head and made a small gesture to the senior officer, a thumb-pull, much the same as one would make to cock a pistol before shooting someone in the back of the head.

  Colonel von Kleuron looked at them both and then shook her head.

  John fought back an impulse to let out a long sigh of relief. They aren't going to kill me now. Thanks, Gerta, thanks a lot.

  Although he should have expected it. He'd always known his foster-sister was smart, and she did know him well.

  "Johan Hosten."

  The basset-hound face of the colonel allowed itself a slight smile.

  "You have made a wise decision. You will be dropped at some distance, and contacted when appropriate. May your service to the Chosen be long and successful."

  "Welcome back, Johnnie," Gerta said. "I'm sure you'll make a first-class operative. You've got natural talent."

  * * *

  Lucky bastard, Jeffrey said silently.

  No, it's Chosen arrogance, John replied from half a continent away. A faint overlay of the controls of a road steamer came through the link, beyond it a long dusty country road.

  Jeffrey smiled, imagining serious expression and the slight frown on his stepbrother's face.

  Have they contacted you since? he said/thought.

  No. It's only been three days, and they're very busy. The whole Land embassy staff left on the last dirigible.

  Jeffrey lifted his coffee cup. It was morning, but some of the other patrons in the streetside cafe had already made a start on something stronger. Many of them were settling in with piles of newspapers or books, or just enjoying the perennial Imperial sport of people-watching. The coffee was excellent, and the platter of pastries extremely tempting; you had to admit, there were some things the Imperials did very well. His contact should be showing up any minute.

  Give me a look at the activity in the harbor, John requested. Jeffrey turned slightly in his seat and looked downhill; Center would be supplying the visual input to John.

  Awful lot of Chosen shipping still there, his stepbrother commented.

  They're still delivering cod, Jeffrey replied. To the naval stockpiles, no less.

  My esteemed prospective father-in-law, John thought dryly, assures me that the Imperial armed forces are ready down to the last gaiter button. Quote unquote.

  Is the man a natural-born damned fool?

  No, he just can't afford to face the truth. I think he wishes he'd died before this . . . and he's glad Pia will be safe in Santander.

  Speaking of which, we should—Jeffrey began. Then: Wait.

  A dirigible was showing over the horizon, just barely. Jeffrey was in officer's garrison dress, which included a case for a small pair of binoculars as well as a service revolver. He drew the glasses and stood, looking down the long street leading to the harbor. The airship wasn't in Land Air Service colors, just a neutral silvery shade with a Landisch Luftanza company logo on the big sharkfin control surfaces at the rear. A large model, two hundred meters in length and a quarter that in maximum diameter. One of the latest types, with the gondola built into the hull and six engines in streamlined pods held out from the sides by struts covered in wing-like farings.

  "That isn't a scheduled carrier," he said to himself.

  correct. vessel is land air service heavy military transport design. A brief flash of a report he'd read several months ago. sharkwhale class.

  "I have a bad feeling about this," he said. "John, I'm going to be busy for a while."

  I suspect we all are, his brother answered. Better try and make it to the legation.

  CHAPTER FOUR
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  "Coming up on Ciano. Airspeed one hundred and four kilometers per hour, altitude one thousand four hundred. Windspeed ten KPH, north-northwest. Fifteen kilometers to target."

  The bridge of the war dirigible Sieg was a semicircle under the bows, with slanting windows that gave a 180-degree view forward and down. Gerta Hosten was the only one present not in the blue-trimmed gray of the Landisch Air Service; she was in army combat kit, stone-gray tunic and pants, webbing gear and steel helmet. Her boots felt a little insecure on the stamped aluminum panels of the airship's decking, unlike the rubber-soled shoes the crew wore. The commanding officer, Horst Raske, stood by the crewman who held the tall wheel that controlled the vertical rudders. Another wheel at right-angles turned the horizontal control surfaces. Ballast, gas, and engines all had their own stations, although each engine pod also held two crewmen for repairs or emergencies.

  "Off superheat," Raske said.

  A muted whump went through the huge but lightly built hull of the airship. Vents on the upper surface of the ship were opening, releasing hot air from the ballonets that hung in the center of the hydrogen cells. The dirigible felt slower and heavier under her feet, and the surface of the water began to grow closer. Land was a thick line of surf ahead, studded with tiny doll-like buildings. The broad estuary of the Pada River lay southward, to the right; just inside it were the deep dredged-out harbors of Corona, swarming with shipping.

  "All engines three-quarter, come about to one-two-five." Ranke's voice was as calm and crisp as it had been on the practice runs on the mockup. Nobody had ever flown a dirigible into a real combat situation like this before; airships had only existed for about forty years. "Commencing final run."

  He turned to Gerta. "Thirty minutes to target," he said. "The observer"—in a bubble on top of the airship—"reports the rest of the air-landing force is following on schedule. Good luck."

  Gerta returned his salute. "And to you, Major."

  You'll need it, she thought. She was getting off this floating bomb; into a firefight, granted, but at least she wouldn't have a million cubic meters of hydrogen wrapped around her while she did it.

  The catwalk behind the bridge led down through crew quarters, past the radio shack, and into the hold. That was a huge darkened box across the belly of the Sieg, spanned with girders higher up; the only vertical members were several dozen ropes fastened to the roof supports and ending in coils on segments of floor planking. Crouched on the framework floor were her troops, three hundred of the Intelligence Service Commando, special forces, reporting directly to the general staff and tasked with the very first assault. Most of the dirigibles and surface ships following were crowded with line troops, Protégé slave-soldiers under Chosen officers. The Protégé infantrymen were getting four ounces of raw cane spirit each about now. The IS Commando were all-Chosen, only one candidate in ten making the grade.

  The sergeant of the headquarters section handed her a Koegelmann machine-carbine. Half the commando was armed with them or pump-action shotguns rather than rifles, for close-in firepower. She slapped a flat disk drum on top of the weapon and ran the sling through the epaulet strap on her right shoulder so that it would hang with the pistol grip ready to hand.

  "Right," she said in a voice just loud enough to carry. "This is what we've all been training for. We're the first in, because we're the best. It looks like the Imperials are sitting with their thumbs up their butts . . . but once we land, even they'll realize what's going on. Remember the training: hit hard, hold hard, and by this time tomorrow Corona will belong to the Chosen. Corona, and then the Empire. Then the world. And for a thousand years, they'll remember that we struck the first blow."

  A short growl rippled over the watching faces, not quite a cheer; the sort of sound a pack of dires would make, closing in on a eland herd. The company and platoon leaders grouped around her as she knelt.

  "No clouds, not much wind, unlimited visibility," she told them. "And no last-minute screwups from Intelligence, either."

  "Meaning either everything's as per, or the reports were totally fucked in the first place and nobody's found out better," Fedrika Blummer said.

  "Exactly. Fedrika, remember, don't get tied up in the scrimmage. Get those Haagens set up on the perimeter, or the Imperials will swamp us before the main force arrives. Kurt, Mikel, Wilhelm, all of you remember this—we're going to be heavily outnumbered. The only way we can pull this off is if we hit so hard and so fast they never suspect what's coming down. Go through them like grass through a goose and don't leave anyone standing."

  "Ya," Wilhelm Termot said. The others nodded.

  "Let's do it, then."

  * * *

  Jeffrey Farr dumped the papers in the cast-iron bathtub and sprinkled them with lamp oil. He flicked a match on his thumb and dropped it onto the surface. The mass of documents flared up in a gout of orange flame and black smoke and a coarse acrid smell. He retreated from the bathroom into the bedroom.

  Jeffrey began throwing things into a satchel—his camera, spare ammunition for his revolver—and checked the bathroom. It was full of smoke, but the papers were burning nicely. They held the details of the network he'd been setting up here in Corona—but Center was the perfect recording device, and one that couldn't be tapped. For that matter, he'd carefully refrained from memorizing them himself. What he didn't know he couldn't tell, and Center could always furnish him with the details. It put need-to-know in a whole different category. He waited until the tub held nothing but flaky ash, then quenched it with a jug of water from the basin before he jogged up to the flat roof of the apartment building. It was four stories tall, and the roof was set with chairs and planters; nothing but the best in this neighborhood.

  He got out the heavier pair of binoculars and focused on the dirigible. It was close now, slowing. Heading for Fort Calucci at the outer arm of the military harbor, from the looks of it.

  What in the hell are they going to try there? he thought. That was HQ for the whole Corona Military District.

  an assault with air-transported troops, Center said. probability 78%, ±3. observe:

  —and troops in gray Land uniforms slid down ropes on to the roof of the HQ complex—

  Looks like it, Raj said. The bastardos have nerve, I'll grant them that.

  "Oh, shit," he whispered a moment later.

  What's the matter? John's voice.

  "Lucretzia," he said.

  Well—

  "I know, I know, she's not the girl you bring home to mother—but she's down by the portside."

  the legation would be the lowest-risk area for temporary relocation, Center hinted.

  "Yeah, but I've got to do something about her," Jeffrey said. "It's personal, and besides, she's a good contact."

  Good luck, John said.

  And watch your back, lad, Raj added.

  * * *

  The fabric of the Sieg groaned and shivered with a low-toned roar.

  Valving gas, Gerta thought. Negative buoyancy.

  As if to confirm it, the falling-elevator sensation grew stronger. The nose of the dirigible tilted upwards and the engines roared as the captain controlled the rate of fall with the dynamic lift of air rushing under the great hull. She tasted salt from the sweat running down her face. Any second now.

  "Ready for it!"

  The commandos were bracing themselves with loops set into the aluminum deck planking. Gerta snugged the carrying strap of the carbine tight and ran both arms and a foot through the braces. The engine roar died suddenly, down to idle. Into the moment of silence that followed came a grinding, tearing clangor. The ship wrenched brutally, struck, bounced, struck, flinging her body back and forth. Then it came to a queasy, rocking halt with the floor at an angle. The bellow of valving gas continued.

  "Now! Go, go, go!"

  Booted feet slammed against quick-release catches. Two dozen segments of floor plating fell out of the belly carrying the coils of rope with them; light broke into the gloom of the hold, blin
ding. Men and women moved despite it, in motions trained so long that they were reflex. Twenty-four jumped, wrapped arms and legs around the sisal cables, and dropped out of sight. Others followed them with the regular precision of a metronome. Gerta and the headquarters section went in the third wave, precisely thirty-five seconds after the first.

  Noise hit her as she slid out of the hold, into the giant shadow of the huge structure overhead. The Sieg was shifting, beginning to bob up a little as the weight left it. The pavement of the tower's flat roof was only eight meters down, less than a third the distance the teams sliding down into the fortress courtyard had to cover. There were half a dozen Imperials below her, gaping and pointing at the dirigible overhead. They didn't start to move until shots and screams broke out below. There was a moment of controlled fall and she struck the ground, rolling off the segment of decking and reaching under the horizontal drum magazine of the Koegelmann to jack the slide back. The blowback weapon was new; it had a grip safety that was supposed to keep the bolt from racking forward.

  She'd found that the safety wasn't completely reliable. A really sharp jar could send it forward, chambering and firing a round. Not a good idea to arm it just before you jumped down a rope.

  Gerta came down in a perfect four-point prone position and stroked the carbine's trigger. It roared and hammered backward into her shoulder, spent brass tinkling on the painted metal surface of the towers top. The bullets were pistol-caliber but heavy, 11mm, and they were H-section wadcutters. They punched into the Imperials with the impact of so many soggy medicine balls, blasting out exit wounds the size of teaplates. The rest of the section was firing as well. Seconds later, the area was clear of living enemies.

  Something whirled by overhead, towards the heavy disk-shaped metal hatch that led from the rooftop down into the main section of the tower. A man was standing on the ladder below. His face was gray with shock, but he was struggling with the massive covering. The stick grenade struck his hands where they rested on the locking wheel of the hatch. He screamed and sprang backwards off the ladder, falling out of sight. The grenade hit the lip of the entryway, spun twice and then toppled out of sight down the shaft after the Imperial soldier.