Going Interstellar (collection)

The huscarl, senior among the car commanders, came stiffly to attention. “Yes, lord?”

“Your regional secure set is still working?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Get me an update. Immediately.”

“Yes, lord!”

Pathan surveyed the southern horizon; Harrod’s eyes followed those of his lord. Columns of black smoke seemed to be holding up that part of the sky.

Behind them, syncopated thunder rolled: House Mellis’s mobile artillery. A moment of silence, then high whimpering screams overhead, then silence again—and finally, flashes along the southern horizon. Two seconds later, the ragged rumbles of the barrage passed over them.

“This race is too closely run,” Pathan said in a worried tone.

Harrod knew not to say anything.

“Last week, our position was secure. But with all the neutral Houses now declaring for the HouseMoot, we are dangerously overextended. As it is, neither our forces nor those of House Shaddock can be sure of reaching our capitals in time to defend them—not when we have to fight our way back home through the forces of House Verone.”

The price of endless warmaking, and overreaching, Harrod ached to say, but did not dare to.

“Lord Mellis!” It was Nedd. His tone augured news they did not wish to hear.

“Report, huscarl.” Like all the Evolved, Pathan Mellis was always supremely cool and collected—even as he prepared to hear tidings of certain disaster.

Nedd did not disappoint their dire expectations. “Lord, our right flank, the armor of House Shaddock—”

“Destroyed?”

“No, lord. Slowing. It has fallen behind the center of our van and—”

Thunder mounted behind them once again—but the timbre and pace of the detonations was more strident, pulsed in sharp fits and starts.

Nedd—mouth still open—stopped, speechless, to stare at the sound. “My lord—battle! How could the HouseMoot forces have so quickly—?”

Pathan glanced at Harrod, who nodded, and explained to the dumbfounded huscarl. “You do not hear the attacking forces of the HouseMoot. Although it is the sound of battle, it is also the sound of treachery. House Shaddock evidently fell behind our van with a purpose; they have fallen upon our mobile artillery and our rearguard.”

Nedd gaped wider, if that were possible. “But without the artillery to clear the way before us—”

“—we will not break free of the encircling forces. Quite correct. And exactly what they planned, I’m sure.” He turned to Lord Mellis. “Orders, my lord?”

Mellis surprised Harrod—first by shaking his head, and then, actually smiling at him. “No, Intendant: I will be giving the orders here myself. You will be taking the jet-pack and making a report to my great uncle, the Overlord—if you get through the anti-aircraft fire.”

“But lord, the jet-pack is reserved for your use onl—”

“I dictate its use, and this is the use I decree.” He let his voice slip lower, buried to all ears but Harrod’s under the idling hum of the armored car’s engine. “Intendant, this battle is over. I will draw the van and left flank together and we will attempt to press forward, but House Verone’s helots are as thick as mites on a molting fen-cur. Without artillery, we will need luck and the favor of the Death Fathers to fight through all their rocket teams. And I suspect there’s huscarl armor behind them, probably with air support for the final blow. Do you agree?”

Harrod could only nod, speechless in the face of the Lord’s calm diagnosis of their terminal military condition.

“So you shall be our courier and analyst both: you are our best mind, and have intimate familiarity with the details of this campaign—better than I. Besides, you are our House’s leading technical historian, are you not?”

“Lord, with respect, it is not my place to claim such—”

“You are. You know it. So does the whole House. Which will soon need you to ready the Ark, unless I am much mistaken.”

Ready the Ark? Had it come to that?

Pathan had not paused. “So you must go. And I must stay. This I decree, Harrod hur-Mellis.”

Harrod did not question his lord; to do so could still earn him death, and even if it did not, would be a pointless waste of time. The jet-pack was man-handled out of the passenger bay of the less-battered APC, was perfunctorily tested, and was propped up for him.

As Harrod backed into the unit, he felt the shoulder and waist braces lock into place, and the jets shudder and heat with the pre-burn. He stared at Lord Mellis, and wanted to say something—anything—but did not have any words, not even an idea where to begin.

Pathan smiled at him again. “Yes, Intendant, some of us Evolved are actually willing to die in service to our own Houses—not just send lesser beings to their ignominious dooms.” He gave a signal to the flight techs. “We Evolved are born to dominate. But sometimes, to dominate requires a readiness to die.” Pathan’s smile became rueful. “Perhaps you believed otherwise, Harrod?”