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  Claims by the ruling political parties that the onslaught of ruin were the result of some sort of bizarre plot, delberately inflicted by “terrorists,” were greeted intitially with incredulity and then with rage as the political leadership's obvious effort to scapegoat someone else—anyone else—for its own failures sank home. Mobs took to the street, initially inchoate and fueled solely by rage and desperation, but leaders soon emerged. Within weeks, the first of the Committees of Renaissance was organized in North America; within months, the ruling Greens and Neo Luddites of the GRASP coalition found themselves fighting for their lives. The ruling elites' longstanding plans to retreat to Old Earth's orbital habitats in the face of disaster failed; officers of the Customs Service ordered to support Earth Union police forces against the Committees' armed supporters either refused or were forcibly prevented from obeying by their crews; the Upsider community, from Mars to Callisto, declared its support for the insurrection; and after three weeks of bitter fighting on Luna, the Lunar habitats also joined the united opposition.

  By January 253 PD, the Earth Union had effectively disintegrated. The old national units which had never been officially superseded asserted their sovereignty and independence once again, and the surviving leadership of the discredited Green and Neo Luddite parties had been driven entirely from power. The rage directed at them, sparked by the economic collapse, had grown nothing but fiercer and more burning as the citizens of Earth recognized the systemic stagnation and paralysis which had been ideolgically imposed upon them, and many of those political leaders were forced deep into hiding or even—in one of history's most bitter ironies—into seeking safety in interstellar flight once those flights were resumed in 257 PD.

  The Economic Winter imposed untold suffering. It has been estimated that well over a century of accumulated wealth was destroyed in a period of less than two weeks. The actual death toll has never been fully assessed, but must have measured in the hundreds of thousands on a planet-wide basis. The individual citizens whose life savings were wiped away are literally beyond counting. And yet, despite the staggering blow the Sol System had taken, the tide of human capability and creativity rebounded dramatically in the period of restored individual liberties and representative government which blossomed in the wake of the Earth Union's destruction. By 261 PD, the system had almost completely recovered from the Economic Winter and charged ahead into two T-centuries of unparalleled economic, technological, and intellectual growth and expansion. Nor did the renaissance of humanity's home star system stop there. The nightmare of Old Earth's Final War still waited in the mists of the unseen future, but for the next six T-centuries, until the slide into the political and ideological madness of that cataclysm began with the Veronezh declaration of 850 PD, the light of human hope, dreams, and aspirations burned as strongly as that of Sol itself.

  — From Darkness Back to the Stars:

  The Collapse of the Neo Luddites,

  Ephraim Bousquet, Ph.D.

  Pélissard et Fils, Nouveau Paris,

  Haven, 1597 PD

  A CALL TO ARMS

  Timothy Zahn

  Epilogue

  Growing up, Jeremiah Llyn had hated being short.

  Not that he was that short. Not really. No more than nine or ten centimeters shorter than the planetary average. But ten centimeters had been more than enough to set off the jokesters in primary school, the brawlers in middle grade, and the more elaborate hazing during his teen years. Young adulthood had been marginally better, with at least a veneer of politeness and civilization covering up the derision. But even there, he could see the mental evaluation going on behind employers' eyes as he was passed over for promotions and the truly lucrative jobs.

  Now, with the perspective and maturity that fifty T-years of life afforded a man, he found his lack of towering stature not only comfortable but valuable. People, even supposedly intelligent people, tended to underestimate shorter men.

  In Llyn's current position, it was often very useful to be underestimated.

  Across the desk, Cutler Gensonne shifted position, the prominent and self-awarded admiral's bars glinting on his shoulders with the movement. “Interesting,” he said, his eyes still on the tablet he'd been studying for the past fifteen minutes.

  Llyn waited a moment, wondering if there would be more. But Gensonne just flicked to the next page, his black eyebrows pressed together in concentration. “Is that a good interesting, or a bad interesting?” Llyn asked at last.

  “Well, it sure as hell isn't good,” Gensonne growled. “You realize this is a system that can conceivably field somewhere in the vicinity of thirty warships? Including six to nine battlecruisers?” He cocked his head. “That's one hell of a fighting force, Mr. Llyn.”

  Llyn smiled. It was a standard gambit among mercenaries, one that had been tried on him at least twice before over the years. By inflating the potential risks, the bargainer hoped to similarly inflate the potential payment. “You apparently missed sections fifteen and sixteen,” he said. “The bulk of that fleet is in mothballs awaiting the scrapyard. What's left is either half armed or half crewed or both. Our estimate is that you'll be facing no more than eight to ten ships, with maybe one of those ships a battlecruiser.”

  “I did read sections fifteen and sixteen, thank you,” Gensonne countered. “I also noted that the most recent data here is over fifteen months old.”

  “I see.” Standing up, Llyn reached across the table and plucked the tablet from Gensonne's hands. “Obviously, you're not the group we're looking for, Admiral. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”

  “Just a moment,” Gensonne protested, grabbing for the tablet. Llyn was ready for the move and twitched it out of his reach. “I never said we wouldn't take the job.”

  “Really?” Llyn said. Time for a little gamesmanship of his own. “It certainly sounded like the job was too big for you.”

  “There is no such job,” Gensonne said stiffly, standing up as if prepared to chase Llyn all the way through his office door if necessary to get the tablet back. The fact that Llyn was making no move to leave seemed to throw him off stride. “I was simply making the point that your intel was stone cold, and that any merc commander would want an update before taking action.”

  “Was that what you were saying?” Llyn said, feigning a puzzled frown. “But then why did you imply that the odds—?” He broke off, letting his frown warm to a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. You were trying to amp up your price.”

  Typically, Llyn knew, people hated to see their stratagems trotted out into the sunlight. But Gensonne didn't even flinch. A bull-by-the-horns type, with no apologies, no excuses, and no regrets, nicely consistent with Llyn's pre-meeting analysis of the man. “Of course I was,” he said. “I was also seeking more information.” He gestured to the tablet. “We can handle the job. The question is why we should bother.”

  “A good question,” Llyn said. As if he was really going to let a grubby mercenary leader into the Axelrod Corporation's deepest thoughts and plans. “You'll forgive me if I respectfully decline to answer.”

  Gensonne's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Llyn thought the other was preparing to delve back into his bag of ploys and tricks. But then the admiral's face cleared and he shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “You're hiring mercenaries, after all, not fishing for investors.”

  “Exactly,” Llyn said, his estimation of the man rising another notch. Gensonne knew how to play the game, but he also knew when to stop. “So. Are the Volsung Mercenaries the ones for this job, or do I look elsewhere?”

  Gensonne gave a little snort and an equally small smile. “The Volsung Mercenaries are very much the ones for the job, Mr. Llyn,” he said. “Have a seat, and let's talk money.”

  I

  “Mr. Long?” The gruff voice echoed down the passageway of HMS Phoenix. “Sir?”

  Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Travis Uriah Long came to a reluctant halt, taking the calming breath he'd taught himself to do at times like this.
Senior Chief Fire Control Tech Lorelei Osterman was a major pain in the butt, on a ship much of whose officer corps and enlisted personnel seemed to take a special pleasure in competing for honors in that position. “Yes, Senior Chief?” he replied, catching one of the corridor handholds and bringing himself to a floating stop.

  Osterman was about twenty meters away, moving from handhold to handhold toward him, deftly avoiding collisions with the other crew members also moving through the narrow space. Phoenix had its share of first-tour crewmembers bumbling awkwardly in the zero-gee, but long-time veterans like Osterman made it look quick and efficient.

  At the moment, though, Osterman didn't seem to be putting much effort into the quick part of that solution. In fact, now that Travis had stopped she seemed to be taking her time about closing the rest of the gap between them. Travis waited, cultivating his patience and resisting the urge to order her to snap it up. He'd been on the other side of the line once, and remembered all too well what it was like to have officers barking at you.

  Finally, after a few seconds and in her own sweet time, Osterman reached him. “I just wanted you to know, Sir,” she said in a voice that skated the same not-quite-insubordinate line, “that Captain Castillo wants to see you.”

  Travis frowned, glancing at his uni-link to make sure it was active. It was. “I haven't heard any such orders.”

  “That's because he doesn't know it yet, Sir,” she said calmly. “But I guarantee he's going to.”

  So even Osterman's department had heard. “Ensign Locatelli brought it on himself,” Travis said firmly.

  Or tried to say it firmly. Even in his own ears the edge of defensiveness was painfully obvious.

  Apparently, it was obvious to Osterman, too. “It was one of three separate tracking sensors,” she reminded him. “The next shift's diagnostic run would have spotted it in a minute.”

  “That diagnostic run was two hours away,” Travis countered. “What would have happened if you'd had to fire one of your autocannon sometime during those two hours?”

  Osterman raised her eyebrows. “At . . . ?”

  “At whatever Captain Castillo decided needed shooting.”

  Osterman's expression was worse than any raised eyebrows could have been. And, to be honest, Travis couldn't blame her.

  Because, really, there wasn't anything out there for Phoenix to shoot at. There were no invaders, no enemies—foreign or domestic—and the last boogieman who'd shown himself around these parts had vanished into the stardust nearly a century ago.

  But that was beside the point. Men and women who wore the uniform of the Royal Manticoran Navy were supposed to care about their jobs, damn it.

  Osterman might have been reading his mind. “And you think you're the only one who's getting it right, Sir?” she asked politely.

  “No, of course not,” Travis muttered. “But . . .”

  He was saved by the twittering of his uni-link. He keyed it and raised it to his lips. “Long,” he said briskly.

  “Bajek,” Travis's immediate superior's voice came. “Report to the captain's day cabin immediately.”

  Travis swallowed. “Aye, aye, Ma'am.”

  “Commander Bajek?” Osterman asked knowingly as he keyed off.

  “Yes,” Travis said sourly. Was the smug chief always right? “Carry on.” Turning in the zero-gee, he gave his handhold a tug and once again launched himself down the corridor.

  “Learn to play the game, Lieutenant,” Osterman called quietly after him.

  Travis glowered. Play the game. It was the same advice everyone else in the universe seemed ready and eager to give him. Learn to play the game. Never mind whether the game was good or bad or clean or rigged. Learn to play the game.

  Like hell he would.

  The lift ride through Phoenix's spin section, as usual, was more than a little unpleasant, the rapid shift in effective gravity triggering Travis's abnormally sensitive inner ear. He kept his eyes straight ahead during the trip, thinking evil thoughts about whichever law of physics allowed stress bands that could create and mold huge gravitational fields, and compensators that could zero-out more than two hundred gees, but were only just now figuring out how to get a measly one gee pointed toward a warship's decks. Having a half-gee rotating section to live in was better than having to eat and sleep in weightlessness, but floating around the main duty stations like air-breathing fish was a royal pain in the butt.

  Lieutenant Commander Bajek, the ship's weapons officer, was waiting in Captain Castillo's office when Travis arrived. “Come in, Lieutenant,” Castillo said, his voice and expression stiffly formal. “I understand you want to write up Ensign Locatelli.”

  Travis was opening his mouth to answer when the phrasing of the comment suddenly struck him. No, he didn't want to write up Locatelli. He'd already done so.

  Or so he'd thought. “Yes, Sir, I do,” he said carefully. “Is there a problem?”

  For a tense second he thought the question had put him over the line. Castillo's expression didn't change, but Bajek shifted her weight slightly in what was, for her, an unusually demonstrative show of discomfort.

  “You're aware, I presume, that Ensign Locatelli's uncle is Admiral Carlton Locatelli,” Castillo said. It wasn't a question.

  “Yes, Sir, I am,” Travis replied. For a brief moment he considered asking what Locatelli's genetic makeup had to do with following procedure, but decided he was in deep enough already. Besides, he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

  He was right. “Admiral Locatelli and his family have had a long and distinguished history of service with the Royal Manticoran Navy,” Castillo said, in a way that reminded Travis of someone reading from a script file. “His nephew is this generation's representative to that line. The admiral is anxious that he achieve something of the same honor and distinction as his forebears.” Castillo raised his eyebrows, in exactly the same expression Travis had gotten from Osterman a few minutes earlier. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

  Travis took a deep breath. Unfortunately, neither he nor anyone else in the RMN needed it spelled out for them. “No, Sir,” he said.

  “There's a strong and growing movement in Parliament to gut the RMN even more than it already is,” Castillo said. Apparently, despite Travis's assurances, the captain was in the mood for a spelling lesson. “Men like Admiral Locatelli and their families and allies are the ones standing up for our jobs. Standing up for your job, Lieutenant.”

  Which would mean a double handful of nothing, Travis thought blackly, if the cost of that protection was staffing the RMN with political animals who either couldn't or wouldn't do those jobs.

  But that, too, was part of the spelling lesson. “Understood, Sir,” he said.

  “Good,” Castillo said. “You have a promising career, Mr. Long. I'd hate to have it cut short for nothing.” He pursed his lips briefly. “And bear in mind that there are other ways of dealing with incompetence and neglect, ways that don't involve the recipient's permanent record. You'd be well advised to learn them.”

  “Yes, Sir.” In fact, Travis did know those other methods.

  Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn't.

  “Good.” Castillo looked up at Bajek. “Is he still on duty?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Bajek said, never taking her eyes off Travis.

  Castillo nodded and looked back at Travis. “Return to your station, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

  The rest of the shift was tense, but not as bad as Travis had feared it would be. None of the men and women in his division said anything, though he did catch the edge of a couple of whispered conversations. Locatelli himself had the grace not to smirk. Never ascribe to malice what can be explained by stupidity, someone had once told Travis, and it was just barely possible that Locatelli wasn't so much arrogantly indifferent as he was a really slow learner.

  Travis hoped it was the latter. Slow learning could be corrected with time and patience. Arrogance usually required something on the order o
f an exhibition bullwhip.

  Still, by the time he started his final check of the systems under his watch, he was feeling more optimistic than he'd been earlier in the day.

  Or at least he was until he discovered that the primary tracking sensor for the Number Two forward autocannon was once again miscalibrated.

  Maybe, he thought as he headed wearily back to his quarters, it was time to go hunt up that bullwhip.

  * * *

  “Freighter Hosney, you are cleared to leave orbit,” the voice of Manticore Space Control came over the bridge com. It was an interesting voice, Tash McConnovitch thought, holding shades of both excitement and regret beneath the official tone. Excitement, because in a system where visitors typically dropped by less than twice per T-month a Solly freighter was a welcome break from the drab routine of the controller's job. Regret, because with Hosney's departure the boredom would be settling in again.

  Patience, McConnovitch thought darkly in the controller's direction. You'll be begging for boredom and routine before we're done with you.

  Or possibly not. The last data file Llyn had received from Axelrod's spies had put Manticore's fleet at somewhere around ten warships, with at most a single battlecruiser poised and ready to face combat.

  But that data had been old. Dangerously old, as it turned out. For reasons McConnovitch had yet to pin down, King Edward had launched into an ambitious program of pulling RMN ships out of mothballs and pushing the boot camps and Academy to churn out enough warm bodies to put aboard them.

  Still, Edward's revitalization was a work in progress. While the RMN might look fairly impressive on paper, none of the newly refurbished ships were even close to running at full strength. They should still be no problem for the Volsung Mercenaries.