“In every sense, Marshal Moro,” Fortin replied.
“Our military equals, then?” Tadley said.
“Quite the contrary,” said Fortin, reveling in the glow of interest replacing caution in the eyes of those watching him. “Your opposites in the arts of war. Your perfect balance.”
A gust of wind traced across the lava flats, curling fiercely enough to make the vehicle tremble. Wisps of air with a sulphurous tang crept through the vehicle’s climate control.
“So . . . ,” said Moro, his fingers still, then dancing again. “So. . . .”
“If such a target existed,” said Fortin, “how would you go about attacking it?” He smiled again.
“A number of the possibilities which occur to me now . . . ,” said Kerchuk. His voice was rich and cultured in contrast to his scarred, brutal face; he had only one arm.
“. . . would involve support for the operation from outside Ruby,” he continued. “Are we to postulate that, sir? And if so, what are the param—”
“Under no circumstances are you to postulate outside assistance, Marshal Kerchuk,” Fortin said sharply. “This operation is to be planned for execution by resources available within Ruby alone.”
“On the face of it,” said Moro as he stared at his display rather than the visitor, “an impossible task. The operational unit’s first requirement, of course, would seem to be exiting from Ruby—from the universe.”
“And even if that problem could be solved—” said Stein.
“It can be solved,” interjected Tadley. “A way can be found.”
Stein looked at her. “Your confidence does credit to your optimism, Marshal,” he said caustically. He raised his eyes to Fortin again. “Even were that problem solved, if we and this postulated target are truly in balance—”
“Then it will flee through general spacetime at precisely the rate at which our operational unit pursues,” said Kerchuk with a broken-toothed grin. “An interesting problem indeed.”
“There’s also the difficulty of locating the target,” Stein mused aloud.
“No difficulty at all,” Tadley snapped decisively. “If they’re really our—other selves, shall we say—then locating us locates them as well.”
Even Stein and Moro nodded agreement with that.
“If I may ask, Inspector General . . . ,” said Marshal Czerny in a voice like stones rubbing. “What is the purpose of this proposed attack?”
Fortin hesitated a moment. “The total destruction of the objective,” he said crisply.
“Yes,” said Czerny, licking his lips. “I supposed it might be that.”
“This will take study,” Tadley said. “We’ll refer it to Contingency Planning and see what they come up with.”
“I think,” said Marshal Czerny, “that the matter will go directly to the Battle Center rather than Contingency. Although we will treat it as contingent unless and until we receive an execution order.”
He raised an eyebrow toward Fortin.
Fortin smiled again. “Yes, that will do quite well,” he said. “I’ll return to see what you have determined.”
He paused. “It’s necessary to identify all potential threats in order to defend against them, of course,” he added.
“Of course,” murmured the voices around the display.
All of them were grinning like sharks. All six of them.
Chapter Nine
“Welcome to Peace Rock,” said Malcolm, the powerfully built warrior who’d worn the red-blue-silver armor as he’d watched over Hansen’s duel with the late Zieborn. Malcolm had a café au lait complexion and a rich baritone voice that was musical even in its sarcasm.
A mammoth raised its trunk and hooted loudly as it walked through the gate in the outer `defenses,’ merely a wooden palisade. But then, stone and reinforced concrete would be no better protection against the warriors’ arc weapons.
“It was Blood Rock under Golsingh’s old man,” said Shill, who seemed to be one of Malcolm’s hangers-on; a crabbed, older warrior one short step up from Villiers, whose corpse and armor had been abandoned on the field. “Golsingh changed it, because he’s gonna bring peace to the whole kingdom. He says.”
“Don’t matter,” said Maharg, a hulking young warrior and also under Malcolm’s vague protection. “There’s plenty work for us while he’s bringin’ peace.”
“This is the capital?” Hansen said. “This is the king’s capital?”
Peace Rock was a village of mud streets and houses whose thatched roofs arched over meter-high drystone foundations. It stank of beasts—mammoths, ponies, and huge bison with polled horns, stabled within stone fences—and of excrement, obviously from the population as well as from their livestock. Women and children, their varied status indicated by the quality of their clothing, greeted the returning army.