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  Now Tubalcain’s CEO, Mona Schroder, was arguing that the money St. Cyr wanted would be better spent diversifying the company’s interests. If they started immediately, while they still had enormous cash reserves and a top credit rating, she was saying, glancing nervously at St. Cyr as she spoke, within five years the company would not have to depend on its mining ventures but could continue to show a comfortable profit margin from a variety of other enterprises, as well as from the low-risk loans they had been making to various entities throughout the Confederation. At that point she nodded at St. Cyr, a sterile and reluctant acknowledgment of his marketing genius; he had engineered most of the loans. He smiled back coldly. It was Schroder’s plan to convert Tubalcain from a mining and industrial giant into an interplanetary banking system, and in that she was supported by most of the other members of the board. She was opposed only by St. Cyr. She thought that at long last she was in a position now to force him out of power, and her heart raced at the thought that in a few moments she would make the announcement. A small rivulet of nervous perspiration trickled down her left side as she anticipated her triumph.

  St. Cyr was calm and confident. Actually, he had spent none of the money in his considerable budget developing synthetic substitutes. The board members did not know that. Schroder suspected St. Cyr had diverted the money to his own business interests but she had no positive proof. In a few moments it would make no difference, because St. Cyr was about to be dismissed. He knew it was coming. He let her rattle on for a few more moments, and then:

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” St. Cyr announced suddenly, cutting the CEO off in mid-sentence, “you have sat long enough.” He kicked the Woo crouching at his side beneath the table. “Briefcase,” he said in a low voice, and the Woo obediently held up to him the briefcase he always carried along to these meetings. St. Cyr snatched the case and slammed it on the table, kicking the Woo again, harder this time, to discourage it from looking for a reward. Smiling wryly, he drew a pistol out of his briefcase and shot the CEO where she stood.

  The blaster was set on low power, and the bolt, instead of hitting Schroder square in the chest, merely vaporized her right breast and shoulder. She shrieked and stumbled away from the conference table, flailing her one good arm helplessly as the horrified board members leaped to get out of her way. She staggered back into the table, leaving gobs of singed flesh on its highly polished surface, then fell to the floor where she writhed helplessly. The room filled with the stench of vaporized flesh. Board members gagged or vomited or screamed in terror while Marston St. Cyr sat quietly in his comfortable chair, casually toying with the blaster.

  The Woo at St. Cyr’s feet cringed even closer to the floor, moaning “Wooooo, wooooo.” It began to glow brightly, as Woos did when experiencing distress or other strong emotion. “Stop it!” St. Cyr kicked the Woo. Its glow faded immediately.

  “Security! Security!” Tubalcain’s VP for Human Resources shouted into his wrist communicator. The man should have been a Woo, St. Cyr had often said, always worrying about the health and welfare of the company employees. He had vigorously, if unsuccessfully, opposed St. Cyr’s enormous budget, arguing that the money would better be spent on what he called “social services.”

  Marston smiled. “Paul, security is in my hands now.” He depressed the firing lever on his weapon and the social services programs at Tubalcain vaporized along with the VP’s head. His body stood upright for a few seconds before collapsing to join the CEO on the floor. St. Cyr regarded his pistol admiringly, as if congratulating himself on the shot. Meanwhile, the board broke into pandemonium. “Gentlemen, I’d hate to flame the rest of you,” Marston shouted over the screaming. “It’s getting a little close in here right now.” Marston coughed politely. The surviving board members huddled in terror at the far end of the conference room.

  A door opened and several men in black uniforms armed with blasters trooped into the room. “Major Stauffer, remove those,” Marston ordered, gesturing at the smoldering corpses.

  “Yes, General,” Major Stauffer replied. He signed to two of his men, who grabbed the corpses by the feet and dragged them outside. “Will there be anything else, General?” the major asked, looking at the remaining executives, the beginning of a smile on his lips.

  “No, Clouse,” St. Cyr said, and then added, “Oh, yes, one thing: have building maintenance scrub the air supply in here, will you?” He turned his attention to the surviving executives. “Sit!” he commanded, and they began to sit, staring apprehensively at St. Cyr’s blaster as they returned to their places.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “briefly, I am in charge of this company now. I am going to destroy Hefestus’s management team and take it over as well. Those of you who wish to join me are welcome. Those who do not may leave.” He paused. Nobody said anything or even moved a finger. “Good! You have decided to go your own separate ways then. You are dismissed. Major Stauffer will see you out immediately.”

  A long moment of silence passed before the first shaken executive arose and stumbled out of the conference room. Then, more quickly, as if they couldn’t wait to be gone, the others followed him. In the hallway outside they were met by St. Cyr’s security guards, escorted to the parking garage and summarily shot. The bodies were incinerated. Teams were dispatched to the executed men’s homes, and their families and servants were murdered. Using lists compiled long before, the teams then spread out to find the friends and business associates of the newly dead, and they, as well as their families and friends, were shot. Before the day was out, the entire management elite of Tubalcain, along with a substantial number of the corporation’s lower-ranking management, were dead. A student of ancient Roman politics, Marston St. Cyr knew he could leave no one alive who might oppose him.

  “Clouse,” St. Cyr said to Major Stauffer after the doomed executives had departed, “I must change now for the embassy reception.” They both laughed. “Is everything ready?”

  “All is ready, General. Your commanders are waiting.”

  St. Cyr absently swatted the Woo crouching at his feet, his briefcase dangling from an appendage. The creature cringed and uttered a mournful sigh. Stauffer had worked for St. Cyr for forty years and was prepared to do whatever his boss demanded, but the way he treated the Woos disturbed him. Once, many years before, when Stauffer had been recovering from injuries sustained during a mining accident, St. Cyr had come to visit him in the hospital. It was the only time his boss had ever done anything so remotely human, and Stauffer had been impressed. Still woozy from painkillers, Stauffer had been bold enough to ask him why he treated the Woos so inhumanely. “Because, my dear Clouse,” St. Cyr had answered, “I can’t treat people that way. Yet.”

  Now, St. Cyr said, “Since all is ready, my dear major, let us proceed. The hors d’oeuvres will be getting cold. Oh, you are now Colonel Stauffer.”

  Marston St. Cyr had not spent Tubalcain’s money on the synthetic gems project or even mining R&D. He had not spent it on himself. He had spent it building armored fighting vehicles.

  Chapter 2

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant said, “it is my decision, after extensive debate and a voice vote of all the members of the Congress present, having obtained a quorum of votes, that we commence military operations immediately against Diamunde and Tubalcain Enterprises.” A chorus of angry shouts and denunciations rose from the floor of the Confederation Congress, but they were countered just as loudly by Madame President’s supporters on the floor. fistfights erupted. “Sergeant at arms! Sergeant at arms!” Madame President Chang-Sturdevant shouted. It was twenty minutes before the delegates could be quieted down and put back into their seats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began again, “I will overlook this disgraceful conduct—”

  “Madame President, Madame President!” The delegate from Cinque Luna rose to his feet. “No more disgraceful than this decision of yours to make war on a member world! I demand—”

  “Madame P
resident!” the delegate from Gimel Ghayn protested. “The honorable gentleman from Cinque Luna forgets that it was our ambassador this monster murdered! We cannot let his crime go unavenged!”

  “Madame!” an opposition member screamed. “If this war goes sour, we’re all finished!”

  There was more shouting, but this time the delegates remained seated. When they had quieted down, President Chang-Sturdevant tried again. “We have discussed this in the Council and on the open floor of this congress. We have discussed this decision endlessly. Each of you has had his turn to speak. The talking is now over. By the authority invested in me under the Confederation Constitution, I hereby declare that a state of war now exists between our member worlds and Diamunde.” She slammed her gavel on the podium, caught her breath, stepped down and out the door behind the platform into the private chamber behind the podium.

  “Jesus God,” she sighed, “I’ve never seen the bastards so riled, Marcus.” Marcus Berentus, the Confederation Minister of War, smiled and handed her a towel, with which she wiped the perspiration from her face.

  “This war will upset a lot of members’ egg baskets, Madame. But you had a quorum. Your decision is legal and binding. We go to war. The other ministers support you one hundred percent in this, and the Combined Chiefs are unanimous that we can defeat St. Cyr quickly and with minimal casualties.”

  Under the Constitution, the President of the Confederation Council was empowered to make certain binding decisions on behalf of the entire Confederation, providing a quorum of votes could be obtained from the Congress. That was because even using hyperspace travel, it could take six months or longer for the delegates to obtain instructions from their home worlds. These decisions were never taken lightly, however, only in cases of the gravest emergency, because if they proved mistaken, impeachment proceedings could be initiated.

  “The war you served in, Marcus, the First Silvasian?” She tossed the towel down a disposal chute, glancing briefly in a mirror and straightening her hair. There were more strands of gray. Madame Chang-Sturdevant had been a beauty in her youth and she still remained a very attractive woman, but there were crow’s-feet under her eyes now, brown spots on her hands, and the beginning of wrinkles around her neck. She couldn’t remember having any of them before she became President of the Council.

  “Yes. I flew a Raptor.” He shrugged. “It was a piece of junk, compared to what the boys fly these days, but still a good atmospheric fighter craft. I was shot up but never down.”

  Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant smiled wryly. She appreciated Marcus’s self-deprecating sense of humor and sage advice. Of all her ministers, he truly understood the human cost of war.

  She stood for a moment before a mirror and straightened her clothes. The small chamber behind the podium was equipped with a full bar and other amenities but she decided against indulging. There was just too much work to be done.

  “During your administration we’ve intervened on Elneal and Wanderjahr, Madame,” Berentus said, “for humanitarian reasons. You overcame the opposition to those operations too. St. Cyr is a threat to all of us because he can project his military force to other worlds in the Confederation. We don’t know how far he’s spread his coils throughout the member worlds with his loans and investments either. He can pull a lot of strings among our delegates. He attacked our embassy, for heaven’s sake, killed our people. And besides that, he’s a goddamned murderer! Those worthless bastards!”

  “Don’t talk about our—” She hesitated slightly. “—Congress-persons that way, Marcus,” she murmured, leaning over and kissing her Minister of War affectionately on the cheek. “But you know, Marcus, what that delegate shouted from the floor? If this war goes sour, we’re all finished. It’s happened before.”

  “I know, Madame, I know. But in the navy we used to have an expression for such things: Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke. Besides, I’m ready for retirement. There’s only one thing—”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “Marcus, you old gunfighter, I don’t give a damn about this job, or all the trappings of this office either. There are plenty of people out there who’d willingly take over my responsibilities, and most of them would do a better job than I ever could.” She waved her minister’s protest to silence with a hand. “But that ‘one thing’ that bothers you bothers me too. I don’t want to sacrifice the lives of our fighting men needlessly.” She shivered involuntarily. Madame Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant had a son and a daughter serving as ratings in the fleet. “Marcus, let’s hope and pray the brass hats have it right this time.”

  Admiral Horatio “Seabreeze” Perry, Chairman of the Confederation Combined Chiefs of Staff, thought he had it right, as he always thought he had it right every time in his career since he’d been an ensign. The briefing he’d arranged for Madame Chang-Sturdevant the week before had gone off superbly, except for one annoying little detail.

  “Madame President,” Admiral Perry began, “allow me to introduce General Markham Benteen, commander of the Hefestus Conglomerate’s armed forces.”

  A white-faced man in battle-dress uniform stood and bowed politely. President Chang-Sturdevant couldn’t help noticing that the general’s hand shook ever so slightly as he sat down and placed it back on the conference table. He looked exhausted; “defeated” was the word that came to her unbidden. She realized suddenly that the admiral had spoken of his command in the present tense, obviously a professional courtesy, because everyone knew his forces on Diamunde had been wiped out and he was now a political refugee, along with the few surviving members of Hefestus’s management staff.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  In terse, clipped sentences the general told her how St. Cyr’s forces had attacked his with a ferocity thus far unmatched in the many wars Diamunde had suffered as her corporate rulers vied for supremacy. Most of the Hefestus corporate management were killed in St. Cyr’s attack on the embassy, but Benteen and his staff had managed to survive. By the time they could rally armed resistance it was already too late; St. Cyr’s aircraft had demolished Benteen’s air force on the ground, knocked out his headquarters complex, and heavily damaged his depots and garrison installations before the rubble at the embassy had even cooled.

  “We could have resisted,” General Benteen concluded, “but it was the tanks that got us.”

  “ ‘Tanks’?” Madame President asked. She thought she hadn’t heard him correctly. She glanced at Berentus and Admiral Perry for confirmation. They nodded.

  “Heavily armored fighting vehicles—” General Benteen said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” General Hanover Eastland, Chief of the Confederation Army Staff interrupted. He was afraid Benteen was on the verge of breaking down. “They have not been used in warfare for hundreds of years. I believe St. Cyr built them in secret, funneling Tubalcain’s R and D money into their construction. He called them ‘tractors,’ and said they were to be used in the company’s mining operations. We’ve prepared a full intelligence briefing for you.”

  “We couldn’t stop them,” Benteen went on as if he had never been interrupted. “They’re monsters. They weigh up to sixty thousand kilos and move as fast as a landcar. Only concentrated plasma bolts are powerful enough to penetrate their armor, but they wouldn’t stand still long enough for our gunners to hit them. Our artillery just bounced off their hulls. When they didn’t blow my men apart with their guns, they just, just....ran over them where they stood—”

  “Ma’am,” Admiral Perry said hastily, cutting General Benteen off again, “I’d now like to introduce Admiral Hank Donovan, our intelligence officer. Admiral.”

  “Madame President, this is our enemy.” An image flashed onto the vidscreen at one end of the conference room. It showed a middle-aged man of indeterminate height with close-cropped brown hair and a prominent nose. His jaw was square, with a marked cleft in the chin. His eyebrows were dark and bushy. He seemed to be staring out of the vidscreen speculatively. There was just the slightest hint of a s
mile on his lips—or perhaps a nervous condition that drew up the muscles on the right side of his mouth. At any rate, it gave him a somewhat sardonic expression. Overall, though, his visage was rather handsome, not the face of a megamaniacal killer.

  “That is Major General Marston Moore St. Cyr,” Admiral Donovan intoned.

  “Excuse me, Admiral, ‘Major General,’ did you say?” Madame Chang-Sturdevant interrupted.

  “Yes, ma’am. Oh, yes, I see. He picked that title because his idol, Oliver Cromwell, achieved early fame as a cavalry commander, and in European armies of Cromwell’s day the major general commanded the cavalry. St. Cyr fancies himself a dashing cavalryman.” Donovan smirked. Madame Chang-Sturdevant had the impression Admiral Donovan might be seriously underrating the man. “To continue. He was born on Diamunde eighty years ago. He has never seen military service. He was offworld, on Carhart’s World, studying engineering at the University of M’Jumba, when the decisive battles took place on Diamunde that left the Hefestus Conglomerate and Tubalcain Enterprises the dominant corporations on the planet. During the many skirmishes and turf battles that have characterized business practice on Diamunde since then, St. Cyr was working his way up through the corporate management team at Tubalcain.”