"I thought in past years," said Wilding, enunciating perfectly and locking his glare with that of the Callahan, "that Wyoming Keep's apparent lack of direction was because I heard council decisions filtered through my father's perceptions." He sniffed. "Or lack of perceptions. But I now realize that he was perfectly accurate. If this is an example of the policy of the Twelve Families, then the policy of the Twelve Families is bankrupt. Manipulating the common people to accept wretched conditions is pointless when we could be improving those conditions."
"You know, boy . . . ," the Callahan snarled.
All eyes in the council chamber were on Wilding. Some expressions were hot, some cold; all were full of hatred.
" . . . when I was informed that you would be representing your family, I was pleased." The Callahan nodded around the table. "Yes, pleased. Because I foolishly thought that you might be turning over a new leaf. I see now that I was wrong. You're simply a destructive dilettante, looking for something new to smash."
"You should let your father come in the future," said the Penrose. "After all, all the Wilding did was drool—and that was easy enough for the servants to clean up after the meetings."
Wilding stood. His whole body was trembling. He could not have spoken, even if he could think of something to say.
"You know, Prince Hal," said the Galbraith, "if you're so concerned about injustice to the common people, you should give up your perquisites and join them. Once you acclimate, I suspect you'll find the mob's round of drink, drugs, and sex much the same as that of your own circle."
Wilding began walking toward the door. He could not see for the red blur blindfolding him, but he heard the groan of the armored panel start to open.
On the threshold, with his back to the council, Wilding paused to shake imaginary dust from the tails of his frock coat.
4
May 17, 382 AS. 1117 hours.
From the deck Brainard looked at the wall of jungle beyond the tide-swept marsh. Vines, branches, and flowers like bright sucking mouths entwined in twisted agony.
There was movement. A stand of slender, black-trunked trees quivered back instead of leaning toward the humans over the salt-resistant reeds.
"What's happening with them?" said Wheelwright. "The trees."
That was the question that Brainard was afraid to ask. Brainard didn't know anything about the situation—except that he was terrified of having to think beyond the immediate next step.
"Morning stars," said OT Wilding coolly. "Plants can't normally move as fast as animals, even here, but these store energy by drawing back their stems like springs. When we come within fifty feet, they'll snap forward and grab us with the spikes in their branches."
"The edge of the jungle is worse than anything we'll find inside it," Brainard said. "It's like a warship's armor. Once we penetrate the shell, we'll be all right."
To build and maintain their bases, the Herd and other Free Companies fought a constant war against nature. There had been lectures on surface life forms during training, but Brainard had pretty much dozed through them.
Active duty hadn't given him any practical experience either. Large vessels, dreadnoughts and cruisers, provided the perimeter guards who battled the jungle's attempts to retake Base Hafner.
The line Brainard parroted was the only thing he remembered from the lectures. The words sounded empty.
Leaf frowned in puzzlement. A scar trailed up the little motorman's left cheek and into his hair where it continued as a streak of white. "How can we get through that, sir? We got two cutting bars and our knives."
He wasn't arguing. He just wanted an explanation of a plan that his mind couldn't make practicable.
"We can burn it," said Caffey unexpectedly.
"Go on, Fish," Brainard said. His face was expressionless; his mind was empty of useful ideas.
"It takes a fuze to make barakite explode," the torpedoman said. "If you just light a wad of it, it burns like the fires of Hell. And we've got a ton of the stuff we can take outa them two." He thumbed in the direction of the crumpled torpedoes.
Brainard nodded. "Right," he said. "Caffey and Wheelwright, begin removing the warheads. Newton—no, I'll guard you myself. Wilding—"
"Sir, we can't carry much, just the two of us," Wheelwright blurted.
"Boz and me'll lift a deck panel," Leaf volunteered. His boot tapped the ribbed sheets of radar-absorbant plastic which covered the hovercraft's upper surfaces. "We'll bend the end up and make a skid. You can dump the stuff on that."
"Wait," Brainard said. He thought for a moment. Barakite explosive was a white, doughy substance, as seemingly harmless as so much taffy. He'd seen what happened to a warship when a barakite torpedo exploded in her belly, though. . . .