"God defend the right, only when the right cannot sufficient defence make. Captains of the Lee and Portentous, take your ships down and begin the attack."

Back through his aug he got a wash of approval. General Coban on the Lee sent back:

"We'll take the fast-track launchers out first — that'll give them something to chew on while we bring out our tanks. Then they'll know we've arrived. God defend the faithful."

Aberil winced at Coban's abrupt and cursory, "God defend…" — the man, like so many other officers in the army, did not have a sufficient fear of his superiors to convey the required sincerity of tone. It was something that, after this present situation was dealt with, he would have to look into. Presently, General Coban was too experienced and useful to alienate.

Now turning fully to his chosen staff Aberil addressed them aloud. "We must allow these fighters their head in the coming battle, but in the future they must be brought back into the fold. Too long, I think, they have forged their own path within the confines of Charity."

There was much nodding and grim-faced agreement — he had chosen these people himself, and knew them to be of like mind. He enjoyed their company, and with them knew exactly where he was: on top.

"Now it is time for us to disembark. Our landing will be in the wilderness one hundred kilometres south of Valour, and from there we shall sweep in, our line impenetrable."

"First Commander Dorth, what of those rebels who flee to the caverns?" asked Speelan — a thin and intense individual about whom Aberil sometimes had his doubts also.

"In the end there is always Ragnorak, but Lellan will know about that and therefore not allow her forces to retreat. She'll realize there will be no quarter given, and none expected."

"Should we pursue them down below, if they do flee?" Speelan asked.

"No, we merely seal the entrances and carve RIP on the rocks above."

After the dutiful laughter, Aberil towed himself along the ropes to the exit tube leading from the bridge, his officers and orderlies following close behind. Soon, by the convoluted ways of this mu-class ship, they came to the chaos of the lander bays, where men in white and pale blue uniforms covered in samples of scripture found some relief from cramped landing craft where they were racked as closely in the bays as bullets in a magazine. Many of these men, Aberil noticed, were praying, whilst others found more comfort in checking their weapons and body armour. It irked him that none of them became sufficiently silent and attentive at his approach, and that those who bowed or saluted seemed to do so with nonchalant lack of respect.

The command lander was twice the size of all the others, containing as it did communications equipment, heavy Polity pulse-cannons, as well as the luxury of grav-plates and some civilized space. Aberil was glad to be back aboard and, as he took his seat beside the pilot's — with its screens and logistics displays — he once again felt totally in control. Anyone from outside the Theocracy would immediately have noticed the lack of communications equipment, but then such people would come from a society where wearing an aug was still a matter of choice.

"General Coban, status?"

The General snapped back over the ether, "Two hours and we'll be down. Lellan's forces seem in disarray: some are heading back to Valour, and some are just rolling back out into the wilderness."

Aberil checked his screens and saw that this was true. He turned to his command crew, who were seating themselves at their various consoles.

"What is your assessment?" he asked a fat mole of a man called Torthic, who was the logistics officer of the group.

"Seems like a falling out amongst thieves," the man replied as he checked the data he was receiving. "Either that or the head has been cut off. We know a carrier was destroyed in the initial attack."

Aberil linked into the public address channel of his aug: "All troops return to landers. We begin descent in one half of an hour." Then he sat back and contemplated the coming obliteration of the Underground. He really hoped Lellan was not dead, as he had been so looking forward to meeting her, in the flesh. But if she were dead, there would be plenty of other prisoners to provide instruction and entertainment back on the cylinder worlds.

The sun set upon the land, bringing the grey hour that served to highlight the flashing of weapons used in sporadic conflicts towards every horizon. After changing his location for the fifth time that day — more out of boredom than any need to elude pursuit — Stanton began to bring his stolen aerofan down into thick flute grass, saw something large thundering towards him with what he felt were not the best intentions, and quickly jerked the column up and away to get out of range. A great flat beak clapped shut with a sound like a mat being beaten on concrete. He caught a glimpse of an array of glowing green eyes below a domed head, the muscled column of a body with more limbs than seemed plausible, and a whiff of quite horrible halitosis. Pulling away, he heard something that sounded like someone swearing in a quite obscure language.

"A bloody gabbleduck!" he exclaimed.

"Say again," said Jarvellis over com.

"Gabbleduck just tried to get me. You don't normally see them around here — the noise from the spaceport scares off their prey, so they don't bother coming in."

"Lellan said something about that earlier: seems the fighting is attracting things in from the wilderness and down from the mountains. There's even been a report of a hooder going into one of the compounds and systematically emptying squerm ponds."

"Perhaps humans dying make similar sounds to those of their normal prey."

"Perhaps — or perhaps they've just decided that enough is enough with these damned squabbling humans."

"Be nice to think that," said Stanton. "But we'll probably find it's some frequency of radio emission or the smell of some explosive or incendiary that attracts them in."

"Aren't you the optimist."

"Yeah," said Stanton, bringing the aerofan down into the middle of an area of low vegetation — wide plates of blister moss and grey thistles, rhubarb volvae just opening to expose leaves like tightly screwed-up black paper — which was well away from any stands of concealing flute grass, so he had a clear view of his surroundings. "It's called experience," he added.

As the motor of the aerofan wound down into silence, a deep thrumming vibration became evident. For a moment, Stanton surveyed the fragmented cloud strewn across the darkening sky, before stooping to open his pack. From this he now removed a square flat package that opened like a small briefcase to reveal a flat screen and miniconsole — a touch-console clustered around a single ball control — as well as a small winged egg. The screen he removed and secured against a rail of the aerofan by means of its rear stickpad. The egg he tossed up into the air and watched flutter away like a sparrow. Soon the flying holocam had given him a perfect view of the spaceport and all the activity there.

"You got this, Jarv?"

"Yeah, busy little soldiers, aren't they? Lellan says it's two of their ships coming down — they should be in view within a few minutes. A swarm of craft are coming down from the remaining three, and should be landing about the same time, probably in the south."

"Shame we can't have a surprise ready for them as well," Stanton opined.

"You wouldn't want that actually, knowing now who's coming down with the landers. Be far too quick for him."

"Him?" said Stanton flatly.

"The same."

"Then I guess I'll be joining Lellan when her forces converge."

"And in the meantime what do I do?" she asked.