“Two, and a delivery system.”

“Two’s not much, but we might let them rip each other up for a bit before we have to intervene.”

Niemeyer frowned. “I thought you said you’re going to minimize collateral damage. Letting Emblyn’s people chew on the militia and Bernard’s private corps doesn’t sound like it will stop them from laying waste to Basalt.”

“Oh, the battle will be sloppy, so we’ll just have to get them to fight it in a place where neatness doesn’t count.” I gave him a smile. “In a tourist book on Basalt I ran across a mention of a place that I think would be perfect: Obsidian Island.”

Janella’s eyebrows rose questioningly, but Niemeyer just smiled. “Yeah, that will work perfectly. And, you know what? I think I might just be able to help you even the odds.”

Obsidian Island is one of those weird, storied places that every world has. They are just tailor-made to be haunted, absent hideous murders being carried out inside or battles fought around them. The place’s complete and utter isolation helps, likewise the fact that virtually no one visits and only the bravest of hearts spend the night.

And those who do tell alarming tales of the experience.

Sure, it’s likely ninety-nine percent tourist hype, promoted by a service that for five hundred stones would run you out there and, for three times as much, arrange for a night’s stay. Not the sort of rates or place that would bring any but the most weird from off-world to visit.

Technically speaking, it’s not an island and isn’t made of obsidian. Located south and west of Manville, in the heart of a huge rain forest preserve, Obsidian Island is a barren platform of rock in the heart of a small, black-water lake reputed to be the home of monsters. A small curved causeway connects the island to the shore, though the roadway is overgrown with weeds. The shore is also rocky and provides a dark crescent between the lake and the rain forest. While some hearty plants have tried to colonize the rock, their efforts are several centuries shy of success.

The island itself boasts a huge castle made of basalt and trimmed in obsidian. While styled after Terran medieval fortresses, this one has none of the weathering. The two centuries that have passed since its construction have not been especially kind to it, but those who created it meant for it to withstand anything this side of a nuclear blast. Unlike the knights of yore, however, they were not concerned with keeping people out as much as they intended to keep one man in.

Tacitus Germayne is not much mentioned in the histories of Basalt, and really is little more than a footnote in a grand family’s history. The second son of the ruling count, he just was never quite right. Stories of petty cruelties were hushed up, payments were made, witnesses suppressed. It’s hard to judge what the family was thinking at the time, but realizing that a child of yours has grown into a homicidal sociopath can’t be easy to accept. They denied it and, while they got help for him, when that failed they just hired more and more.

Tacitus had developed an unhealthy affection for Gilles de Rais, a French nobleman and friend of Joan of Arc. De Rais, who had a nearly inexhaustible treasury and enough power that governmental forces were unable to stop him, delved into demonology. He murdered countless boys—peasants by and large, so as to escape notice—and it was not until he defied both the Church and the Crown that societal forces combined to crush him.

Tacitus only notched up five victims before he was caught. He was tried and convicted in two cases of murder and in the other three was judged innocent by reason of mental defect. The net result was that he was to be institutionalized until cured, then his consecutive life sentences for the other murders would go into effect. He would never walk free.

His family, however, still loved him and created for him Obsidian Island. They paid for its construction themselves, then ceded it to the government, where it was registered as both a mental institution for the criminally insane and a penitentiary. It is said that Tacitus took to wearing the same sort of clothes Gilles de Rais did: fabulous robes of scarlet and gold. He would only speak ancient French and would use no commercially produced product. He fled into his psychosis completely and died there at the age of 108 after seventy-five years of incarceration.

Niemeyer did a great job of convincing Bernard’s people that moving Emblyn to Obsidian Island—which technically was still a prison—was just the thing to do. Not only did it isolate him from communications, but his imprisonment there would cast him as the new Tacitus. This would be particularly damning in the court of public opinion, or so Bernard’s people were led to conclude. Niemeyer added that the lack of distractions would make it easier for his people to fend off attackers, provided, of course, they weren’t coming in ’Mechs.

He was told, in no uncertain terms, that would not be a problem.

Bernard immediately deployed a mixed company of Basalt Militia and a light lance of his private security troops to the Obsidian Island area. This was a tactical error, since he knew that FfW commanded a much larger force. To a certain extent, however, it was forced on him, because if he pulled all his resources from Manville, FfW would have a field day tearing the city apart and he’d be left looking like a fool.

Things got coordinated pretty well so that FfW wouldn’t hit too early. Niemeyer announced that, “for his safety,” Aldrington Emblyn would be moved to Obsidian Island very soon. He further avowed that media would be allowed to cover the transfer, but on a pool feed basis. The media fought over who would actually be the pool reporters, and backed things up by positioning themselves all over the area of the jail to catch things. That just turned the jail into a chaotic arena where no commander would want to put troops.

The transfer occurred on the twenty-ninth, which meant Catford and Bernard had two days to plan their attacks and marshal their forces. Niemeyer stationed the best of his troops in the fortress, but aside from mounting some short-range missile launchers on the battlements, they and their Hauberk armor would be toys against what was coming. Janella and I were set to go in the ’Mechs she’d brought—including my new ride, Ghost. I thought it was rather appropriate to be in a ’Mech with that name at that place. When the time came, the Leopard–class DropShip would drop us into the fray.

The reason she’d come to Basalt ready for war was because of some back-checking done against the message sent to recruit Sam. Republic researchers had uncovered a lot of messages going out, and load factors for ships traveling to Basalt spiked when compared to those leaving, both in sheer numbers and pilot demographics. When warriors are coming in and families are going away, trouble is brewing. She actually got my first couple of reports in a bunch when she reached Fletcher, which is why she went to Niemeyer when she arrived.

The only complication to the plan to minimize collateral damage came when Bernard decided that Gavin Prin, the youth who had shot his father, should likewise be sent there. It actually was a smart move on Bernard’s part, because it strengthened the linkage between the young man and Emblyn. Any rescue attempt on Emblyn would seem like one for Prin. Prin actually had no connection to Emblyn. He’d lived in Manville for a while after dropping out of the university. Earlier on the day when he’d shot the Count, he’d been informed that his father had been killed in a riot-suppression action up north, so he struck out while angry. While that story was known at the time, Bernard’s spokespeople spun it into a tale of evil where Emblyn had used the tragedy to twist the young man into a monster.