But he was glad. Glad to be leaving the ease of this secure world. He had grown soft, lazy. It was time for him to get back into harness. His father, as much as he hated to admit it, was right

Drilling without killing didn't do the job. In combat with men who were armored and weaponed as he was, Ardan was in his element, his adrenals charged to their fullest extent, his mind racing like a computer, commanding his huge brute of a mechanism to do impossible things...three at a time.

In the distance, from the shadowy bulk of a house beside the stream, there came the cry of a child.

Ardan stopped. He stared down into the star-speckled water. Ripples made the points of light dance across the stream before breaking among the reeds at the edges.

There was another side to battle, one he had not admitted to himself before that terrible day that hung in his memory like a ghost or a demon. He shook himself, however, and hurried on, knowing he must force his mind to remain focused on the necessary aspects of war.

Not just one child would suffer if the Liao forces took over the worlds of the Federated Suns. All the children of all the people would starve, would be enslaved from the cradle upward. He knew the policies of Maximilian Liao as well as anyone.

The wily Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation had only one purpose for people—to use them. If they did not serve his needs, he discarded them like so many lifeless pawns in a game. And by that time, many were, indeed, without life.

For a moment, Ardan was intensely grateful that he had not given his mother the grandchild she craved. He felt a momentary pang, thinking of Felsa's expected infant What would come to it, in its lifetime, if the advance of Liao were not stopped now?

Of course, he knew that it would not be totally stopped. No more than had Hanse's depredations into Capellan space. There seemed no end to the back-and-forth exercise.

Politics. It all boiled down to politics, the control of men and machines by other men and machines. He hated the word now, was growing to hate it more every day of his life.

He sometimes felt as if his brain would foam up like the batter for the bread his mother had the cook make so often, running over the edges of his skull, rising and expanding and exploding. But he shook himself again.

What was the matter with him?

The cry of the child came after him through the soft, warm night. He saw, behind his eyes, that other child...and began to run up the path toward the barracks.

9

The jumps were as nasty as Ardan recalled them. He was dizzy and disoriented as the DropShip travelled from Jump-Ship to JumpShip, docking onto a fresh vessel without the long wait for recharging necessary for less-favored groups. Though a JumpShip normally needed a week to recharge before it could make its next jump, the Command Circuit used a relay system of ready-charged ships waiting at each jump point between worlds. Because it was so expensive to maintain, the Command Circuit was reserved for only the most high-priority uses.

There was no need to consult with Felsner or Hamman. All possible advance planning had been done. Details checked, rechecked, chewed to rags by the officers and by Hanse. Only the totally unforeseen could disrupt their counteroffensive, he decided.

Their arrival on Dragon's Field was a relief. Here was a busy port where the Davion DropShips would await the final sortie taking their attack force to attempt the reconquest of Stein's Folly.

Disembarking from the DropShip, Ardan was relieved to leave behind the disorientation he experienced from jump. He envied his fellows, few of whom seemed to suffer a similar distress. He steered his way around Techs arguing over the disposition of their own particular charges, Lance members disputing who had lost at the last game of chance, and officers quarreling over who was in charge of what.

It was a staging area like so many others he had seen. As a prelude to battle, he found them almost comical. A detached observer would, he thought, have written music and depicted such a scene as a comic opera. The revival of the old art would suit perfectly this conglomeration of the ridiculous and the serious.

Ardan went into the first mess hall he came to. "I don't jump well," he told the harried cook. "Do you have some soup? Or anything else that might settle my stomach?"

The man sighed, wiped sweat onto his forearm. "I've fed eight thousand men since sun-up, Colonel," he said wearily. "You just cannot believe what it's like. Not one... not...one...single...one...liked the food I gave him. And it's the best the Duke can provide. I've never cooked better. Ungrateful..." his voice trailed off. Ardan noticed that the man's eyes were a bit glazed.

"I guarantee that if you have anything at all that is rather bland and smooth and won't upset a queasy stomach, I will appreciate it heartily and thank you from my soul," he said.

The cook sighed and turned to a huge boiler. "This should do it. Soup's always good for such problems. Here ..." He dolloped a ladleful into a thick bowl. Turning to set it on the counter beside Ardan, he scooped up a handful of crisp strips of bread. "There. Hope it helps."

Ardan smiled his thanks and took the bowl to a table in the corner, where he sat with his back to the wall. Somehow, before a battle, that was most comfortable for him. As he ate, slowly and with care, he felt his knotted insides relax.

He knew very soon why the newcomers had disliked their food. Both the soup and the bread were flavored with a rather strong, unfamilar spice. It took some getting used to, but he found himself liking the taste. Probably a condiment rare and wonderful to the people of Dragon's Field, which they hoped would help make the planetfall pleasant for the warriors about to go into battle.

"Very fine soup!" he called to the cook. The man smiled, looking surprised.

"What is the seasoning? I find it interesting."

"Shad-seed. Our best I'm happy you like it." He turned to serve three more men who had arrived as they spoke.

Ardan soaked his bread strips in the last of the soup and spooned them into his mouth slowly. He would make it now. When they took off for Stein's Folly, he would be too charged-up to worry about his stomach. When he was in battle-mode, nothing physical, other than something life-threatening, could make itself felt

"Mind if we join you?" He looked up to see Felsner and Hamman standing with laden trays beside his table.

"Please do. Here, let me move over." Ardan scooted himself and his empty bowl around a bit farther, letting the other two also sit with their backs to the walls. He knew they would want to.

"It looks fairly good at this point," Hamman said, setting an electronic notepad on the table and swinging one leg after the other across the narrow bench. "What do you think?"

Ardan frowned. "I can't see anything wrong. But something keeps bothering me about it all."

Ran Felsner grinned. "Your stomach always bothers you after a jump."

"True enough, but now that I have that under control" —he gestured at the bowl—"something stillworries me."

Hamman and Felsner exchanged glances. "Well... what?" Hamman asked.

Ardan studied the backs of his hands for a long moment before speaking. "Look...just how flexible is our battle plan?" His eyes locked with Felsner's. "I mean, how easily could we change the plan, even now?"

"Just what did you have in mind?" Hamman asked. "I mean, it's a bit late in the day for..."

Ardan reached across the table and took Hamman's E-pad. He touched keys, clearing a berthing manifest from the screen and bringing up the sketch function. Hamman plucked a stylus from a sleeve pocket and handed it to Ardan without a word. Ardan sketched rapidly across the surface of the pad's screen, leaving a tracery of green lines on black.