Showdown

## The old man sat on the stone bench watching as the orange sun dipped below the horizon of the ocean. A few floaters sailed above him, their algal tendrils hanging down into the foaming water to catch a meal from the various microbial mats that littered the surface. He paid them little heed, lost in memories of his distant childhood.

“Grandpa Svan!” a voice called from behind him. It was his granddaughter, Isa, six years old and full of vigor he could barely remember. “Papa says it is getting late, and the Perkies have been seen over at Krizan’s Farm. He wants you inside.”

Old Svan sighed. For generations his family had raised sheep on this island, selling enough to the infrequent traders to buy a few necessities and the odd luxury item. The colonists of Zebrathan 8 were a hardy people, used to the hardships of a world so distant from the bustling center of the Imperium. Their life may have seemed simple, even primitive, but they were content in their own handiwork and their fellowship.

Or they will, until the Perkies, that is the Macropedia/PerkentovCovenent came along. These authoritarian cultists had apparently bought Zebrathan 8 from an Imperium government so impoverished and so unconcerned for the welfare of its citizens that it thought nothing of selling their planet. Still, Zebrathan 8 was a big planet, and sparsely enough settled even after hundreds of standard years, that it could fit these cultists well enough.

At first it had been like that. The Perkies had stayed away from the original settlements and had largely honored the bounds of the old Family territories. There had even been some trade, though the Perkies apparently thought that even the austere lifestyle of the Families was too overtly wealthy and conceited.

Then larger numbers had come. Old Svan had heard from his brother-in-law, Herks, that huge shuttles had started transporting thousands at a time from large colonial ships. Port Kalga, the only major city on Zabrathan 8 had been transformed overnight from a bawdy, bustling town into a puritanical temple to the Perkies’ bizarre beliefs. The Families had never been overly friendly with the folks in Port Kalga, but still, they were neighbors and a necessary part of the world’s economic system.

The real trouble began when the radio broadcast satellites which kept the Families in contact with each other and spread news around suddenly switched over to what sounded like religious broadcasts. The Perkies didn’t want the Families cluttering the airwaves with wicked and idle chatter. It was the first real assault, and it only got worse.

There must have been millions of Perkies now, and they had started moving on to Family territories. Stories of farmers waking up to find a thousand squatters on their fields, and then being told that they had days or even hours to vacate began to come in from all directions. Open conflict had followed soon after, but the Families had no real chance. They simply did not have the numbers to take on these Perkie invaders. Some Families fled, others were forced to work the fields that they had owned for centuries, but now as little more than indentured laborers. Their children were taken and taught cultist mumbo jumbo, and encouraged to condemn members of their Families.

Now the island, beautiful Oka Island, home to the Oka and Murdez Families since the days of the first Emperors, was the target of invasion. Its numbers had swelled to nearly a hundred thousand as refugees from the mainland, but still the Perkies pushed on. Their new leaders, fresh from whatever nasty holes they had fled from in the Imperium, had only one desire, to put an end to the Families once and for all. If they were attacking Yakob Krizan’s farm, it might be a matter of days before they arrived here.

“I’m coming, little one.” Old Svan said, rising slowly. Isa clapped her hands and ran back to the house, built after the nasty fire twenty years ago. It was a fine structure that he and his sons had spent many hard but rewarding weeks on. It angered Old Svan to the core to think of some nasty Perkie getting his filthy hands on it.

The inside of the house was cheery, with electric lights powered by a fusion generator that Young Svan had bought five years ago, before the trouble had began. Before that they had relied upon an old water turbine that had been getting crankier by the year. The mood inside, however, was glum.

Young Svan, as tall as his father, but with the rounded face of his mother, dead of a microbial fever five years ago. Young Svan’s wife, Allea, a distaff relation from the other side of Oka Island, was putting away the last of the dinner dishes.

“Father, I thought I told you not to go wandering out to the cliffs.” Young Svan said. “There could be Perkies out on the beach, and they might decide to dispense with an old man.”

Old Svan sat down, groaning as his stiff knees objected strongly. “Pah!” he replied. “They’re still on the other side of the island, if young Isa’s news is good. They’re no damn good with boats, and won’t chance the ones they’ve captured on the rocks. They’ll do it overland.”

“We can’t be sure.” Young Svan said, clearly irritated that his father seemed so cavalier about what meant, one way or the other, the end of life as they knew it. “I just don’t want any prying eyes this way.”

Old Svan looked long and hard at his eldest son. A good man, decent, hardworking, but a little high strung, and none too bright. If there was any way out of this, patience and brains were what was needed.

“If they’ve invaded the island,” Old Svan said finally, “then what has our esteemed Family decided to do about it. Has our Family Council made any decision?”

The younger Svan shook his head. “All I’ve heard is that they’ve dispatched someone to try to talk to the Perkies.”

“Perkies say one thing and do another.” Allea sneered. “What good has it done in the past?”

Young Svan suddenly jumped up and grabbed his wife’s arm. “Gods damn you, Allea! Fighting won’t do, so what do you want? Tend to your plates, woman.”

Little Isa began to cry, seeing her father in such a state. “Be useful, father!” Young Svan shouted. “Take the girl to bed.”

Old Svan shook his head. “She’s right, son. How many Families have been pushed out or worse even after guarantees from some Perkie high preacher type. And you say fighting won’t do? Well, son, we’ve got thousands of refugees here, and forty miles of foggy, miserable sodding sea between us and the mainland. They’ve got our backs against a corner, so I say if we’re going to go down, let’s take some of them miserable bastards with us.”

Young Svan sat down and put his head between his hands, despair wracking his entire body. Allea, however, looked upon her father-in-law grimly, but with eyes bright with admiration. Old Svan stood up too quickly, suppressed a moan, grabbed a walking stick and a rifle from the door.

“I’m going to kick up some feathers.” Old Svan said. “You get over yourself, son, and be ready for the call.”

## Olphaez Indrad despised the planet. He had heard all the justifications for purchasing it; it’s remoteness, the natural resources of the star system, the small and largely rural population. All of them had seemed good on paper, and in comfortable boardrooms, but here, on a world whose highest form of indigenous life was an airbourne mat of algae, the very idea seemed ludicrous. Still, he was a dutiful Perkentov Covenanter, and he had been rewarded with the position of Chief Inspector of Orthodoxy for Qadrun Province.

As he stared down on the small settlement of Fort Kuber, just a few years ago a plantation for some brutish local Family, he tried to convince himself that someday, within his lifetime, he might be able to find the life that he had left behind. These were unorthodox thoughts for Chief Inspector of Orthodoxy, but he couldn’t restrain his mind from tending in that direction.

A knock on the door gave him the needed distraction. Turning back to his well-organized desk, he said “Come in!” in a loud, commanding voice.

His secretary, a plain-looking, middle aged woman named Shanna, walked in. “General Sherov is here to see you, Chief Inspector.”

“Show the General in.” Indrad said. This must be bad news, he thought to himself. The General never came in person unless things were going ill. Worst of all, it was he who would bear the brunt when the Authorities learned of it.

General Sherov was a short, ogrish man with a pock-scarred face and thin, worm-like lips. He had apparently served time in some arm of the Imperium’s armed forces, and had been chosen as military commander for Qadrun Province some months ago. Indrad found the man revolting, but admitted that he had scored many successes against the locals.

“Please sit down, General.” Indrad said courteously. “Would you care for some tea?”

“No thank you, Chief Inspector.” the General said, and sat down. Indrad immediately recognized the signs of exhaustion; sunken eyes, leaning to one side and a slight sigh.

“What can I do for you, General?” Indrad asked, retaining his polite composure, though he desparately wanted the man to spit out what was on his mind.

The General sat up straight and did an admirable job of putting aside his obvious weariness. “Things have gone somewhat ill for us, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector. Specifically Oka Island.”

Indrad searched his memory, trying to even remember the barbaric place. Ah yes, he had done a flyover some months ago. An island of volcanic origin, some excellent farmland, but some forty miles off the coast. Indrad had signed off on a report to the Authorities from the General’s staff that it might be a hard place to crack, particularly if neighboring clans on the mainland fled there to bolster its numbers. The Authorities had felt it an unlikely problem, and had declined the General’s recommendation that the limited airpower be diverted from other regions to soften things up.

“The Authorities should have listened to me.” the General growled. “Now we estimate there is somewhere between fifty and seventy five thousand people on that island.”

Indrad cleared his throat. “General, you will think very carefully before casting dispersions upon the Authorities. You are a loyal follower, I have no doubt, but re-education is an… uncomfortable experience. Don’t force my hand. Now, how can we fix it?”

The General went to say something, but clearly thought the better of it and sat back. “Well,” he said finally, “if we could get the air support, and possibly some of those sea vessels captured last month at Port Angius, we could blockade the island and try to blast these people into submission.”

Indrad agreed with the General’s request, but knew well enough that the Authorities would be as unwilling now as they were a few months ago to release aircraft for one island. As to the ships, few Covenanters knew how to man them, and those using local sailors forced into service had a reputation for mutiny or scuttling.

“I cannot speak for the Authorities,” Indrad intoned, “only beg of them. If we are to hope for their intercession in this province’s difficulties, we must show that we can make progress. Have you successfully brought a conclusion to the skirmishes with the Jamura Family.”

The General nodded. “Yes, Chief Inspector, we captured their council and executed them to a man. We are securing them in the camps as we speak.”

“Finish the task quickly, General.” Indrad replied. “You already have a beach head on the island, if the reports are accurate, so bolster and push forward. If you do you part, I shall do mine. Is that clear, General?”

The General, sensing that he was being dismissed, stood up and saluted. “Yes, Chief Inspector.”

“Be about it, then, General.” Indrad said, returning the salute with a pious nod.

As the General turned to leave, Indrad added “And do not fail in this, General. Success can turn swiftly to failure, and if the Authorities should come to find me wanting, I shall find you the same.”

The General turned and left swiftly, closing the door behind him. When the General’s footsteps had receded, Indrad slammed his fists on the desk. “Damn it! Damn these barbarians, each and every one!” he roared.

## “What exactly do they expect of us, sir?” Major Sens asked, not even bothering to mask his frustration. “We’re facing a potential hostile geurilla army in the tens of thousands, and we’re going to get a single bomber in a week?”

Sherov shrugged. What could he say. He had pleaded with the Inspector General, and had received nothing but a poorly-veiled threat for his trouble.

“That talk is in defiance of spiritual health, Major.” the Orthodoxy Officer, Raela Amens, said. She was a shapely woman; young, tall, full chested and with a voice like liquid honey. It made hating her a little harder, but the senior officers had learned to never the less.

“It’s our damned physical health that concerns me.” Sens shot back.

The Orthodoxy Officer looked ready to wield one of her nastier powers, and Sherov needed Sens too much to have him sent back for some re-education program. “Sens, that’s enough. We are a proper outfit, and have been given a test to prove our fidelity.”

The words stuck in Sherov’s mouth. His association with the PerkentovCovenent was one of necessity. He was a wanted man in the Imperium, charged and convicted in absentia for mutiny and insubordination. The Authorities saw his value, and in return for breaking him out of the prison he was destined to spend a lifetime, they had demanded his services in conquering Zabrathan 8.

Until recently he had thought the deal a good one. He had little doubt that if he backed out of it, he’d be delivered to that worthless Imperial Agent, Lord Oshan Wishtar, who still held his meaningless title because of his talent for ignoring what the Covenenters were doing to the native populace. Wishtar was doubtless being paid a heavy bribe to pretend that Sherov wasn’t here, because delivery of an escaped criminal would make him a popular man back on the Imperial capital, Corrigan.

“Thank you, General.” Amens said piously. “I shall overlook the Major’s outburst, but he best be warned that the Authorities take a dim view of hurtful speech. Now what of the locals. Have either of you a plan to keep them at bay.”

Sherov sighed. “I am going to head to this so-called Black Mountain, and try to get a good feel for this region of the island.”

Amens looked crossly at the General. “That is an unnecessary risk, General. We have satellite imagery and scouts. No need to expose yourself.”

“Irregardless, Officer Amens,” Sherov said firmly, “I feel that I need to feel this land first hand. These are a clever and desperate people, and they now have many that have fought my troops first hand on the mainland. Until we get our bomber, our only choice is to hold positions, and that being the case, I’ll take the opportunity.”

“I could order you to stay here.” Amens replied, her soft voice suddenly taking on some quality of the viper.

It was Sherov’s turn to lose his patience. “Will you?” he asked coldly, his hand moving instinctively to his pistol holster. Sens too suddenly shifted, preparing for his senior officer’s any action.

“No.” Amens replied, sensing that she might be crossing a line. “No, I don’t think I shall. But it will go into my report, General Sherov. It’s little wonder that the Major shows such deviations.”

Sherov relaxed. “Very well then. I will leave Sens here. I will take some of my best men with me, and I will be gone no more than two hours. Later you and I can discuss your report.” It was a meaningless threat, but it shut Amens mouth long enough for him to put on his helmet and leave the tent.