It was apparent as soon as Blackwell's Hand drew their sword that something was wrong with them. They had always been deadly, one missed parry away from killing Fog Rolled In. Now their reaction speed was slower; they failed to take openings; they seemed... mortal.
It was unnerving. In six years Fog Rolled In had never seen their opponent diminished like this. Still they fought cautiously, studying the Hand of Blackwell, reading the lack of focus and intent in every movement, unable to find a satisfactory explanation for why.
We have the advantage. Why not make use of it?
Fog Rolled In was willing to take the respite if it was offered, but they didn't want to have this fight so close to their drillers. They pressed forward, and Blackwell's Hand fell back easily. One yard across the regolith and toward the ridge, two yards, five.
You fight too aggressively. You wear yourself out and accomplish nothing.
But this wasn't a trick. It wasn't possible that anyone could fake such a lack of interest in preserving their own life. Was it?
They made a more serious attack, and were unsettled when the Hand of Blackwell didn't even parry—instead gravity took hold and tilted the surface of the asteroid forty-five degrees. Fog Rolled In slid, staggered, righted themself and recompensated for the hydrogen jets that kept them on the surface as long as they stayed upright. In their wake dust and small fragments of rock plumed up, hiding their opponent from view.
Blackwell's Hand cared so little for their own life now that the Sword of Blackwell had to interfere.
Fog Rolled In paced around the plume, measuring their breaths. What, then? Blackwell's Hand was vulnerable, not just to physical attacks—which didn't matter—but psychologically. If Fog Rolled In could surprise the Sword of Blackwell and get close enough to touch their opponent, it would be easy to kill them. Or...
With the drillers out of sight on the other side of the ridge, Fog Rolled In fought patiently and without hurry, learning the Hand of Blackwell's new weaknesses. The Sword of Blackwell took more and more of the strain. It pushed Fog Rolled In back whenever they made a genuine attack, and in response Fog Rolled In's sword sang its excitement: shifted the regolith under the Hand of Blackwell's feet, and something else. Yes, it was goading their opponent into fighting more aggressively. Combined with that lack of care for their own safety, it was shockingly easy to skim their swordpoint across the Hand of Blackwell's chest. Abruptly it was as if they were lunging through rock, and Fog Rolled In felt something in their wrist give an unpleasant bubbling snap. The Sword of Blackwell flung its wielder back several yards. Fog Rolled In could faintly see the blood soaking their uniform jacket, making it shine in the weak light of the distant Sun.
The Hand of Blackwell braced their legs and leaned forward. The Sword of Blackwell kept them from closing in again, and finally a faintly annoyed expression appeared on their blank face. Fog Rolled In took a step forward and then lost their footing entirely as the surface of the asteroid became a vertical slope. They came to rest on the side of the ridge, leaning awkwardly to keep their jets on target. It was clear that the Sword of Blackwell had declared the fight over. They made a salute with the Paragon and sheathed it. Soon enough that foreign gravity faded and Fog Rolled In was left to patrol around the drillers, making sure no-one could surprise them.
In Fog Rolled In's ear, Captain Rendition said, "Extraction in five."
"Acknowledge. Coming to you."
Beyond the ridge, Rendition was watching as the last drillers walked toward the cargo ship, sinking their toes into bedrock with every step. "Commander," they said as Fog Rolled In approached. "I trust that all was normal?" Behind their helmet’s visor they looked down at Fog Rolled In’s hand, pressed into their side to keep their wrist straight.
"Yes, Captain," said Fog Rolled In. "We won't have any further trouble from the Hand of Blackwell. I'll be on hull watching for cavalrymen."
"Yes, Sir." The last of the drillers was clamping into its cradle, so Rendition autoreeled in and the hatch began to close. Fog Rolled In leapt onto the ship with a momentary burn of their jetpack, up and then down onto hull—forward, so that the ship's acceleration would keep them more secure. True security, of course, wasn't available in Heaven, but one could get very close if one was careful.
Fog Rolled In checked their fuel—sufficient for now—and made an inspection of their tether gun before clipping it back onto their belt. They turned to look back at the asteroid. From this height they would almost be able to see the Hand of Blackwell limping back to their own hopship, the tiny personal vessel they used when they were looking for mining detachments to destroy. Fog Rolled In had often wondered whether the Hand of Blackwell, too, made for Fog Rolled In when possible, preferring a duel to a massacre.
The cargo ship retracted its clamps and reoriented, normal-antiorbitwise, toward the forward operating base. Fog Rolled In gave the maneuvering jets a wide berth as they walked.
The Paragon's pointed attention was a pressure at their hip. "With Blackwell's Hand incapacitated, we now have new strategies open. Draper's Hand can destroy as many refineries, bases, and carrier ships as we can reach before Blackwell ships out a new Hand. There is a very real chance this could win the war for Draper."
The same would be true had you killed them.
Of course the Paragon had not come to the same conclusions they had. If it was even capable of drawing conclusions, they would be that more destruction was the highest good. "I don't want Draper to win the war. Nor do I have any interest in slaughter. The Hand of Blackwell will be more useful alive."
If the Paragon wasn't required for an operation, it lost interest quickly. But to Fog Rolled In's surprise, it said after some time, Then we shall meet Black Water again. The Sword of Blackwell.
Black Water? The Paragon had never referred to it that way before. "You will meet the Sword of Blackwell many more times."
Good.
The Paragon said nothing more, and Fog Rolled In returned to pacing around the hull, moving carefully to conserve fuel. Truthfully they could have been inside; RaDAR would warn them long before any danger could reach the cargo ship, and the eighteen hours back to the forward operating base would leave them dangerously low on fuel. But they preferred it this way. They circled the forward hull in spirals, reciting liturgy in a clear voice to the emptiness of black Heaven.
"Trees sighed in the wind coming down the mountains.I will build New Terror in Heaven.Autumn gales swept leaves rattling from their branches.
I will build New Terror in Heaven.Mist veiled the Sun in the morning and melted in its warmth after noon.
I will build New Terror in Heaven.Fog rolled in from the ocean and hid the land from itself.
I will build New Terror in Heaven.Night birds called over the moonlit waves.
I will build New Terror in Heaven..."
The full Song of Terror took only eight or so hours to recite, but it was no hardship to start again. It was just a meditation. Two hours in, though, Knight spoke in Fog Rolled In's ear again.
"Full squad of Blackwell cavalrymen on the approach, Sir, thirty degrees antinormal and ten degrees down from orbitwise."
"Acknowledge. Update me every five thousand miles."
"Yes, Sir. Do you need a new jetpack, Sir?"
"That would be wise. I'm coming to the airlock now."
By the time Fog Rolled In was reoutfitted the cavalrymen were twenty-five thousand miles out. If they were wise they wouldn't get any closer. Seeing that no Draper cavalrymen defended the cargo ship, there were only two options: either the ship was entirely undefended due to insufficient availability of cavalrymen or it was defended by the Hand of Draper. The intent was to make Blackwell captains think twice about taking that gamble, but this one had decided it was worth the risk.
The cavalrymen accelerated almost directly toward them, firing cannon in close sequence. Somewhat awkwardly Fog Rolled In raised the Paragon to deflect with their off hand. As the last of the cavalrymen diverted course to pass under the cargo ship, Fog Rolled In leapt and burned hard to intercept it. Deceleration was sudden, the Paragon's blade sinking into the cavalryman's hull up to the hilt. There was no time for delicacy; Fog Rolled In carved a hole and let a chunk of hull fling itself out into Heaven as the ship depressurized. One of the gunners was sucked out with it. 1,620. The other three crew died on the Paragon's blade half a minute later. 1,623.
Fog Rolled In slid into the pilot's seat, glad once again that their burgundy uniform didn't show bloodstains. The radio crackled to life. "Two ninety-four, are you all right?"
"Two ninety-four's crew is dead," said Fog Rolled In. "I suggest that you leave my cargo ship alone, or you will join them."
"Fuck! Captain—"
"Keep your distance, prioritize the Hand. Take out their mobility."
"This is your last warning," said Fog Rolled In. Somehow Blackwell's soldiers continued to think that this could be effective, despite six years of evidence to the contrary. By this point Fog Rolled In had spent far more time in Blackwell's cavalrymen than in Draper's, and with some difficulty they could serve as both pilot and gunner even with an injured wrist.
They fixed course and rose to take the starboard gunner's seat. They were still close enough to score a direct hit on a fuel tank, which ignited, sending shrapnel in every direction. 1,627.
"Abort," said the captain tightly. The last two cavalrymen peeled away and set course back where they came from.
"Thank you," said Fog Rolled In as they settled back into the pilot's seat. "Please inform your commander, this time, that I am perfectly capable of destroying your ships without using the Paragon. I hate to see you suffer unnecessary losses."
This was true, but the Blackwell soldiers always seemed to take it as sarcastic. "Fuck you!" snarled one of the remaining pilots.
"Two ninety-two, quiet on compromised channels."
The cavalrymen retreated in silence. Fog Rolled In maneuvered their captured ship alongside the cargo ship and got into docking position. "Enemy ships have been cleared, Captain. I will remain on hull, but I'd like to bring this ship back."
"Acknowledge, Sir," said Rendition, sounding relieved despite how many times they had seen this happen. "I'll open the docking airlock."
Fog Rolled In climbed out through the hole in time to slip out the airlock as it closed, already murmuring liturgy again. "Silver flashed in the deep ocean's currents. I will build New Terror in Heaven. Chimneys vented sulphur hot in the dark. I will build New Terror in Heaven..."
Two full rounds of the Book of Terror later the cargo ship docked at Draper's forward operating base, and Fog Rolled In disembarked with Rendition, leaving Lieutenant Egel to oversee the unloading of the ore and the drillers. Not all of the captains had returned yet, so Fog Rolled In had time for a meal and a visit to the medic before they went to the briefing room. Commander Leight was there waiting too; they nodded to Fog Rolled In but knew better than to attempt any small talk. Fog Rolled In sat and loaded the latest data on the movement of Blackwell's forces on their typing pad. It was quite likely that the Blackwell FOB had moved recently; the captured cavalryman's navigational computer should have records, when they had time to check.
"Commander Leight, Commander Draper."
Fog Rolled In looked up to nod to Captain Mukil as she entered. The other captains began to file in as well.
"Are we expecting Captain Karr?" asked Leight, when all but one were seated.
"No, Sir, they were killed."
Leight nodded approvingly; if Karr was the only captain missing, this operation had already had a higher survival rate than most. That approval was distasteful to Fog Rolled In. "Any other cargo ships lost?"
"The Stratus, Sir."
"Mine as well..."
They waited, but it was only the three. It appeared that Fog Rolled In's diversion strategy had been a success. They received nods of acknowledgment from most of the captains and a grave one from Leight, who had taken a risk in putting their name on this operation. Fog Rolled In's rank of commander was supposed to be only nominal, but they had temporarily taken Commander Ysuru's forces after Ysuru was killed in action, and no replacement had ever materialized. Fog Rolled In couldn't say whether that had been the right decision, whether they had saved more lives than they had taken. Whether another commander would have been better.
They were very tired from spending over a week defending the Second Miners, and in pain, which made it difficult to concentrate on the briefing. But they could not forgive themself if they let themself slack now; even now, when they were about to commit treason against their House. There would soon be time enough to sleep. For now they forced themself straight and upright and listened with all their focus.
When the meeting was over they made their salutations to the captains, who were dispersing to make good use of their whisky rations. Rendition glanced at Fog Rolled In uncertainly, not quite wanting to invite them but feeling that they should be invited.
Fog Rolled In shook their head and murmured, "There are things I must attend to. Enjoy the celebration. You've done good work, Captain. All of you have."
Rendition made an awkward half-bow and turned to go.
"You'll be getting some rest?" asked Leight, behind them.
"Unfortunately not. There's some data I'd like to retrieve from the cavalryman I captured, and my shooting was subpar. It's been too long since I practiced."
"I'd order you to sleep if I could make you obey," said Leight. "Remember that you have soldiers depending on you."
"I never forget it, Commander."
Leight shook their head and let Fog Rolled In go.
They returned to their quarters and sat down to compose three quick letters. The first was to Cross, requesting certain contacts and preparations; the second informed May of what the news ought to report; and the third detailed to Fischer the clothes that would need to be made. I apologize for the short notice, they concluded. I will be more or less incommunicado for two or three weeks, but that is all the time we have.
Then they drew the Paragon and stabbed it into the console's central processor. A grating buzz, and the entire casing cracked and began trickling foul smoke. Not even Cross could retrieve data from such a console.
That done, they sheathed the Paragon and went out to find their cavalryman.