The Epsilon Indi was more than three miles long, could transport five million tons of cargo, and carried a crew of more than two thousand bio bods and robots. The corridor that ran the length of the ship wasn’t all that crowded as Santana followed the directional wand toward the stern, but that would change quickly once the watch changed. The overhead glow panels marked off six-foot intervals, the durasteel bulkheads were gray, and brightly colored decals marked maintenance bays, emergency lockers, and escape pods. A steady stream of inflection-free announcements continued to drone through the overhead speakers as the directional wand tugged Santana to the right. What seemed like a seldom-used passageway led to a hatch and a programmable panel that read, “Legion Procurement Officer.” The title didn’t bode well since Santana had a bias against REMFs (rear echelon motherfuckers).
But orders were orders, so Santana rapped his knuckles against the wooden knock-block mounted next to the hatch and waited for a response. It came in the form of a basso “Come!” pitched to carry over the PA system, the chatter of a nearby power wrench, and the eternal rumble generated by the Indi herself.
Santana took three paces forward, executed a sharp left face, and came to rigid attention. “Captain Antonio Santana, reporting as ordered, sir!”
In spite of the fact that the legionnaire’s eyes were focused on a point over the major’s head, he could still see quite a bit. The officer on the opposite side of the fold-down desk had short gray hair, a weather-beaten face, and a lantern-shaped jaw. And, unlike so many of the staff officers that Santana had encountered in the past, this one wore ribbons representing some rather impressive decorations. A good sign indeed. “At ease,” Major Lassiter said. “Grab a chair. . . . I got blindsided once, and it still hurts. How do you feel?”
“Better, sir,” Santana answered truthfully, as he sat down. “How did you know I was blindsided? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Corporal Gomez was kind enough to fill me in,” Lassiter replied dryly. “She likes you—but I get the feeling that her affection for officers ends there.”
“No offense, sir,” Santana ventured cautiously. “But why were Gomez and I put aboard the Indi? Are we in some sort of trouble?”
“No,” the major said, as he leaned back into his chair. “You aren’t. Not that I’m aware of anyway. . . . General Booly sent orders to find you, and my team was busy touring all the dives in the MEZ when we came across the Blue Moon. You were already laying on the mat by then, so we had you removed and put aboard a shuttle. About halfway through liftoff you returned to consciousness, attempted to escape your stretcher, and were put back to sleep.”
“General Booly?” Santana said incredulously. “The Military Chief of Staff? Why would General Booly send for me?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Lassiter replied lightly. “But then I rarely do! When the general wants something, it’s my job to find it for him. But he rarely tells me why, and I always forget to ask.”
“So you’re a member of military intelligence,” the line officer concluded.
Lassiter smiled and shook his head. “No, of course not! I think of myself as a procurement officer. Just like the sign says.”
But there was a lot more to Lassiter’s job than procurement, of that Santana was sure, even if the other officer wasn’t willing to admit it. “So, what about Corporal Gomez?” Santana wanted to know. “Did General Booly send for her as well?”
“Nope,” Lassiter answered. “But given that the order to find you was highly classified, it seemed best to bring her along.”
“And you can do that?”
“Of course,” the major replied with a grin. “Procurement officers can accomplish just about anything. So,” Lassiter continued, “let’s move on to the real purpose of this meeting. And that’s to let you know when you aren’t plodding through virtual-reality scenarios—you’ll be working out with a company of really gung ho marines.”
Santana eyed the major suspiciously. “And that’s all you can tell me?”
“That’s correct,” the other officer confirmed mischievously. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to join you—but I hear the marines are looking forward to the opportunity of spending some time with a cavalry officer!”
Both men were well aware of the long-standing animosity between the Legion and the Marine Corps. So when Lassiter said that the jarheads were “looking forward” to the workouts Santana knew he was in trouble. He stood. “Sir, yes sir!”
“One last thought,” Lassiter added, as his expression became more serious. “I don’t know why the general sent for you, or why he wants to make sure that you’ll be in tip-top shape by the time you arrive on Algeron, but there’s bound to be a very good reason. So bust your ass. Understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good. Dismissed.”
And Santana’s leave was over.
THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47)
What light there was emanated from a small window set high on the earthen wall and a single battery-powered lamp on the makeshift desk. Thrakies might have been comfortable in the underground chamber, thanks to their thick fur, but the Ramanthian was cold. Very cold. Which explained why ex-ambassador Alway Orno sat swathed in heavy blankets as he brought the pistol up and placed the barrel against the side of his insectoid head. There was a loud click as the firing pin fell on an empty chamber.
Satisfied that the firearm was fully functional, the Ramanthian broke the tubular weapon open and dropped a stubby bullet into the shiny firing chamber. Then, having placed the weapon to one side of his desk, the fugitive returned to work. The letter was addressed to the Egg Orno—and would soon be found next to his body.
Rather than record his voice, or compose his message on a computer, Orno had chosen to write an old-fashioned letter. During the manufacturing process the paper had been flooded with a thin layer of colored wax and left to dry in the sun. Now, as small amounts of the surface material were removed with an antique stylus, clusters of white characters appeared.
“The end has come dearest,” the letter began. “And my heart yearns for one last moment with you. But with every pincer turned against me, I cannot return to Hive. So there can be no reunion until we meet in the great beyond. Then, with you between us, the War Orno and I will—”
The fugitive’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang as the trapdoor that led down into the underground chamber was thrown open and Orno felt a sudden stab of fear. His right pincer went to the gun, but rather than the assassins the Ramanthian half expected to see, the intruder was Ula, his host’s youngest daughter. She had large light-gathering eyes, pointy ears, and horizontal slits where a nose might otherwise have been. Ula spoke standard, a language that Orno, as a diplomat, spoke fluently as well. “I have a message for you!” the youngster said excitedly as she raced down the ramp and into the underground chamber.
Orno was about to chide the youngster for failing to announce herself, but he knew it would be a waste of time, and said “thank you” instead. The message was sealed in a box that immediately popped open, allowing a tiny bipedal robot to climb out. Which wasn’t surprising since the Thrakies loved to make robots and use them for tasks that could have been carried out in other ways. Ula squealed in delight at the sight of the electromechanical form, but the Ramanthian was in no mood for frivolity. “If you have a message for me, then deliver it,” the fugitive said gruffly.
Even though the robot was small, the voice that issued forth from it was in no way diminished by its size and belonged to Sector 18—one of a small group of individuals who sat on the Committee that governed the Thraki people. “A representative from the Confederacy of Sentient Beings would like to meet with you regarding subjects of mutual interest,” the voice said. A time and a place followed, but there were no pleasantries as sparks shot out of the robot’s ears, and it toppled off the writing table onto the earthen floor.
“Are you going to go?” Ula wanted to know as she bent to retrie
ve what remained of the robot.
It was a good question. Because even though the voice sounded like that of Sector 18, it could have been synthesized in an effort to draw the fugitive out of hiding. But so what? While such a death is less dignified than suicide, dead is dead. Orno thought to himself. “Yes,” the Ramanthian answered. “Please notify your father. I will need some ground transportation. Something discreet.”
Ula was thrilled by the opportunity to carry such an important message to her father and dashed up the ramp. That left Orno to consider what lay ahead. There was no way to know what such a meeting might portend. . . . Was Nankool hoping to establish back-channel negotiations with the Ramanthian government? If so, Orno might be able to parlay such an opportunity into a promise of clemency, or even full restoration of his previous rank! The mere thought of that was enough to make his spirit soar. Thus emboldened, Orno rose, shuffled over to his travel trunk, and opened the lid. Either redemption was at hand or a group of assassins were about to kill him. Either way it was important to look good.
Orno was too large to ride in a Thraki ground car, so the fugitive was forced to hunker down in the back of a delivery vehicle as it approached the city from the south and swerved onto a downward-sloping ramp. Whatever architectural traditions the Thrakies might have had before they left their home system had been forgotten during the race’s long journey through space. And now, as they put down roots on the planet they called Starfall, new cities were rising all around the world. All of which were constructed in a way that forced vehicular traffic underground so pedestrians could have the surface to themselves.
Lights blipped past as the vehicle sped along an arterial, then slowed as the driver turned off and came to a stop in front of a subsurface lobby. The rear doors were opened, and a ramp was deployed so that the Ramanthian could shuffle down onto the pavement, where a Thraki waited to greet him. Not an official but a low-level flunky. Still another sign of how far the Ramanthian’s fortunes had fallen. From the pull-through it was a short journey up an incline to a row of freight elevators. Would the lift carry the ex-diplomat higher? Back to respectability? Or deliver him to a team of assassins? No, Orno reasoned, if assassins were waiting, they would take me right here.
Thus reassured, the fugitive allowed himself to be ushered onto an elevator that lifted him up to the twenty-third floor, where it hissed open. Though scaled to accommodate alien visitors, the ceilings remained oppressively low by Ramanthian standards, something Orno sought to ignore as his guide led him into a hallway. From there it was a short walk to a pair of wooden doors and the conference room beyond.
As was Orno’s practice when spending time on alien planets, the Ramanthian was wearing contacts that consolidated what would have otherwise been multiple images into a single view as he entered the rectangular space. There was a table, six chairs, and a curtained window. A single human was waiting to greet him. A repulsive-looking creature who, judging from the way her clothes fit, had especially large lumps of fatty tissue hanging from her chest. Orno recognized the female as a low-ranking diplomatic functionary to whom he had once been introduced but had had no reason to contact since. Which explained why he couldn’t remember her name. “This is a pleasure,” Orno lied. “It’s good to see you again.”
It appeared that the Ramanthian diplomat remembered her, and Kay Wilmot felt a rush of pleasure as she hurried to reintroduce herself. “My name is Kay Wilmot. I am assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”
“A promotion!” Orno said heartily. “And well deserved, too.”
“Please have a seat,” Wilmot said, as she gestured toward a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshments, but the Confederacy’s embassy isn’t aware of my presence, and while they have been helpful, the Thrakies feel it’s necessary to maintain a certain distance.”
“I understand,” Orno said. “We live in complicated times.”
Once both of them were seated, Wilmot took the first step in what promised to be some delicate negotiations by placing a portable scrambler on the surface of the table in front of her. It generated a humming noise, which was accompanied by a green light. Two doors down the hall a pair of Thraki intelligence agents swore as the feed they had been monitoring was reduced to a roar of static. But, effective though the device was, the scrambler had no effect on the photosensitive fabric from which the Ramanthian’s loose-fitting robe had been made. Or the storage device woven into the garment’s shimmery fabric. “No offense, Ambassador,” Wilmot said. “But could I inquire as to the general nature of your present assignment?”
Orno couldn’t tell the truth, not if the Wilmot creature was to take him seriously, so he lied. “At the moment I’m serving her majesty as a special envoy to the Thraki people. More than that I’m not allowed to say.”
“Of course,” the human responded understandingly. “I hope you will forgive my directness, but there’s a rather sensitive matter on which we could use your help, although it falls well outside the realm of your normal duties. And, were you to act on our behalf, we would require complete confidentiality.”
The first emotion that Orno experienced was a crushing sense of disappointment. Rather than ask him to broker a peace deal, or something similar to that, the human was clearly paving the way for some sort of illicit business deal. Not what he had hoped for but well worth his consideration. Especially if he could use the funds to smuggle the Egg Orno off Hive. It wouldn’t do to reveal the extent of his need however—so the ex-diplomat took a moment to posture. “My first loyalty is to the Queen,” Orno said sternly. “Everything else is secondary.”
“Of course,” the human replied soothingly. “I know that. But what if it was possible to serve the Ramanthian empire and bank half a million Thraki credits at the same time? Wouldn’t that be an attractive proposition?”
Orno pretended to consider the matter. “Well, yes,” he said reluctantly. “If both things were possible, then yes, it would.”
“That’s what I thought,” Wilmot said confidently. “So, I have your word? Whatever I tell you stays between us?”
“You have my word,” the Ramanthian replied stoutly.
“Good,” the official said importantly. “Because what I’m about to confide in you may change the course of history.”
The Ramanthian was skeptical but careful to keep his doubts to himself. “To use one of your expressions, I’m all ears,” the ex-diplomat said reassuringly.
“The situation is this,” Wilmot explained. “While on his way to visit the Clone Hegemony, President Nankool was captured by Ramanthian military forces and sent to Jericho, where he and his companions will be used as slave labor.”
“That’s absurd!” Orno responded scornfully. “First, because my government would take Nankool to a planet other than Jericho, and second because his capture would have been announced by now.”
“Not if the Ramanthians on Jericho were unaware of the president’s true identity,” Wilmot countered. “And we know they aren’t aware of the fact that he’s there, because we have an intelligence agent on Jericho, and he sent us pictures of Nankool trudging through the jungle. Images that arrived on Algeron five days ago.”
Orno clicked his right pincer. “You came to the wrong person,” he said sternly. “A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, especially if he could raise the ante, and maximize the size of his reward.
“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded gently. “I’m not here to seek help with a rescue mission—I’m here to make sure that Nankool and his companions are buried on Jericho.”
It took a moment for Orno to process what the human was saying. But then, as the full import of Wilmot’s statement started to dawn on him, the fugitive’s antennae tilted forward. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”
“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I
do.”
“Soon to be President Jakov?”
“With your help. . . . Yes.”
“It is a clever plan,” Orno admitted. “A very clever plan. But why contact me? My duties have nothing to do with Jericho.”
“If you say so,” Wilmot agreed politely. “But, according to the reports I’ve read, you are close friends with Commandant Yama Mutuu. Is that correct?”
Orno didn’t have friends as such, but he did have a wide circle of cronies, some of whom remained loyal in spite of his disgrace. Was Mutuu among them? There was no way to be certain, but yes, Orno thought the odds were fairly good. And, given the old geezer’s delusions of grandeur, he would be easy to manipulate. In fact, assuming Orno provided Mutuu with the right sort of story, the royal would kill Nankool for nothing! Which would allow the fugitive to pocket the entire fee. “It would take money,” the Ramanthian lied. “One million for myself and half a million for Mutuu.”
The price was steep, but well within the amount that Wilmot was authorized to spend, so the assistant undersecretary nodded. “I will give you half up front—and half on proof of death. And not just Nankool. The others must die as well.”
The Ramanthian nodded. “You want all of the witnesses dead.”
“Exactly. . . . And one more thing,” Wilmot said coldly. “No action is to be taken against our intelligence agent. I want him to witness the executions and report the slaughter to Algeron. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good,” Wilmot said cheerfully as she reached out to reclaim her scrambler. “If you would be so kind as to wait in your vehicle, the first payment will arrive there within the next fifteen minutes. Proof of death should be delivered to the address that will be included along with the cash. The second payment will be forthcoming within one standard day. Do you have any questions? No? Well, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
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