All of the legionnaires who weren’t standing sentry duty around the clearing looked upwards as the cyborg swept in to hover at the center of an excited crowd. There were cheers from the troops, but rather than the warm welcome the cyborg expected to receive, the officer who came forward to meet him was cold and matter-of-fact. The way he always was where cyborgs were concerned. “So,” DeCosta began, “what can you tell me about President Nankool? Is he alive?”
Though taken aback by the way the bio bod had addressed him, Batkin managed to maintain his composure. “And you are?”
“DeCosta,” the officer answered impatiently. “Major DeCosta. I’m in command here.”
“And my name is Batkin,” the agent replied calmly.
“Welcome to Jericho. I’m glad you’re here. The answer to your question is yes. President Nankool is alive. Or was when I escaped from Camp Enterprise.”
The next few minutes were spent bringing DeCosta and his officers up to speed regarding Nankool, the POWs generally, and the camp itself. “I have pictures of everything,” Batkin finished proudly. “Plus detailed information regarding defenses, Ramanthian troop strength, and daily work routines.”
“That’s wonderful!” Santana commented enthusiastically. “What you managed to accomplish is nothing short of amazing.”
“Yes. . . . Well done,” DeCosta added tepidly. “Tonight we will go over that material in detail. In the meantime, we have a schedule to keep. . . . So, if Captain Santana, and Lieutenant Farnsworth would be so kind as to pull the pickets in, we’ll get under way. And, if you would be willing to serve as scout, then so much the better. There’s nothing like a bird’s-eye view of the terrain ahead to keep one out of trouble.”
Santana waited until the other officers were out of earshot before addressing the cyborg. “I’m sorry about the reception. Believe me. . . . We are extremely happy to see you! And, should I be fortunate enough to survive this mission, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are recognized for what you accomplished here.”
Batkin would have shrugged had he been able to. “That isn’t necessary. . . . But thank you.”
“Can I ask a question?” Santana wanted to know. “About one of the prisoners?”
“Of course,” the spy responded cautiously. “Remembering that I had contact with only a small number of the POWs.”
“Yes, I understand,” Santana agreed. “The person I have in mind is female, about the same age I am, and blond. Her name is Christine Vanderveen—and she’s a diplomat.
She was a member of Nankool’s staff when the Gladiator was captured. So, if the president survived, then she might have as well.”
Santana felt a sense of dread as the cyborg reviewed the faces and the names of the POWs with whom he was familiar. The answer, when it finally came, was more than a little disappointing. “I met a blond,” the cyborg allowed. “But her last name was Trevane, and she was a naval officer rather than a diplomat. A lieutenant if I remember correctly. I’m sorry.”
Santana nodded mutely and turned away. Only years of military discipline, plus a strong will, were sufficient to keep what the officer felt inside as he took his place on Snyder’s back and the march began. As the column made its way out of the body-strewn clearing and topped the rise beyond, they passed three graves. Obvious now, but soon to be lost, as had thousands of others over the years. Santana offered the legionnaires a salute as he passed, wondered where Vanderveen was buried, and gave thanks for the face shield that hid his tears.
14
Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
—Lord Acton to Bishop Mandell Creighton Standard year 1887
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The Queen was dying. She knew it, her courtiers knew it, and all but the most ignorant of Ramanthian citizens knew it. Because, ironically enough, death was the price each tricentennial queen had to pay for the creation of so many new lives. It was a bittersweet process that systematically destroyed their much-abused bodies and a reality the current monarch had accepted years earlier. Not only accepted, but planned for, by doing everything possible to prepare her successor for the throne.
And now, being only weeks away from the day when the last egg would be ceremoniously laid, the Queen was still in the process of imparting all of the knowledge gained during an active lifetime to the female generally known as “the chosen,” a seemingly low-ranking servant who had been brought in from off-planet and integrated into the royal staff many months earlier. A position that provided the chosen with an intimate knowledge of the way the royal household worked and gave her access to the lies, plots, and counterplots that continuously swirled around the Queen. Something that was going to come as a shock to individuals who had been rude to the chosen. “So,” the monarch said solicitously, as she looked down at her successor. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Highness,” the chosen replied humbly. And she was ready. Unlike her five billion newborn cousins, the Queen-to-be had come into the world twenty years earlier the same way most Ramanthians did. Then, having been selected at the age of five, she and six other candidates had been raised to fill a position only one of them could actually hold.
“Good,” the monarch said soberly. “Give me your opinion of Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha.”
The younger female looked up. Her eyes were like obsidian. “He’s very proactive,” the chosen observed thoughtfully. “Which is good. But he’s extremely ambitious as well, and would turn the monarch into little more than a megaphone through which to speak, if allowed to do so.”
“I can see that I chose well,” the Queen replied contentedly. “So, knowing Ubatha as you do, make use of him but be careful. Because when a tool works, and works well, there is a natural tendency to reach for it first regardless of the circumstances. And that is Ubatha’s strategy. So identify other advisors, place them in powerful positions, and thereby balance him out. Am I clear?”
“You are, Majesty,” the younger female replied as her eyes returned to the floor.
“Then enter the cloister and continue to learn.”
The chosen bent a knee, backed away, and shuffled over to a corner where a curtained enclosure allowed her to observe all that took place without revealing her identity. It was a tradition that went back thousands of years and signaled the upcoming transition.
Meanwhile, in a waiting room normally reserved for those of lesser rank, Ubatha shuffled back and forth across the chamber while deep in thought. Because while any royal audience was stressful, he knew this one would be even more so, due to the fact that the chosen would be present. There was no way to know which of the seven eligible females had been selected, but the Chancellor hoped that the Queen had chosen well. Not only for his well-being but that of the Ramanthian people as well. Because even though the war was going well, it would take a strong pincer to guide the empire through the next few years. The Ramanthian’s contemplations were interrupted as a midlevel functionary entered the room. “Chancellor Ubatha? The Queen will receive you now.”
The official clacked his right pincer by way of an acknowledgment, checked to ensure that both his antenna and wings were positioned just so, and left the waiting area for the ramp that led up to the royal platform. All manner of courtiers, officials, and military officers had emerged from their various lairs to take up positions on the platforms adjacent to the walkway. Ubatha exchanged greetings with the more-senior members of the royal entourage as the rich amalgamation of odors associated with the Queen and the egg-laying process came into contact with his olfactory antennae and triggered the usual chemical changes.
Having gained the top level, Ubatha saw the brand-new enclosure off to his right, and decided to risk the Queen’s displeasure by nodding in that direction. A gesture intended to convey acceptance and respect. Then, having turned toward the monarch, he bent a knee. “I’m not dead yet,” the Queen said tartly.
“Nor will you ever be,” Ubatha replied smoothly. �
�Since you live within our hearts.”
That elicited the Ramanthian equivalent of laughter, since the royal didn’t believe a word of it, but admired the way it had been done. “You are absolutely shameless,” the Queen observed indulgently. “But useful nevertheless.”
Ubatha bowed. “Majesty.”
“So,” the monarch said, “it seems that congratulations are in order. . . . I understand you located ex-ambassador Orno and put him to death.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” Ubatha replied humbly. “But the credit for the execution belongs to your chief of intelligence rather than myself.”
Meanwhile, still hidden within her fabric-draped enclosure, the chosen took note. Another one of the things that made Ubatha different from so many of the empire’s officials was his willingness to form alliances and then honor them. It was a strategy cunningly devised to make him more effective and reduce the amount of blame that would otherwise come his way when an initiative went awry. All of which would be taken into consideration when the Chancellor went to work for her.
“Yes,” the Queen replied. “My intelligence service deserves both credit for terminating the ambassador—and some of the blame for allowing the Egg Orno to live. The agent responsible for that failure has been assigned to a research station on an ice planet.”
“As he should be,” Ubatha replied sanctimoniously. What was the chosen thinking, he wondered? And would she be as challenging to deal with as her predecessor? Yes, he decided. The royal clan breeds true.
“But that’s a minor detail,” the monarch continued dismissively. “My intelligence chief offered to take care of the oversight personally, but I told him no. Having lost both mates and narrowly escaped death herself, the Egg Orno has suffered enough.”
“You are known for your mercifulness,” Ubatha intoned, and momentarily wondered if he had pushed it too far. But because the Queen truly believed she was merciful, the flattery slid past her if not the chosen one.
“But you didn’t come here to discuss the Ornos,” the monarch said, as she gave birth to another fifty citizens.
“No, Highness. I didn’t,” Ubatha agreed. The Confederacy put out an announcement, a rather interesting announcement, that was relayed to me by the Thraki ambassador.”
“An ugly breed,” the Queen observed distastefully. “But I digress. What is that pack of degenerates up to now?” Both the monarch and the chosen listened intently as Ubatha relayed the news regarding Nankool’s disappearance and Jakov’s elevation to the presidency.
“What do we know about this Jakov person?” the Queen wanted to know, as the narrative came to a close.
“We know he’s ruthless,” Ubatha observed. “Since he made the announcement in spite of the possibility that Nankool is alive. Details regarding Jakov’s background will be included in your mid-morning intelligence briefing.”
“Good,” the monarch replied. “Perhaps this human will prove to be more reasonable than his predecessor was.”
That was a given insofar as the chosen was concerned. Because she had been careful to memorize all the information available regarding Nankool’s staff—and was pretty sure that Jakov would make significant concessions for a peace that left him in charge of the Confederacy. A promising development indeed.
“And Nankool?” the Queen inquired. “Is he among the prisoners?”
“I don’t know yet, Majesty,” Ubatha replied honestly. “But I will certainly find out.”
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Thanks to the repellers that kept it aloft, the Ramanthian scout car could travel more slowly than a conventional aircraft could, giving the insectoid troopers plenty of time in which to inspect the verdant jungle below. And that was what they were doing as the air car drifted over the treetops.
Thanks to advance notice from both Batkin and the T-2s, Team Zebra had been given plenty of warning before the scout car arrived. Enough to hide themselves under a thick layer of foliage, activate all of their countermeasures, and suspend use of their radios. That strategy had proven effective three times over the last few days.
As the insistent thrumming noise generated by the scout car increased, and the downdraft from the Ramanthian repellers caused the treetops to thrash about, Santana and the rest of the legionnaires peered upwards. They hoped to escape notice one more time but feared they wouldn’t. And for good reason since it was clear from Batkin’s electronic intercepts that the bugs knew some sort of incursion had taken place.
How didn’t really matter, although there was the distinct possibility that the battle with the nymphs had been visible from space or that one of their patrols had stumbled across the body-strewn clearing. And, had the Ramanthian military presence on Jericho been larger, it was almost certain the team would have been interdicted by that time. But since there weren’t all that many soldiers on the ground, and those present had their pincers full guarding both civilian and military POWs, the aliens had been unable to bring a sufficient amount of bug-power to bear on the problem. Up until that point anyway.
As if working in concert with Santana’s thoughts, the scout car paused almost directly above the hidden legionnaires and hovered, as if the Ramanthian troopers had seen something suspicious. If they had, and tried to report it, Batkin would “hear” and order the T-2s to fire. The scout car and its occupants would almost certainly be destroyed. But, rather than improve, conditions would almost certainly become worse. Because when the scout car failed to return, even more units would be sent to the area, and the team would soon be located. So everything was at stake as the enemy vehicle hung like a sword over the legionnaires’ heads.
But just when Santana feared that discovery was imminent, the engine noise increased, and the vehicle slid toward the north. No one moved. . . . And it was a good thing, too. Because the Ramanthians returned four minutes later. The scout car thrummed softly as it passed over them a hundred feet higher than before. They’re looking to see if anyone or anything went into motion after they left, Santana thought to himself. The bastards.
The team was forced to remain where it was for another hour before DeCosta felt it was safe to proceed. Precious time was lost, but the team had gone undetected. Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon was relatively uneventful. The company was able to make fairly good time since they had Batkin to scout the area ahead and guide them around obstacles.
Finally, as the sun started to set, Batkin led the team out into a shallow lake. It was the same lake the Confederacy POWs had been forced to cross on their way to Camp Enterprise. And it was then, as they passed through a grove of frothy-topped trees and entered the oily-looking water, that everyone got a good look at the space elevator hanging above them. The structure was very nearly pink at the moment, and incredibly beautiful, as it hung suspended halfway between day and night.
A line of poles led them out to the island at the center of the lake. It was the same spot where the POWs had camped for the night—and Cassidy had subsequently been roasted over a fire. Camping on a trail utilized by the Ramanthians clearly entailed some risk, but Batkin theorized that the marauding nymphs wouldn’t want to get wet, and DeCosta was willing to try it.
But rather than camp outside, as the POWs had, the major insisted that the entire team spend the night inside the half-buried building, where they were less likely to be detected from the air. The mazelike interior was a mess— so work was required to make a section habitable. It was dark by the time carefully screened fires were lit, battle lamps came on, and the evening routine began.
The second squad of the second platoon had guard duty. That left the rest of the legionnaires free to choose a section of floor to sleep on and prepare a communal meal, a brew made more flavorful by the addition of nonissue sauces and spicy condiments.
Then, once the meal had been eaten, and the legionnaires’ mess kits had been washed in the lake, it was time for the so-called foot patrol, which was when Kia Darby, who doubled as a medic, went from person to person and in
spected their feet. A none-too-pleasant chore, but an important one for any group of soldiers, including those who rode war forms all day. Because in spite of that advantage, the bio bods still had blisters caused by the continuous up-and-down movement natural to riding a T-2. And most of them had a fungus known as J-rot (Jericho rot), which was resistant to every medication Darby could bring to bear— except for the strange goo that Sergeant Ibo-Da conjured up from his Hudathan-style med kit.
It was different for the cyborgs however, who had no need for sleep sacks, improvised meals, or Darby’s rough-and-ready medical care. They did require maintenance, however, and lots of it, which meant that once cybertechs Toolman and Bozakov had been checked by Darby, they went to work making whatever adjustments and repairs they could. The process normally consumed at least a couple of hours. Then, once that task was done, it was time for the weary technicians to work on the RAVs. Which was why neither legionnaire had to stand guard duty.
Meanwhile, as the troops took care of routine matters, DeCosta was holding an impromptu strategy session in one of the boxlike rooms. The ostensible purpose of the get-together was to formulate a plan that would carry them from their present location to Camp Enterprise. But the truth was that DeCosta already knew how he wanted to proceed, and was primarily interested in getting the other officers to concur, a pro forma agreement that would help cover his ass if anything went wrong. “The crux of the matter is this,” the little officer said earnestly, as the light from a small fire lit his dark jowls from below. “The T-2s have been valuable up to this point, I concede that, but the tactical situation is about to change. The cyborgs generate heat, which in spite of their shielding, can be detected by Class III scanners like the ones we can expect to encounter at Camp Enterprise.”
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