Meanwhile, what none of the officers knew was that legionnaire Jas Hargo was standing on the other side of the wall, listening to every word through a small crack. Listening, and becoming increasingly angry, as the strategy session continued.
“It’s a possibility,” Santana allowed politely. “But if Class III scanners were present, you would think the bugs would have nailed Batkin before he crossed the fence. Or later when he was inside the camp. Maybe we should ask him to join us.”
“You can’t be serious,” DeCosta replied incredulously. “I mean think about what you’re saying man. . . . He’s one of them.”
“By which you mean cyborgs,” Farnsworth put in.
“Yes, or course I do!” the major replied irritably. “Don’t be thick, Lieutenant. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the final approach. . . . Stealth will be everything, surely you can see that, which means that ten-foot-tall electromechanical freaks will be a liability.”
Upon hearing himself described as a “freak,” it was all Hargo could do to prevent himself from putting an enormous shoulder to the wall and knocking it down on top of DeCosta. But that would be stupid because the serial killer had no desire to return to the pit.
“Stealth will be important,” Santana allowed, as he met the other officer’s eyes. “But so will firepower. And that’s where the T-2s come in. Once we close with the camp, we’ll be up against a well-dug-in, numerically superior force. You’ve seen the pictures Batkin took. Without the cyborgs, we’ll never penetrate the fence.”
DeCosta was angry by then, and it showed. “You have a negative attitude, Captain. A very negative attitude. Something I will make clear in my after-action report.”
“You do that,” Santana replied grimly. “And be sure to include the following. . . . I formally protest your plan as being both unprofessional and contrary to the traditions of the Legion, since it’s clear that you intend to abandon part of your command on an enemy-held planet.”
“That’s absurd!” DeCosta responded hotly. “Once we enter the camp, and I assure you we will, the cyborgs will come forward to join us.”
“Maybe,” Farnsworth allowed cautiously. “But what if there isn’t enough time for that to occur? Or the bugs pin them down? The pickup ships aren’t likely to wait.”
“All of us are expendable,” DeCosta replied darkly. “Even your precious freaks. And that brings this meeting to a close. Good evening, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Servos whined, and a gigantic fist opened and closed in the room next door, as Santana and Farnsworth got up to leave. The ancient building was quiet after that, until morning came, and it was time for muster. The plan was to cross the rest of the lake before sunrise. That would take a while, especially since the bio bods were not only going to travel on foot but carry heavy packs as well.
There was a sizable entry hall on the west side of the building, and that’s where Santana was, adjusting the straps on his pack, when Farnsworth entered from outside. What light there was came from their helmets. “Excuse me, sir,” the veteran platoon leader said. “But we have a problem.”
Santana frowned. “A problem? What sort of problem?”
“It’s Major DeCosta, sir,” the other officer answered deliberately. “We can’t find him.”
Santana stood. “You searched the island?”
“Twice, sir. The last person to see the major was Sergeant Gomez. That was about two in the morning when the major made his rounds.”
Santana was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was bleak. “Was Private Hargo on sentry duty at that time?”
Farnsworth nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. He reports to Gomez. So, you think Hargo had something to do with the major’s disappearance?”
“It’s a possibility,” Santana said thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t want to put the theory forward without proof. Jericho is a dangerous place. All sorts of things could have happened. Let’s search the island one more time—and send Batkin up for a look-see. Even though it’s dark, the major’s heat signature should be visible assuming he’s alive.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Farnsworth replied hesitantly. “And if he isn’t? Or we can’t find him? Are the cyborgs going to remain here or come with us?”
“They’re coming with us,” Santana said grimly. “We’re going to need them. And there’s no way I’m leaving anybody behind.”
“Yes, sir!” Farnsworth replied cheerfully, and did a neat about-face.
Santana heard the whine of servos and turned to find Snyder looming over him. His helmet light wobbled up to her immobile face. “Is what they say true, sir? Does the major plan to leave us here?”
“I believe that was the major’s intent,” the platoon leader replied honestly. “But he’s missing. So, unless he turns up soon, I will be in command.”
“And you wouldn’t leave us, would you, sir?” the cyborg asked uncertainly.
“Are you kidding?” Santana demanded. “I’d have to walk! And you know how I feel about infantry regiments.”
Snyder made a deep rumbling sound that Santana knew to be laughter. And, because all of the T-2s could communicate with each other by radio, the rest of the cyborgs were aware of the XO’s comments within a matter of minutes.
Jas Hargo couldn’t smile. The cyborg simply wasn’t capable of doing so. But he felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction when the final word came down ten minutes later. DeCosta was missing, Santana had assumed command, and the bio bods were going to mount up.
The entire outfit was under way ten minutes later, minus Major Hal DeCosta that is, who lay about fifteen feet offshore with a 150-pound block of stone on his chest. His head, which had been torn off, rested fifty feet farther out. There were witnesses, of course, but none of them were sentient, or could ever be called upon to testify. They were hungry however—and eager to eat their fill.
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Winter was almost over, so half of the underground storeroom was empty and would remain so until more bags of flour arrived in the fall. That meant there was plenty of space in which to have a meeting one level below the floor where the bakery’s ancient ovens continued to produce bread for the citizens of Naa town.
With a single exception, all of those present in the room were Naa, and therefore uniformly suspicious of the blond man who sat below a dangling glow rod, his hands on his knees. His name was Sergi Chien-Chu, and while decidedly male, didn’t really think of himself as human anymore. Not since his brain had been removed from his dying body and installed in the first of what would eventually become a succession of cybernetic vehicles. The latest of which had been fashioned to resemble that of a twenty-five-year-old human male. “So, human,” the baker growled. “The entire council is here. Just as you requested.
Now tell me why we shouldn’t remove your head—and turn it in for the one-million-credit reward that the government is offering?”
“Because doing so would be messy,” Chien-Chu replied calmly. “Not to mention the fact that I’m still using it.”
Though town dwellers now, most of the council had been warriors once, and chuckled appreciatively. Although he was alone, and unarmed, the human wasn’t afraid. Or, if he was, had the ability to hide it. A truly Naa-like quality and one they admired. “But, more to the point,” the businessman continued, “I’m here because the Confederacy needs your help. President Nankool is alive, but being held by the Ramanthians, who don’t know they have him. By announcing that fact, Jakov may cause the president’s death, or provide the bugs with leverage they wouldn’t otherwise have, thereby threatening the Confederacy. And I believe that you have the power to stop it.”
“Surely you jest,” the local undertaker put in cynically. He had craggy features and black fur interspersed with streaks of white. His clothes were dark—and his boots were caked with mud. “President Nankool . . . President Jakov . . . It hardly matters to us. Back before the Confederacy came into existence, we were oppressed by the human
empire. Now that the Confederacy exists, we are still oppressed. Nothing has changed.”
“That isn’t true,” Chien-Chu responded simply, and pointed up toward the glow rod that dangled above him. “Where does the power for that light come from? What about the medical care the townspeople receive? And the money in your pockets? All of them flow from the Confederacy. Is it perfect? Hell no, and I should know, because I helped create it.”
There was a buzz of conversation as the dozen or so council members consulted with each other before a candlemaker named Nightwork Waxman stood. He had tan fur with white tips, and a pair of bifocals were perched on the end of his nose. “You are President Chien-Chu?”
“I was president,” the businessman admitted. “But that was a long time ago.”
“I met you once,” the candlemaker said. “We shook hands. But you look different now.”
“My brain is the same,” Chien-Chu responded. “But the body is new. You could think of it as the civilian equivalent of a T-2.”
“All of which amounts to nothing,” the undertaker grumbled. “Who cares what was? It’s what is that counts.”
“And I couldn’t agree more,” Chien-Chu said as he eyed the faces around him. “So let’s talk about what is. The Naa people have their own government now, with Senator Nodoubt Truespeak to speak for them, and a future that looks bright. But only if people like Jakov can be prevented from hijacking the duly elected government. And that’s what he’s trying to do.”
“But how?” the butcher wanted to know. He was a burly male still clad in the bloodstained apron he’d been wearing when summoned. “We were told that there were checks and balances to prevent anyone from taking over.”
“And there are,” the cyborg agreed patiently. “And the system would have worked, except that Jakov had all of the people who might oppose him arrested and placed in the pit. General Bill Booly among them.”
That announcement caused quite a stir, because every one of them knew that General Booly’s grandmother had been Naa, and that he had always been sympathetic to their people. Furthermore, the locals knew Booly was married to Chien-Chu’s niece, the female credited with saving Senator Truespeak’s life not long before. All of which played into the complicated system of clan ties, blood debts, and deed-bonds that held Naa society together. So, now that Booly was in the mix, the already lively discussion grew even more heated, which forced Chien-Chu to sit and wait.
But the billionaire was a patient man and, because of the many capabilities built into his electromechanical body, could pursue other activities while the debate raged. One of which was to monitor the squad-level radio traffic generated by the off-planet marines assigned to track him down. The jarheads weren’t familiar with Algeron, or the Naa people, which was why no one other than a few juveniles would agree to speak with them. Not that Jakov and Wilmot had much choice where troops were concerned, since Booly was popular with his legionnaires, who were already starting to grow restive.
Chien-Chu’s thoughts were interrupted as the baker spoke. “The council agrees that there is truth in what you say. But what would you have us do? The fort has withstood countless attacks.”
“I agree,” the cyborg answered. “An attack on Fort Camerone would be pointless. “No, the real opportunity is to recruit some ex-legionnaires and smuggle them inside. Once within the walls, they will go down to the pit and free General Booly. It’s my opinion that both the prisoners and the Legion will support him. Jakov will be forced to plead his case in the Senate, and once all of the facts are made known to them, I believe the senators will make the right decision.”
“But how?” the baker asked for the second time. “How will we get the ex-legionnaires inside the fort?”
“That’s a good question,” Chien-Chu answered, as he transferred his gaze from the baker to the undertaker. “Tell me, Citizen Deepdig, how many bodies do you remove from the fort each day?”
The Naa frowned. “Three or four on average . . . Mostly from the hospital.”
“And once the bodies have been buried, what happens next?”
“My number two son takes replacement coffins back inside,” Deepdig answered. “They are custom-made to Legion specifications and . . .”
The undertaker paused at that point, his face lit up with understanding, and the council member smiled. “You are clever human—I’ll say that for you.”
The rest of the council chuckled, food was summoned, and the real work began.
15
A single look at the enemy’s defenses is more valuable than a thousand additional warriors.
—Naa folk saying of indeterminate origin Date unknown
THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47)
The Thrakies were an industrious people, and during the relatively short period of time they had been in control of Starfall, entire cities had been constructed. Cities in which most Thrakies chose to live after spending generations on tightly packed ark ships. But some of the more adventurous citizens had begun to construct vacation homes in the surrounding countryside. A trend Ex-ambassador Alway Orno had taken advantage of by renting a small house, which subsequent to his death, the Egg Orno was forced to live in.
Though pleasant by Thraki standards, it was terribly isolated, located mostly above ground, and uncomfortable. Everywhere the Egg Orno looked she saw angles instead of curves, stairs where ramps should have been, and ceilings that were far too low. In fact it was only in the basement, where Alway’s presence could still be felt, that the female felt halfway comfortable.
It was a large room, which the ex-ambassador had apparently prepared with her comfort in mind and clearly preferred himself. As the Ramanthian prepared to sort through her mate’s belongings, she was still in the process of recovering from the gunshot wound and ensuing surgery. The fact that she had survived the process was something of a miracle given the fact that the Thraki surgeons weren’t all that familiar with Ramanthian physiology. But, thanks to self-programming nano injected into the wound, she continued to recover.
Of course, Alway deserved most of the credit for saving her life. By placing his body in front of hers, the functionary had absorbed most of the bullet’s force. The female remembered the shock of the impact, a moment of free fall, and a profound darkness that rose to wrap her in its arms. All of which led the assassins to believe that she was dead.
But the Egg Orno wasn’t dead, even though at first she wished she was and contemplated suicide immediately after the operation. But as time passed, her mood changed. It had been stupid to believe that she could escape Hive undetected. The aristocrat knew that now. Both Chancellor Ubatha and the Queen had been determined to find Alway and kill him. With that realization came a deep and abiding anger. And a desire for revenge.
But how? The Egg Orno was not only ill, but without friends and vulnerable to a second assassination attempt. Because even though Alway was dead, there was no way to know how vindictive the Queen would be. That didn’t matter, though, not anymore, which was why the female was determined to go through her mate’s belongings no matter how painful the process might be. Because if the ex-diplomat had left anything useful behind, it was likely to be there among his personal effects.
The next couple of hours were spent going through Alway’s computer files plus piles of printed documents. It seemed like a meaningless mishmash of material at first, until the Egg Orno came across a handwritten note that referred to “. . . the first payment from the Confederacy,” plus a Thraki bank statement dated the next day, and a variety of other documents related to a rim world occupied by Ramanthian expatriates. Was that where Alway planned to take her? Yes, it seemed likely.
But the discoveries raised as many questions as they answered. Why would the Confederacy give money to her mate, the same individual who had caused them such grief? There had to be a reason. A good reason. And, if “the first payment” had been received, then where was the second? Or the third? Those questions and more plagued the Ramanthia
n as she worked to knit all of the available facts into a coherent pattern. Unfortunately, she had very little to show for it once the process was over. So the Egg Orno went back and reviewed all the files for a second time just in case something important had escaped her. But to no avail.
That left the aristocrat with nothing to do but rummage through her mate’s clothes in case something of value had been left in one of his voluminous pockets. But that search came up empty as well. So the female was busy refolding the garments when one of them caught her interest. The robe consisted of a rich shimmery cloth, which if she remembered correctly, was actually a photosensitive fabric. The ex-ambassador was not only proud of the device—but had demonstrated it for her on more than one occasion.
The Egg Orno felt a tingle of anticipation as she searched for the ribbonlike connector. What images, if any, were stored in the robe she wondered? A boring meeting most likely. But even if she couldn’t see Alway, she’d be able to hear him.
Once the Egg Orno located the lead, she plugged it into the computer and pinched a series of budlike keys. Dozens of images appeared, but that was normal for anyone with compound eyes, and the Ramanthian found herself looking at a human being. A female, if she wasn’t mistaken—and an ugly one at that. Though not as fluent as her mate had been, the Egg Orno spoke serviceable standard, which enabled her to follow the conversation without difficulty. “My name is Kay Wilmot,” the alien said. “I am the assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”
The Ramanthian felt a sudden surge of excitement. Alway had met with a high-ranking Confederacy official! Could this be it? What she’d been looking for? The aristocrat watched intently as the alien revealed that President Nankool had been captured and was being held on Jericho. It was valuable information. Or so it seemed to the Egg Orno. But what to do with it? Alway would have known what to do. She felt sure of that. But he was gone.
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