For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  The ramps that led up to the cradle had switchbacked three times before Orno passed between a final pair of guards and was free to approach the Queen. More than a dozen brightly robed attendants, medics, and advisors stood to one side and pretended to speak with one another as the diplomat passed.

  In spite of the fact that the diplomat had been in the royal presence before, the sight continued to amaze him. The Queen’s head, which amounted to little more than a bump when compared to her monumental pregnancy, jutted forward. Her voice was unexpectedly soft. “Welcome home.”

  Orno bent a knee. “Thank you, Majesty. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “I was saddened to hear of the War Orno’s untimely death. Please convey the full depth of our sorrow to your mate.”

  Orno bowed his head. “Thank you, Majesty. I will gladly do so.”

  “So,” the Queen said, eager to learn the latest news, “how do events arrange themselves?”

  Orno, who was well aware of the fact that the Queen had other sources of information, some of whom were members of his own staff, was careful to stick with the facts. “Events appear to be propitious, Majesty. My staff and I continue to negotiate for the rights to six of the planets that were depopulated during the Hudathan wars. However, as Your Majesty knows, our true objective is to secure but two worlds, both of which are located in a system adjacent to our own. Once certain adjustments have been made, both planets will offer habitats comparable to Hive.”

  “Negotiations are one thing,” the Queen said tartly, “but progress is something else. What progress have you made?”

  “Good progress,” Orno answered honestly. “By supporting other races in their claims against the Hudathans we have what should be a more than sufficient number of votes.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it,” the Queen replied, “especially in light of earlier failures. And the ships required for transport? What of them?”

  Orno swallowed. The mention of his earlier failures, especially with others in attendance, was no accident. The Queen was delivering notice. There would be no leniency where future mishaps were concerned. “Efforts to secure all or part of the Sheen fleet via political means have met with failure.”

  The Queen fastened Orno with the Ramanthian equivalent of a frown. Her attendants listened intently. “So, functionary Orno, how will my eggs arrive on the planets you hope to acquire? Will the Qwa carry them home?”

  The retainers laughed. Not only had all of the birdlike Qwa been killed off millennia before, they ate Ramanthian eggs, and could hardly be trusted to carry them from one place to another. Orno struggled to keep his voice level. “Political means having failed, it’s my intention to steal the ships and bring them to Hive.”

  The Queen looked as surprised as she felt. “Won’t the Confederacy object?”

  “Yes,” Orno admitted, “they will. But that’s a risk we have to take. Given the number of ships lost during the recent war, and production delays, we have very little choice.”

  “You astound me,” the Queen said thoughtfully. “It appears that the Ramanthian representative to the Confederacy is either a genius or a fool.”

  “I prefer the former, Majesty,” Orno put forward, “if the Queen will pardon me for saying so.”

  The Queen, who was not known for her sense of humor, laughed anyway. “Assuming you obtain those planets, and assuming you deliver those ships, I will forgive anything you might think, do, or say. Do I make myself clear?”

  Orno bent a leg. “Yes, Majesty, very clear.

  PLANET HUDATHA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The Valley of Harmonious Conflict had been created by a meteor strike many thousands of years before. Cliffs, some of which played host to clumps of gray foliage, circled the valley like arms of stone. Nestled within the ancient crater, protected from the worst of the unpredictable winds, was a Hudathan military base.

  During feudal times the huge depression had been the site of many battles, culminating in the horror known as the Harvest of a Million Heads. A slaughter in which thousands of aristocrats died, leaving many of clans without effective leadership.

  It was in the wake of that battle that a single government was born, a tripartite structure consisting of three individuals, each representing a group of clans, each having a single vote. Now, with one of the positions having been open for the better part of a year, it was time to name his replacement.

  Snowflakes circled the valley as if unsure of where they should land, dusted thousands of onlookers, or joined the crust that already covered the ground. A trumpet blew, and the simple rise and fall of the notes sent a chill down Hiween Doma-Sa’s spine as he and the venerable Ikor Infana-Ka looked out over the silent multitude and waited for the newest member of the triad to join them on the raised platform.

  Boots crunched through snow and leather squeaked as Horo Hasa-Ba made the symbolic journey from the ranks of his ancestral clan, through the passageway that separated civilians from the military, and across the openness beyond. A file of soldiers, each representing a different clan, marched behind. The fact that they were there, at Hasa-Ba’s back, signaled mutual trust. No small thing in a society where paranoia was the norm.

  Doma-Sa, who harbored grave reservations regarding the triad’s newest member, watched the processional with something akin to dread. Like most Hudathan males, Hasa-Ba was big, about three hundred standard pounds, and extremely strong. His skin, which would turn white when exposed to high temperatures, was currently gray, and with the exception of the leather straps that crisscrossed his chest, and the clan cape that fell back from his shoulders, he wore nothing above the waist.

  In contrast to his body, Hasa-Ba’s head was unusually small, which when combined with prominent dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of his skull, gave rise to the nickname “Hatchet Head,” gifted to him by his playmates, and which the newest member of the triad had never been able to shake.

  Regardless of appearances, however, Doma-Sa knew that Hasa-Ba was a force to be reckoned with. First he was strong, having risen through the notoriously competitive ranks of the Hudathan military machine to achieve the rank of War Commander in less time than it had taken Doma-Sa, which was no small accomplishment.

  Then, in contrast with many of his peers, Hasa-Ba was smart, something he had proven not only at the Hudathan War College, but later, when as the leader of a task force sent to attack a Thraki outpost, he used some of their own transports to land unopposed. That required imagination—not something Hudathan officers were known for.

  But of most concern, to Doma-Sa at least, was the fact that Hasa-Ba was ruthless, a quality generally admired by Hudathans, but one which in combination with a raging xenophobia had resulted in two disastrous wars and a period of enforced isolation from which the race had only now started to emerge.

  It was that, combined with Hasa-Ba’s incessant calls for “full autonomy,” by which he meant restoration of the Hudathan navy, and a return to the truculence of the past, that gave Doma-Sa reason to worry.

  Not only did he fear the possibility of another self-destructive war; Doma-Sa was concerned lest Hasa-Ba’s radicalism divert energy away from efforts to deal with the true enemy, which was the solar system into which the Hudathan race had been born.

  Hudatha’s sun was 29 percent larger than Earth’s and locked into a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary. The Jovians’ centers were only 173,600 standard miles apart, which when combined with other planets in the solar system, caused Hudatha to oscillate around the following Trojan point, causing a wildly fluctuating climate.

  Even now, as the newest member of the triad mounted the platform, the weather had begun to change. The clouds seemed to melt away, the sun came out, and the ground started to steam. Seen from the platform it appeared as though thousands of souls had emerged from the blood-soaked ground to take their places among the living.

  Now, as Hasa-Ba stood in full view of the globe-shaped cameras that floated over th
e crowd, it was time for the formal investiture.

  Ifana-Ka, still suffering from a wound sustained more than fifty years before, was too frail to stand. His body seemed smaller now—as if years of suffering had consumed part of his substance. But there was no denying the strength of the personality that projected itself through the old warrior’s eyes. The speech was short, characteristically conservative, and to the point. “We live in troubled times. Adversity threatens from every side. If there is a single word that could be used to characterize our race that word would be ‘strength.’ Mental strength, physical strength, and moral strength. All attributes that the newest member of the Hudathan triad is known for. The people have spoken through the clans—and a decision has been rendered. It is my pleasure to welcome Horo Hasa-Ba to the highest office any Hudathan can aspire to.”

  Had the audience been exclusively military, the traditional cry of “Blood!” would have been heard. But, given the crowd’s mixed makeup, a chant took its place. “Hasa-Ba! Hasa-Ba! Hasa-Ba!”

  Pleased by the response, and eager to impose his personality on the Hudathan people, Hasa-Ba took two paces forward. The cameras rose, refocused, and beamed his image to satellites. They relayed the pictures to millions around the world.

  “Thank you,” Hasa-Ba said, his heavily amplified voice echoing off the surrounding cliffs. “There is no greater honor than to serve the Hudathan people, no better time to serve them than in their greatest hour of need, and no greater purpose than the full restoration of their honor and freedom.”

  The crowd roared its approval. In spite of the fact that the majority of Hudathans approved of the more moderate policies pursued by Infana-Ka and Doma-Sa during the last year, and appreciated the extent to which membership in the Confederacy had improved the quality of their lives, the “strategy of accommodation,” as it was known, still rankled. A sentiment that Hasa-Ba was well aware of and hoped to exploit.

  Surprised by both the speed with which the newcomer had launched his attack, and by the sheer effrontery of the other Hudathan’s effort, Doma-Sa remained silent as the mob continued to cheer.

  Meanwhile, high above, the clouds reappeared. The sun, its warmth diminished, suddenly disappeared. A wind pushed in from the north, snow started to fly, and a shroud fell over the land. Below, their bones locked in ice, a million warriors continued to sleep.

  2

  * * *

  There’s only one thing worse than diplomacy, and that is war.

  Moolu Rasha Anguar

  Second President of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  Standard year 2622

  * * *

  THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR (CR-9765)

  There was no fast way to get from the Legion’s headquarters on Algeron to a Rim world like LaNor. Not for a “zero-gee” second lieutenant like Antonio (Tony) Santana, who had no pull whatsoever.

  Not only that, but given the fact that there was little more than a handful of legionnaires on LaNor, the navy had no reason to send more than the occasional transport there. That left the officer to make his own way using what the regs referred to as “appropriate civilian transportation,” which in this case turned out to be a berth on a decrepit tramp freighter.

  The Rim Queen, as her crew of misfits called her, had been old back before the first Hudathan war, and now, more than seventy-five years later, it was a miracle that she could still complete a hyperspace jump. However, thanks to round-the-clock maintenance and a seemingly endless supply of good luck, the old lady was still in service.

  Though normally quite curious, especially where a new posting was concerned, the impromptu farewell party had gone long into the second watch, and the legionnaire was tired. For that reason he slept through the first part of the trip down to LaNor’s surface and was still in dreamland when a hand touched his shoulder. “Hey, Tony, time to wake up. Welcome to LaNor.”

  Santana opened his eyes, found himself looking up at the Queen’s first officer, and remembered the last time he’d seen her from that particular angle. She’d been naked then, her pink-tipped breasts surging up and down as her thighs clamped the outside surface of his hips. The lovemaking had been good, very good, and the highlight of an otherwise unremarkable trip. Her name was Cass, Molly Cass, and she could read his mind. “Yeah, that was fun wasn’t it? Too bad you have to play soldier. I wasn’t done with you yet.”

  Santana raised an eyebrow. “No? Perhaps a going-away present would be in order.”

  Cass shook her head and backed away. “Sorry, Tony, but you have a reception party waiting outside, and I have cargo to off-load. Maybe next time.”

  Santana knew there would be no “next time,” and that it was her way of putting some distance between them. He nodded agreeably and yawned. Then, having released the four-point harness, he stood. The legionnaire was six-two, reasonably well built, and attired in one of his best uniforms. It fitted his body like a glove and bore the razor-sharp creases expected of a professional officer. Cass liked it. She waved, ducked into the control room, and closed the door.

  Carry-on in hand, the legionnaire made his way forward, stepped out through the lock, and felt the sun hit him like a hammer. It was just shy of noon in the foreign city of Mys on a hot summer day. The bright sunlight, combined with what could only be described as a pervasive stench, caused him to pause. The smell, which was one part coal smoke, one part raw sewage, and one part mystery, hung heavy in the unmoving air.

  The officer had just started to scan his surroundings, when a noncom marched up from the right, stopped with a flourish, and executed a smart left-face. The salute was perfect. He wore the Legion’s traditional white kepi, a khaki uniform, and the cap badge that denoted membership in the First Foreign Cavalry Regiment, or First REC. His face was hard and lean, his eyes were bright, and his skin had a leathery look. “Corporal Dietrich, sir, welcome to LaNor.”

  Santana returned the salute, made his way down the short flight of roll-up stairs, and said, “At ease, Corporal, glad to meet you. So, where exactly am I?”

  Dietrich, who had rather high standards where officers were concerned, liked what he saw. Most second lieutenants were green as Earth grass, spent half their time looking scared, and the other half looking stupid. But this one wore six ribbons over his left shirt pocket. A single glance was sufficient to inform the noncom that Santana had seen combat during the mutiny, had fought the Thrakies, and won a medal. Not just any medal, but Medal for Valor (MFV), the third highest decoration the Confederacy had to give.

  So, why was the incoming officer a second louie? Anybody with that kind of time in, plus an MFV, should be a first lieutenant by now. There had to be a reason, and Dietrich was determined to find out what it was. “We’re in the city of Mys, sir. That’s the Confederacy’s embassy, that’s the parade ground, and that’s the Legion’s barracks.”

  Santana followed the legionnaire’s finger from point to point. A small part of the parade ground was visible through a formal arch and shimmered in the sun.

  The barracks were a good deal larger than he would have expected and made of the same stone as the embassy minus the architectural details.

  The fact that Dietrich had ignored the formal garden off to the right, an outdoor pavilion, and any number of other structures to focus on the features most likely to interest a soldier was both amusing and promising.

  Given the ribbons Dietrich wore on his chest, the corporal had seen combat in the last war, and given the fact that there wasn’t so much as a trace of green among the multicolored rectangles, it was clear than none of them were for good conduct. The officer nodded. “That’s a good beginning, thanks. Where do I report?”

  “Over at the barracks, sir. Major Miraby is over at the embassy—but Captain Seeba-Ka is in his office.”

  Some of the Hudathans who had been integrated into the Legion to fight the Thrakies had resigned at the end of the war, but a surprising number had elected to stay. Although Santana had never served under a Hudathan, he ha
d served under a Ramanthian, and lived to regret it. Careful to keep his face expressionless, he nodded. “Good enough . . . any idea where my gear might be?”

  Dietrich stuck two fingers into his mouth and produced a loud whistle. Santana heard metal squeak and turned just in time to see a heavily loaded wheelbarrow round the shuttle’s stern and come his way. The conveyance was propelled by a frail-looking LaNorian of indeterminate age. The porter was dressed in a conical hat, a sweat-soaked singlet, and baggy trousers.

  Not having seen a LaNorian before, Santana was interested to see that the native had a high forehead, eyes set diagonal to his face, six opposing nostril slits, and a thin-lipped mouth. His ears, which stuck straight out from the sides of his head, gave the LaNorian a sort of elfin look. However, rather than being made of cartilage, they consisted of stiff featherlike structures.

  The LaNorian brought the wheelbarrow to a halt, came to rigid attention, and produced a serviceable salute. Dietrich grinned. “This is Daw Clo, sir. We all chip in to pay his salary.”

  Santana had reservations about the use of civilians, especially indig civilians, in and around a military barracks, but was careful to keep his mouth shut. The situation at every command was different, and it was always best to carry out a reconnaissance prior to attacking the status quo. He returned the salute. “Glad to meet you, Daw Clo. My name is Santana, Lieutenant Santana.”

  It wasn’t clear if the LaNorian understood standard, or was responding to the officer’s tone, but the result was the same. The porter grabbed the handlebars, aimed the one-wheeled conveyance at the barracks, and set off. The squeak came at regular intervals.

  Santana, with Dietrich at his side, followed. Had he turned to look back over his shoulder, the legionnaire would have seen Cass standing hands on hips at the center of the shuttle’s main lock. But he didn’t look back, so Cass turned away. There was work to do . . . and damned few people to do it.