Captain Drik Seeba-Ka, holder of the Confederacy’s Distinguished Service Order (DSO), and the second-ranking legionnaire on the surface of LaNor, was sitting behind his massive desk trying to wade through the administrative crap that Miraby loved so much when there were three raps on his door. “Enter!”
The door opened, a second lieutenant appeared, took three steps forward, and snapped to attention. “Sir! Second Lieutenant Antonio Santana reporting for duty, sir!”
Seeba-Ka looked to see if the human was wearing an academy ring, saw that he wasn’t, and found that interesting. Most ring knockers, especially the junior ones, wore their rings by way of a status symbol. Not good, not bad, but interesting. “At ease, Lieutenant . . . and welcome to LaNor.”
Though somewhat sibilant, Santana noticed that Seeba-Ka had an excellent command of standard. The junior officer moved his left foot eighteen inches to the left and clasped his hands behind his back. Many officers, hell most officers, would have invited him to sit down. Seeba-Ka hadn’t. Why?
The Hudathan stood. An old-fashioned fan hummed in a corner but only served to move the air rather than cool it. Thus, the officer’s skin was white. The prominent supraorbital ridge, deep sunken eyes, and tightly stretched skin were intimidating enough. The sheer size of his body was even more so. His uniform looked as if it had been sprayed on. That, plus the service ribbons, and his general demeanor all added up to the same thing: The captain was a tight-assed, locked-down, by-the-book cavalry officer. But Santana knew that appearances can be and often are deceiving. All he could do was wait and see.
The Hudathan used an enormous finger to tap the olive drab field comp that rested on the surface of his desk. “We don’t get a lot of ships out here, but the message torps arrive on a regular basis. Your P-1 arrived a week ago. It made for some interesting reading. You went to the academy, graduated just in time to fight the mutineers, and took part in the assault on the Noam Industrial Complex.
“During that engagement you were wounded, but in spite of that wound went out under heavy fire to retrieve a Trooper II’s brain box, and successfully brought her out.
“Subsequent to that battle you were awarded the MFV and promoted to first lieutenant. All very commendable.”
Seeba-Ka turned at that point, walked to the open window, and looked out through the peace arch to the parade ground beyond. The Clones were out there, yelling cadences and running through their daily physical training (PT). The fact that the Hudathan could stand there, with his back fully exposed, testified to the manner in which the officer had been assimilated into the Legion. His comments seemed to be addressed to the entire world. “So, having distinguished yourself on Earth, you were assigned to lead the second platoon of D Company, Second Battalion, First REC, just before it landed on Clone World Beta-018, then occupied by the Thrakies.
“Subsequent to that landing, D Company, then under the command of a Ramanthian officer named Hakk Batth, was ordered to march overland and attack an enemy outpost designated AD-14.
“Once in position, Captain Hakk Batth ordered you to take your platoon to the east side of AD-14, dig in, and hold. His call sign was ‘hammer.’ Yours was ‘anvil.’
“The plan was for the First platoon, under Batth’s command, to engage the enemy, drive them out of their fortified position, and into your arms. At that point you were to call upon them to surrender, and failing that, to engage.”
The words took Santana back in time. He could feel the snow give under his boots, see the puffs of lung-warmed air in front of his face, and hear the rattle of automatic weapons as the First platoon opened up on the Thraki compound.
AD-14 consisted of a small cluster of prefab domes, weapons emplacements at each corner, and a ten-foot-high defensive wall that circled the perimeter. Numerous repairs had been made, and it was blackened where fighters had hit it from the air, but the structure still stood.
However, assuming the spooks at Battalion HQ knew what they were talking about, the most important stuff was hidden away below the surface. No one knew what the “stuff” was, only that intel wanted it, and that Dog Company was supposed to bring it in.
The ground shook as the Trooper IIs loosed their shoulder-launched missiles, a weapons emplacement took a direct hit, and blew with a loud whump! Not far away, on the other side of the enemy compound, there was another flash as a hundred-foot-tall antenna toppled toward the north.
Then, per Batth’s plan, the Thrakies started to bail out. A gate opened, Thrakies spilled out onto the snow-covered field, and the second platoon opened fire. But something was wrong, that’s the way it looked in any case, and Santana yelled “Cease fire!” into the boom-style mike that curved in front of his mouth.
No sooner had the second platoon obeyed his order than another voice came over the company push. “Hammer Six to Anvil Six . . . the enemy is trying to escape. Fire!”
Santana raised the electro-binoculars up to his eyes, and the Thrakies seemed to leap forward. “Anvil Six to Hammer Six. Negative enemy troops, repeat, negative enemy troops. I see females and cubs. None of them are armed.”
The reply was nearly instantaneous. “Hammer Six to Anvil Five . . . Thraki females fight alongside their males. Weapons can be concealed. Relieve Anvil Six and engage the enemy. That’s an order.”
Santana’s number two, a sergeant named Withers, turned to his platoon leader for instructions, saw the officer shrug, and looked apologetic. Then, consistent with the regs that had governed his every waking moment for the last seventeen years, he gave the necessary order. The biobods opened fire, the T-2s followed suit, and fifty-three noncombatants died.
“So,” Seeba-Ka said, turning back toward Santana, “there was a court of inquiry. Not a court-martial, because the newly formed alliance was too fragile for that, but a military court of inquiry. Batth was reprimanded for his failure to use good judgment—and you were broken to Second lieutenant for your refusal to obey a direct order. A rather lenient finding give the statement you made in which you referred to your superior officer as ‘a psychotic bug’.”
The Hudathan advanced on the more junior officer until he was only two feet away. Santana, still at ease, kept his eyes centered on the wall beyond. A plaque hung there. It read: “Legio Patria Nostra . . . The Legion Is Our Country.”
“So tell me,” Seeba-Ka said, his breath warming the side of Santana’s face, “if your previous CO was a bug, then what the hell am I? A shovel head? A lizard? Or a slope?”
It was a direct question and Santana had no choice but to answer. “Sir! The captain is a captain, sir!”
Seeba-Ka, who fully expected Santana to classify him as a Hudathan, and would have accepted that finding, was silent for a moment. Then, his eyes boring into the human’s head, he said, “That’s affirmative, Lieutenant . . . The captain is a captain. And, should you ever be so stupid as to disobey one of this captain’s orders, he will rip your head off and shit into the hole. Do you understand?”
“Sir! Yes sir!”
“Excellent. You may sit down.”
Seeba-Ka returned to the chair behind his desk as Santana took the only seat. It was hard and uncomfortable. The Hudathan leaned back and brought his thick, sausagelike fingers together to form a steeple. “Now that we have that out of the way . . . let’s talk about the present rather than the past. We may be part of a cavalry unit, but that doesn’t mean jack shit out here. LaNor is a Class III planet. That means we can’t put any weapons in orbit, we can’t make use of any aircraft other than shuttles, and we can’t land any armor over and above Trooper IIs and a few utility bots. Not a lot of hardware for legionnaires who like to ride everywhere they go.
“The good news is that the company is at full strength, a rarity on the Rim, but with one reservation. After I add your name to the table of organization (TO) I’ll still be one officer short. Lieutenant Beckworth commands the second platoon. That means you’ll take the first while First Sergeant Neversmile continues to handle the third.
In spite of the “tune-up” Seeba-Ka had administered at the beginning of the meeting, Santana was impressed by both the Hudathan’s command of standard and his forthright manner. “Sir, yes sir. How ’bout the locals, sir? The folks on the Rim Queen said there had been some trouble.”
The Hudathan nodded. “That’s correct. Soon after a survey ship stumbled across LaNor, every race you can think of started to flood in. The Confederacy came in early, but that didn’t stop the Prithians, Ramanthians, Drac, Hudathans, humans, and human clones from wanting direct representation. Accordingly, anyone who could walk, swim, or fly dropped hyper, opened an embassy, and started to take meetings with the locals. A whole shitload of corporations followed, all vying to grab concessions, secure mineral rights, and build factories.
“Then, faster than you could pull the pin on a grenade, the business types started to build railroads, introduce steam age technology, and hawk off-world luxuries. Throw in a bunch of missionaries hell-bent on trying to convert the LaNorians to off-world religions, and the poop makes contact with the fan. As things stand now the workers who were displaced by off-world technology are angry, the ruling class feels threatened, and a group called the Claw is busy trying to take advantage of the situation. But what the heck,” Seeba-Ka finished lightly, “at least we won’t get bored.”
“Sir, no sir,” Santana replied.
“Good,” the Hudathan said, rising from his chair. “There’s more, a lot more, but that can wait. It’s time to settle in. Corporal Dietrich can take you to your billet, help draw some gear, and put you in touch with First Sergeant Hillrun. Two months have passed since Lieutenant Bora-Sa rotated out—and the platoon is starting to lose its edge. See what you can do.”
Santana knew a dismissal when he heard one and came to his feet. “Yes sir.”
The junior officer came to attention, delivered a salute, and got one in return. Then, just as Santana was about to execute an about-face, Seeba-Ka spoke. “Lieutenant . . .”
“Sir?”
“There’s one more thing. There was another Santana on Beta-018. A real hard-ass named Sergeant Major Antonio Santana. A relative perhaps?”
A lump formed in Santana’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. His father, better known to his troops as “Top,” had been killed during the first hours of the assault on Beta-018. “Yes sir. My father.”
Seeba-Ka nodded. “The entire company respected him, and so did I. If you are even half the soldier your father was, then the first will be in good hands. Dismissed.”
Santana said, “Sir! Yes sir!” did an about-face, and left. Dietrich was waiting in the hall. His face was expressionless, but Santana wondered how long he’d been there—and how much he might have heard. But there was no way to know and little he could do beyond following the enlisted man down the highly buffed corridor, past the portrait of Captain Jean Danjou, and into the Legion’s well-ordered universe. His tour of duty had officially begun.
NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The high-tech prefab Bliss Industries Hab Dome boasted its own Soro Systems–manufactured computer system, which according to the company’s multitudinous marketing literature “came complete with its own high-quality security system.”
Now, as a small body triggered one of the motion detectors, and other sensors verified the intruder’s presence, an alarm began to beep. But the sound, which Bethany Busso had intentionally set low because loud noises bothered her, failed to wake anyone up.
Finally, after the mandatory ten seconds had elapsed, the mission’s artificial intelligence (AI) chose to intervene. The Bussos, who ran their family like a small democracy, had chosen a female persona for the computer, and the children named her Trudy after Aunt Trudy, who remained back on Earth. The voice was soft but insistent. “Security Zone Three has been violated . . . Security Zone Three has been violated . . . Security Zone Three has . . .”
Frank Busso slapped a button on the console next to his bed, sat up, and swung his feet to the floor. Bethany, conscious of the movement, rubbed her eyes. “Frank? What’s wrong?”
The missionary stood, grabbed his robe, and headed for the door. “The security alarm went off . . . Some sort of critter most likely. Go back to sleep.”
The vinyl floor, which was soft rather than hard, gave beneath the missionary’s feet as he left the master bedroom and padded down into what his children called the pit but the Bliss product literature referred to as “a spacious sunken living room.”
The pit was circular, like the hab itself, and was centered on a large white console. Though designed to look like a modernistic coffee table, the structure housed the majority of the dome’s electronic equipment, including Trudy’s central processing unit (CPU). Busso dropped into his favorite seat, threw his feet up onto the console, and addressed the cleverly concealed microphones. “Okay, Trudy, what’s the problem?”
The AI’s voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It was soft but firm. “An intruder penetrated Security Zones Three, Two, and is entering One. His/her body mass and heat signature is consistent with that of a LaNorian adult.”
“Gee, what a surprise,” Busso said dryly. “Here we are on LaNor, and LaNorians are skulking about.”
Trudy, who was inclined to view the world in a much more cynical light than Busso was, chose to ignore the comment. “At this point the intruder has circled around behind the residential hab and is approaching the rear entrance.”
There was a soft buzzing sound as someone pushed on the doorbell. Busso shook his head in amusement. “Polite burglars . . . what will they think of next? Video, please.”
Trudy made a connection, and a three-dimensional holo bloomed over the console. Busso saw a frightened-looking face and recognized it as belonging to one of his flock. Nuu Laa had a narrow face, large, soulful eyes, and carefully tended ear fans. Busso came to his feet. “She’s one of ours . . . Let her in.”
Trudy did as she was told, and Busso was there by the time the door opened. The missionary was good at languages and, like his wife, had a good mastery of LaNorian. “Nuu Laa . . . what’s wrong?”
It was hot and muggy outside, but the LaNorian female shook as if from the cold. “The Claw came to our home. They told my husband that we must pay money to come here or something bad will happen.”
Bethany Busso, who had been unable to go back to sleep, chose that moment to arrive. “You poor thing! Come, have a seat while I make some tea.”
Nuu Laa didn’t want any tea—but was too polite to say so. She continued to tremble as Bethany bustled around the kitchen. “Your husband,” Frank Busso said, “is he all right?”
“Yesss,” Nuu Laa said nervously, “but only if we stay away. I came to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” Busso asked. “Why would you say that? If the Claw wants money, give it to them. We’ll complain through the embassy in Mys, and the government will force them to stop.”
“Yes,” Bethany Busso added, placing a cup of tea in the female’s three-fingered hands, “Frank’s correct. In a few weeks, a month at most, the so-called Claw will be a thing of the past.”
Nuu Laa took a sip of tea, discovered that it had a calming effect, and considered what the humans had said. Though notoriously fickle in her pronouncements the sixty-five-year-old Dowager Empress Shi Huu had issued a number of edicts aimed at suppressing the Claw—and the off-worlders were powerful. Evidence of that could be seen in their flameless lanterns, pictures that moved, and medicines that made people feel better. There was one problem, however, and she was hesitant to mention it. “Yes, all that you say makes sense, but I must still say good-bye.”
“But why?” Busso demanded, his patience starting to fray.
“It’s the money, isn’t it?” Bethany Bu
sso said, her eyes on Nuu Laa’s face.
The LaNorian looked down at her lap. “Yes,” she said, her voice very small. “I’m sorry, but my husband and I cannot afford to pay to them.”
“Is that all?” Frank Busso said, coming to his feet. “Well, we can fix that.”
“We certainly can,” Bethany Busso beamed as her husband left the room. “We’re all part of one big family . . . the Transcendental family. You let us take care of the money.”
“Here you go,” Busso said, emerging from his study. He held three lengths of cord, each heavy with LaNorian coins. “You pay with these, Bethany and I will turn up the heat on the folks in Mys, and we’ll see you on five day.”
Nuu Laa accepted the rope coins, slipped them over her head, and concealed them beneath her clothes. “Thank you . . . I should go now . . . before the sun starts to rise.”
Coins clinked as Busso ushered the LaNorian out through the back door and locked it behind her. Bethany yawned. “Those Claw people are starting to get out of hand.”
“Yeah,” her husband answered, “they sure as heck are. I’ll make a call in the morning. In the meantime let’s go to bed.”
The Bussos returned to their room, told Trudy to turn off the lights, and soon fell asleep.
Meanwhile, the AI, who could “see” well beyond the limits of Security Zone Three, watched the LaNorian depart. Two additional heat signatures, both of which were larger, followed behind. Interesting but not relevant since their actions posed no danger to mission or its occupants. Consequently, the AI processed the electronic equivalent of a shrug and placed itself on standby.
Outside, beyond the dome’s walls, a pair of blood red moons rose, a momentary breeze ruffled the kas grass, and the Gee Nas River murmured toward the sea.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
It was dark inside the crate, very dark, not that a lack of light was much of a problem for a being like Chien-Chu. The onetime president of Chien-Chu Enterprises, ex–navy admiral, and the man that some people referred to as the Father of the Confederacy awoke. Chemicals flowed and systems came on-line as the machine that cradled the industrialist’s brain moved to a higher state of readiness.
For More Than Glory Page 4