Chien-Chu thought the word vision and “saw” through the vid cams mounted behind his bright blue eyes. It was pitch-black inside the shipping container, which was to be expected. He thought the word time and was rewarded with a digital readout that appeared in the lower right quadrant of his vision: 0400. It was time to go to work.
But first, prior to his “arrival” in Mys, the cyborg decided to make sure that his ship, a small but highly sophisticated vessel named after his wife, had arrived in orbit. A radio was activated, code was sent, and an acknowledgment was returned. When and if he needed the Nola, she would be ready to respond.
Satisfied that everything was as it should be, the cyborg raised a power-assisted arm, felt the packing material give way, and punched his fist through the side of the crate. Something his original body, the one that died from a massive heart attack many years before, would never have been capable of.
Another blow followed, and another, until the lid popped open. That was the moment when the things that were warm mapped themselves onto Chien-Chu’s infrared vision and the industrialist could see. He took three steps forward and paused to look around. This particular body, the one he had chosen for the trip to Mys, resembled a rather muscular human. Anyone there to see it would have been confronted by what appeared to be a twenty-five-year-old male with blond hair and a woodenly handsome face. A rarity at one time but more and more common of late. So much so that lots of civilian borgs were out of work. A problem that played into the mission he was on.
The warehouse, just one of thousands of such structures that Chien-Chu Enterprises owned on various worlds, was relatively small. The building’s power plant was marked by a blob of green luminescence. Power lines glowed, a fan motor shimmered, and a small lime-colored animal darted across the floor. A rat or the local equivalent.
The purpose of the facility was to receive, process, and store supplies destined for the subsea exploration platform located offshore. There had been allegations, rumors really, concerning Thomas Boad, the engineer in charge of the platform, and Chien-Chu was on LaNor to check them out. An activity that both wife and niece frowned on, but he considered to be absolutely necessary. It was his experience that it’s easy for a company to be hijacked from within. All it took was one bad person. They hired more bad people, who hired more bad people, until the cancer spread throughout the entire organization.
Now, having just spent the last few weeks in a packing crate, stowed in the Rim Queen’s number two hold, the industrialist knew that at least one of the allegations lodged against the local platform manager was true. The cost of transporting new employees to Mys came out of Boad’s budget, and rather than pay full-fare passenger rates, as he was supposed to, the station boss forced cyborgs to travel as cargo and pocketed the difference.
So, given the fact that Boad already had his hand in one till, what else was he up to? Only time would tell. Later that day someone would come for “Jim James” and take him out to the platform. Once there he would have ample opportunity to observe the operation.
In the meantime the industrialist knew there was a very real possibility that Boad was “losing” equipment, which he could then sell on the black market. In order to counter that Chien-Chu planned to take a full inventory of the warehouse before the staff arrived for work. A boring project but an important one.
The cyborg went to work, the nar rat scuttled out through a hole, and the first rays of sun appeared in the east.
Santana waited for the sounds of reveille to die away, nodded to Platoon Sergeant Quickfoot Hillrun, and watched the noncom enter the long, narrow room. Except for the soft sleek fur that covered their bodies, some slight differences in dentition, and the absence of fingernails the Naa were very humanoid.
Of course anyone who had spent time on Algeron, or been stationed with Naa nationals, knew they could smell things that humans couldn’t, sense heat through the soles of their feet, and run most earthlings into the ground. All of which meant that they were among the best troops the Legion had to offer. Santana felt fortunate to have a noncom with Hillrun’s experience as his number two . . . and some Naa troopers to boot.
The door banged against the wall, Hillrun yelled, “On deck!” and went to work with the NCO version of an alarm clock. Santana thought it was amazing how much noise could be generated with a garbage can—and how much verbal abuse could be hurled in return. A folding partition served to separate the men from the women, but it was far from soundproof, and Hillrun’s wake-up call was sufficient to reach them as well. The platoon’s squad leaders added to the din by shouting orders and shaking racks.
Sixty seconds later the partition had been opened, the biobods were up and standing at attention. And that’s where they were, each soldier at the foot of his or her rack, when Santana walked in. Like Hillrun, the platoon leader was dressed in Legion T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. Most of the troops wore their skivvies although a couple sported silk pajamas purchased from LaNorian merchants.
Santana paused, said “At ease,” and walked the line. Each footlocker had a name stenciled on top of it, which made it easy for the officer to put a face with the entries on his roster. Santana said each name out loud both as a form of acknowledgment and a mnemonic device. Not counting Hillrun the platoon included thirty biobods plus two Trooper IIs, who were quartered elsewhere.
“Albro, Bays, Chan, Davis, Dietrich, Fareye, Fosky . . .” and so it went until the officer had walked the length of the room and back again. He nodded. “My name is Santana, Lieutenant Santana, your new platoon leader. Captain Seeba-Ka tells me this a good platoon, and based on what I’ve seen so far, he’s right.”
The last part was a lie, but a harmless one, and calculated to build a sense of pride. “Over the next few days I’ll find opportunities to get acquainted with each one of you, learn more about your various backgrounds, and review your training requirements.
“In the meantime Platoon Sergeant Hillrun and I would like to invite you on a morning run. The first run in what will become part of our daily routine.
“Then, after some PT, you’ll be free to hit the showers and go to chow. Squad leaders should check with Sergeant Hillrun regarding activities for the day.”
Santana allowed his eyes to drift from one face to the next. “In case you’re wondering about the emphasis on physical fitness, consider this: In spite of the fact that the First REC is a cavalry outfit, the nearest armored personnel carrier (APC) is thousands of light-years away.”
Some of the platoon chuckled, and others nodded.
“So,” Santana continued, “if we’re going to look like an infantry outfit, we’d better be able to move like one. You have ten minutes to get your running gear on and meet me at the arch. The first two legionnaires to arrive will spend the evening in the native quarter. I haven’t been there, but Sergeant Hillrun tells me that when it comes to some first-rate R&R, that’s the place to go. Dismissed.”
The platoon seemed to explode in every direction.
Fifteen minutes later Captain Seeba-Ka heard a voice calling cadence and looked out through his window in time to see Santana lead his platoon out onto the parade ground. Even the T-2s were there . . . bringing up the rear.
The Hudathan watched for a moment, uttered what might have been a grunt of approval, and turned back to his work.
The staff meeting, which was scheduled for 8 A.M. sharp, started the way it usually did, with the Foreign Services Specialists (FSSs), secretaries, and the like arriving first, Foreign Service Officers (FSOs) wandering in next, and the ambassador himself arriving fifteen minutes late.
Christine Vanderveen, a lowly FSO-5, the second lowest rung on the long multitiered ladder, arrived with the secretaries, said hello to everyone, placed her coffee mug on the conference room table, and took her favorite chair. It was positioned in the southwest corner of the aptly named Sunset Room and looked out over the neatly kept gardens, the peace arch, and the parade ground beyond. A detachment of troops could be
seen there, and thanks to the presence of the hulking T-2s, there was no doubt as to which contingent of off-worlders they belonged to.
The embassy’s computer specialist, a young woman named Imbulo, saw the direction of the FSO’s gaze and winked. She had an infectious smile, mocha-colored skin, and a body that men liked to look at. “He came in on the Rim Queen. Everyone says he’s ‘hot.’ ”
Vanderveen raised a well-plucked blond eyebrow. “‘He?’ And who might ‘he’ be?”
Imbulo laughed. “Lieutenant Antonio Santana. He has medals and everything.”
The FSO stood as if intent on getting a better look, peered out the window, and sat down again. “You must be joking . . . The lieutenant has a face like the back end of a razbul.”
The computer tech laughed again. “You’ve been out here too long. I saw the man, and he can march into my fort anytime.”
The conversation was interrupted as servos whined and Ambassador Soolu Pas Rasha entered the room. The high-tech exoskeleton fit over and around his frail, sticklike body like a form-fitting cage. A neural interface served to connect the diplomat’s nervous system to the machine’s microcomputer. Not especially pleasant, but necessary, if the Dweller wanted to leave his low-gee home world and pursue a career among the stars.
As was Pas Rasha’s habit, he sat at the far end of the long bana wood table from Vanderveen, treated the entire staff to a frown, and cleared his throat. “Good morning, everyone . . . Harley, let’s start with you.”
Harley Clauson, an FSO-2, was in charge of the Political Section, which, given the embassy’s rather modest staff, included Christine Vanderveen, two off-world FSSs, and a half dozen locals he liked to refer to as Information Specialists but were actually spies. Clauson was fifty pounds overweight, had a tendency to sweat even when the air was cool, and loved the sound of his own voice. He squinted at his comp and spoke without looking up.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador . . . Based on reports from my Information Specialists it sounds as if Claw forces continue to stage what they call spirit rallies in the outlying provinces. According to eyewitness accounts they spend most of their time leaping about, yelling various kinds of nonsense, and playing host to various spirit beings that allegedly render them invulnerable to all manner of projectiles. They also print and distribute leaflets. Christine, if you would be so kind.”
Vanderveen rose, circled the table, and provided each staff member with a facsimile of the original leaflet along with a full translation. They read: “The foreign devils continue to open missions, erect telegraphs, build railways, deny the sacred doctrine, and speak evil of the gods. Their sins are as numerous as the hairs on their heads. The people are commanded to burn the missions, cut the telegraph wires, and rip up the railroads, for such is the will of heaven.”
Pas Rasha looked up from the document in front of him. “Do you think they’re serious? Or is this more wild talk?”
Though fat, and a bit pedantic at times, Clauson was competent. “I think they mean it. Do you remember the Bussos? The TC missionaries near Nah Ree? Well, Frank Busso radioed early this morning. It seems that the Claw started what amounts to a protection racket. Local members of the Transcendental Church have to pay in order to attend services. Busso wants you to lean on the Empress.
“And that’s not all. My people say that the Claw have entered Polwa itself and are calling for ‘a cleansing by blood.’ I think we should expect a full-scale uprising.”
Pas Rasha frowned. “Let’s avoid the tendency toward hyperbole. There’s no need to exaggerate.”
Clauson, never one to defy authority, was about to apologize, when Vanderveen cleared her throat. “No offense, Mr. Ambassador . . . but Harley is correct. Take a stroll through the market in Polwa. You’ll find that the price of knives has tripled over the last two weeks.”
The ambassador allowed one of his thin, nearly invisible eyebrows to rise incrementally. “Interesting . . . but far from conclusive. If the textbooks mentioned a positive correlation between the sale of cutlery and civil unrest, I failed to notice it.”
Vanderveen made no attempt to defend herself, but Clauson shot her a grateful look, and Imbulo grinned approvingly.
Major Homer Miraby, the Legion’s ranking officer on LaNor, cleared his throat. He shaved his head every morning, and it gleamed under the overhead light. Bushy eyebrows hung over brown eyes, a large nose, and a handlebar mustache. It twitched as he spoke. “I suggest that we issue a directive to staff advising them to be especially vigilant where their personal security is concerned, send similar notification to citizens living outside the walls, and reinforce security.”
Pas Rasha nodded. “Thank you, Major, it’s always better to be safe rather than sorry.”
“And the other embassies?” Clauson inquired cautiously. “What about them?”
“Put it on the agenda for the next round table,” the ambassador replied easily. “Let’s see what they’ve heard. Who knows? Maybe we can agree on something for once.”
Vanderveen knew that the ambassador faced any number of challenges, not the least of which was the fact that the Ramanthians, Hudathans, Prithians, Thrakies, and Drac had all elected to send their own diplomats to LaNor rather than allow the Confederacy to represent them.
Surprisingly, in spite of the fact that their government remained outside of the Confederacy, the Clones were the easiest beings to get along with.
Clauson nodded, made a note, and the meeting continued.
Marcy Barnes, a thin, rather severe woman who some staffers referred to as the stick, went next. The Agricultural Service, for which the FSO-4 had responsibility, was something of a backwater since the studies that might eventually enable the LaNorians to import and export food products had not even been started yet.
That didn’t stop the agriculturist from delivering a fifteen-minute lecture on the wonders of kas, the grasslike plant from which the LaNorians harvested most of their grain, and upon which they were dependent for most of their food. The FSO claimed it was better than rice, could be used in hundreds of ways, and urged the staff to try it. Most of the staff already had, but Barnes insisted on downloading select recipes to their comps and urged everyone to provide her with feedback.
A big bear of a man named Yvegeniy Kreshenkov went next. He was in charge of the Science and Technology Section, and, with help from Willard Tran, the FSO having responsibility for Economics, had written a report titled: “The LaNorian Wheel Tax.”
Pas Rasha raised an eyebrow as the title page appeared on his comp. “What is this? Some sort of joke?”
Kreshenkov, who was well-known for his sense of humor, shook his shaggy head. He had green eyes and they seemed to dart from face to face. “No, sir. The fact that LaNor is a Class III world, and should have developed into a Class IV by now, has everything to do with the wheel tax. As you know the Imperial government derives a significant portion of its annual revenues from a rather high tax which is levied on each wheel that an individual owns regardless of size or purpose.
“Each wheel is taxed at a flat rate of twenty plaks per year or approximately one-fifth of the average per capita income. That’s why there are millions of wheelbarrows, thousands of two-wheeled carts, and hundreds of four-wheeled wagons in Mys and Polwa combined. All of which drives a lot of other things. That’s why Willard and I decided to examine the tax’s deeper implications.”
Vanderveen listened intently as the other FSOs took turns explaining their thesis. The essence of their argument was that the imposition of the rigorously policed wheel tax resulted in numerous unintended consequences.
The first of these was the creation of a large, top-heavy bureaucracy dedicated to tracking how many wheels each person owned, collecting the requisite tax, and punishing those who attempted to cheat.
In fact, based on Willard’s calculations, it appeared as though the organization created to enforce the wheel tax spent one-third of all the revenues collected on salaries and expenses.
The second problem was the manner in which the wheel tax slowed pretelegraph communications, acted to inhibit trade, and fostered regionalism.
The third difficulty, and the one that caused Kreshenkov to become visibly angry, was the way in which the wheel tax acted to inhibit technology overall. “Imagine an old-fashioned pocket watch from the late 1800s,” the technologist said passionately. “Each and every one of those suckers included a crown shaped like a wheel, an escape wheel, a balance wheel, and half a dozen gear wheels. Under LaNorian law each and every one of those wheels would be taxed at the rate of twenty plaks a year. Nobody could afford one, so why attempt to build it?
“But that’s not all,” Kreshenkov continued earnestly. “The ability to measure time lays the groundwork for hourly wages, accurate navigation, advances in medicine, and Lord knows what else. And that’s just one application of the wheel, remembering that there are thousands more.”
“So,” Willard continued, “here’s the so what of all this . . . We suggest that the Political Section attempt to educate the Empress and her key advisors regarding the negatives associated with the wheel tax—and put forward the following alternative: By removing the wheel tax, and switching to a sales tax on non–food-related items, the government could stimulate innovation, increase the amount of revenue they collect, and not put anyone out of work. Not for a while at any rate.
There was silence for a moment, Vanderveen started to clap, and even Pas Rasha joined in. Both Kreshenkov and Tran beamed. There were times, rare though they might be, when being a diplomat actually felt good.
APPROXIMATELY TWENTY-TWO STANDARD MILES WEST OF THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
For More Than Glory Page 5