It was a long hard ride from the foreign city of Mys to the ancient ruins of Tankor, which meant that Ambassador Regar Batth was tired by the time he finally arrived. Tired and sore since the Ramanthian diplomat was not accustomed to riding on anything more exotic than a conference room bench.
The diplomat’s party included one of Regar’s two lifemates, the military officer known as Hakk Batth, or the War Batth, along with six heavily armed warriors. They passed between a pair of ancient columns and followed an overgrown road toward the shattered building beyond. The structure’s base was intact if somewhat overgrown, but the dome, or what remained of it, resembled a broken eggshell. A single tree had grown up through the hole, night birds circled above, and insects hummed.
The Ramanthian thought the place was empty at first, and was starting to wonder if the long arduous journey had been for nothing when his mount uttered a characteristic “Reeep!” and was answered from deep inside the ruins.
Then, as the off-worlders neared the temple complex itself, LaNorians seemed to materialize as if summoned from the soil itself. They made no attempt to interfere, but stood where they were, eyes following the Ramanthians like so many gunsights. The feeling of antipathy was so intense that a chill ran through the ambassador’s nervous system and he questioned the decision to come.
A drum stared to pound, and the rhythmic thump, thump, thump matched Hakk Batth’s heartbeat. The War Batth heard a series of telltale clicks as his warriors released the safeties on their weapons and murmured into his headset. “Steadddy . . . They want to intimidate us. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
The ambassador heard the instruction via the earphones fastened to both sides of his thorax, took comfort in the knowledge that his mate was there to protect his back, and focused on the scene before him. The more he could observe, the more he could take in, the more successful the mission would be.
All of the Claw, for that’s what the Ramanthian ambassador knew them to be, were male. They wore red turbans, red sashes around their waists, and carried a wild assortment of weapons. Swords were common, as were spears and muzzle-loading muskets. Less common, but present nonetheless, were a scattering of only slightly outdated assault rifles, grenade launchers, and at least one shoulder-launched missile (SLM).
The more modern armaments appeared to be of human manufacture, and it seemed safe to assume that the weapons had been acquired from what the soft bodies referred to as the Syndicate.
The Ramanthians passed through the space once occupied by a pair of massive gates into a passageway lined with inward-facing loopholes, then out into a circular area once protected by the dome. The right side, the spot where the roof had collapsed, was littered with shoulder-high mounds of rubble. They had a uniform appearance, as if someone had sifted through the debris, taken whatever it was they were after, and left the rest. A member of the Claw stood astride one of the piles, the barrel of his assault rifle pivoting along with the razbul mounts, his eyes like chunks of coal.
The drum was louder now as the Ramanthians turned to the left, circled a large heap of stones, and entered the Claw encampment. There was a large open area, swept clean by the look of it, and a fire around which the gloom had started to gather. A chair sat beyond and might have been occupied, though it was difficult to see through the flames.
A half dozen LaNorians came forward, struck each razbul behind the front left knee, and watched with unabashed curiosity as the insectlike aliens backed off their mounts. Then, once the Ramanthians had dismounted and their mounts had been led away, one of the Claw gestured for Regar Batth to follow. Hakk Batth and his warriors had little choice but to remain where they were.
The Ramanthian embassy had a generous budget where matters of intelligence were concerned, which meant that Batth already knew a great deal about the tall austere figure who rounded the fire to greet him. Born to minor nobility but orphaned during the plague still referred to as the great darkness, Lak Saa came under the authority of a paternal uncle who, in his role of guardian, had “given” his nephew to the Imperial Court and thereby acquired title to the youngster’s estate.
By long tradition most of the Emperor’s closest advisors and functionaries were eunuchs, voluntarily sacrificing their sexuality in return for the power and wealth available to those within the Imperial Court.
There were exceptions, however—especially where “gifts” such as Lak Saa were concerned. At the age of ten the youngster was forcibly castrated, enrolled as a page, and thereby inducted into the dangerous world of Imperial politics.
Eventually, having risen through the bureaucratic ranks on the strength of his intelligence and guile, Lak Saa became one of the Emperor’s most trusted advisors. A position which the supreme one’s first concubine, later to become the Empress Shi Huu, was quick to resent. Not only did her views vary from Lak Saa’s, but she was jealous of his power and afraid of what he might eventually do to her.
So, when the Emperor died, and power devolved to Shi Huu, one of the first things she did was to send assassins against Lak Saa.
But the eunuch, who was a master of the martial art called Tro Wa (the Claw) killed the assassins with his bare hands, sent their heads to Shi Huu, and left Polwa for the countryside where the movement known as the Claw was born.
Nor was “the Claw” a purely figurative term, for as Batth drew closer to the rebel leader he saw that the nails on each of the LaNorian’s middle fingers had been allowed to grow into six-inch-long hooks or “claws,” which, having been reinforced with thin strips of carefully layered animal bone, were said to be strong as steel.
The Ramanthian had doubts about that, but could certainly see how lethal such weapons could be, and was impressed by the sacrifice involved since the claws would make it difficult for the Tro Wa master to use his hands. The claws remained at Lak Saa’s side as he bowed from the waist. He spoke good if somewhat accented standard. “Greetings and welcome to the temple of Tankor. My name is Lak Saa.”
The diplomat bent a knee in the Ramanthian equivalent of a bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Minister Lak Saa. My name is Regar Batth. I represent the Ramanthian people.”
“I no longer hold ministerial rank,” Lak Saa said matter-of-factly, “but serve my people as a ‘gudar,’ or advisor.”
Batth had reason to believe that Lak Saa’s ambitions were a good deal more lofty than the title of “advisor” but kept such thoughts to himself. Now that he had been in close physical proximity to the rebel leader for a few minutes he could detect the harsh acidic smell of urine. An odor he had experienced on previous occasions while in the company of Imperial eunuchs. It seemed that their surgeries, most of which were quite brutal, left many of them at least partially incontinent. Still another payment for position and power. The Ramanthian bowed for the second time. “Thank you for clarifying your status. The LaNorian people are fortunate to have such an extremely well qualified advisor.”
Lak Saa bowed in acknowledgment, a turbaned follower rushed to fetch a chair, and Batth was interested to see that while crude, the chair was a good-faith replica of the Ramanthian bench-style seats back at the embassy. How did they know? The answer was obvious, and the diplomat made a mental note to dismiss all of the LaNorian help.
Batth slid onto the chair, allowed it to take his weight, and watched his host settle himself into the large thronelike chair. The drum had fallen silent, the fire crackled wildly as a Claw warrior dumped more wood on it, and a bird called from somewhere beyond the wall. Much to the diplomat’s surprise Lak Saa came straight to the point. “I understand that representatives of your race have established factories south of here.”
Batth inclined his head. “Yes, that is correct.”
Lak Saa raised his left hand. One of the Tro Wa approached. He held a bundle in his arms. A single snap of the LaNorian’s wrist was sufficient to send four objects tumbling onto the hard-packed earth. “What,” the rebel leader asked, “are they?”
Once again Batth was
struck by the extent to which the Claw had penetrated off-world affairs all the way down to furniture they used and the types of products they chose to manufacture. The Ramanthian pointed to each item. “That’s a can of wing wax. Members of my race rub it onto their wings in order to keep them supple. The concave pumice stones are used to smooth our exoskeletons and remove irregularities. Once the surface has been prepared we apply the substance contained in that tube to remoisturize our chitin and make it shine.”
“And the last item?” Lak Saa asked, pointing to a tool with a curved tip. “What is that used for?”
“Our young molt,” Batth replied patiently, “meaning that they shed their exoskeletons as their internal organs grow. The process can be uncomfortable. Molt picks are used to remove sections of chitin that refuse to come off on their own.”
“So,” Lak Saa said thoughtfully, “let’s see if I understand. Having developed the ability to travel among the stars, the Ramanthian people make use of it to reach LaNor, where they proceed to manufacture molt picks. You will excuse me if I say that this seems very strange.”
A lump had formed in Batth’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. In two lightning strokes a Rim world primitive had sliced his way to within inches of the great secret. With some 5 billion new Ramanthians on the way, his race would need everything including 5 billion molt picks. Certain things, electronics for example, had to be fabricated by the Ramanthians themselves. So, with no excess production capacity to call on, it was logical, not to mention less expensive, to manufacture everyday utensils off-planet. He couldn’t say that, however, not without revealing more than he should, so a partial truth would have to suffice. He offered the equivalent of a shrug. “It would be necessary to pay a Ramanthian twice as much to make the same products.”
It was Lak Saa’s experience that profit was a strong motive, and he raised a languid hand. “Thank you for your honesty. I suspect that the pay differential is a bit larger than you indicated but take no offense. Merchants, successful merchants, must guard such information.
Batth inclined his head. “Thank you. The gudar is most perceptive.”
“So,” the LaNorian said, switching to the Imperial “we,” “now that we understand what you are asking our people to manufacture and why, it’s time to discuss how.
“Life is rife with peril. Workers fail to show up, supplies go astray, and factories burn down. All of which have a negative effect on profits.”
Batth gave a small sigh of relief. It could have been worse. The LaNorian was running what amounted to a protection racket. Annoying but well within the parameters of what he was prepared to deal with. “Yes, the gudar is correct. Such occurrences can be most disruptive. I wonder what, if anything, he would advise?”
Though prepared to kill the Ramanthians, and bury their bodies deep, Lak Saa liked Batth. The off-worlder demonstrated an almost LaNorian understanding of graft and was possessed of a polite and circumspect manner. Virtues rare among off-world devils. Consequently, the rebel leader decided to move ahead.
“My people have a saying . . . ‘Friends are the best insurance that one can have.’ Friends share information, friends defend each other from harm, and friends look to the future.”
The Ramanthian listened carefully. It appeared that the LaNorian wanted to exchange intelligence, obtain more off-world weapons, and lay the groundwork for a potential alliance. “We’re of a mind,” Batth replied firmly. “An ongoing exchange of information is one of the hallmarks of friendship, as is a commitment to mutual defense. In fact, if the gudar allows, it would be my pleasure to present him with a gift of friendship.”
Pleased by the graceful phraseology, and by his guest’s adherence to LaNorian etiquette, Lak Saa inclined his head.
Though prohibited from landing outside the confines of Mys, the Ramanthian assault boat had been present throughout the conversation, ready to pounce should the diplomat require assistance.
The whine of engines was heard as the ship arrived from the west, produced six blindingly bright spotlights, and lowered itself toward the ground. Dust swirled, sparks twisted up out of the fire, a flock of birds took to the air as the skids touched down.
There was a loud bang! as one of the Claw fired a musket, and the air was filled with the sound of squalling mounts as the razbuls charged from one end of their pen to the other.
Lak Saa felt fear stab his belly as the aircraft appeared out of the darkness above, knew he had underestimated the opposition, and resolved never to make the same mistake again. Apparently unmoved, he raised a claw. His subordinates saw the movement, realized their mistake, but were unsure of what to do. Many continued to aim their weapons at the spacecraft.
Metal creaked as the full weight of the assault boat settled onto the skids, the engines cycled down, and the main hatch swung open. Ambassador Batth slipped back off his chair. “With the gudar’s permission, my military attaché would like to demonstrate one of our gifts.”
Lak Saa had little choice but to give consent. Together, the strange twosome walked over to the spot where a crate had been off-loaded onto the ground. Heat continued to radiate off the black matte hull, and metal pinged as it cooled.
One of Hakk Batth’s warriors managed to pop the top off the crate, allowing his officer to reach deep within. The weapon he withdrew was a Ramanthian-made Negar III general-purpose assault rifle converted for LaNorian use. It could fire six hundred rounds per minute (cyclic) using thirty-five-round magazines, with a muzzle velocity of twenty-four hundred standard feet per second. Far from the best that the Ramanthians had to offer but a sturdy weapon that had proven itself on more than one backward planet.
The War Batth checked the action, slammed a magazine into the slot at the bottom of the receiver, and managed to pull the charging lever back in spite of the fact that it had been shortened for use by LaNorians. The bolt made a clacking sound as it rammed a bullet into the firing chamber, and the weapon was ready to fire.
Then, making use of the translator snapped to the front of his combat harness, the Ramanthian spoke. “Please choose a target . . . Anything within the temple.”
There was no reason for Lak Saa to make the task easy, so he didn’t. The LaNorian pointed a talon toward the far side of the plaza, where a male stood among the shadows. “Shoot him in the thigh.”
The rebel in question gave a start, fought the temptation to run, and came to something like attention.
The War Batth recognized the unfortunate individual as the same person who had fired his musket without permission, turned to the Batth for permission, and saw the diplomat nod.
Though modified for LaNorian use, there was no denying the fact that the weapon was of Ramanthian design. The stock fit his shoulder to perfection, his tool hand caressed the unprotected trigger, and the target swam into the center of the sight. The warrior took a deep breath, let it out, and touched the trigger.
There was a sharp cracking sound as the slug whipped across the courtyard, blew a hole through the offender’s leg, and dumped him on the ground.
Then, flicking a lever to full automatic, the officer fired one long thirty-four round burst. Dirt geysered all around the prostrate body, but not one of slugs actually struck it.
Once the magazine was empty, the War Batth sent it clattering to the ground and slammed another into place. Then, performing a smart left-face, he took two steps forward and presented the rifle to the LaNorian leader.
It was the Ramanthian diplomat who spoke. “Please accept this rifle plus those that remain in the crate as evidence of our friendship.”
Lak Saa took the weapon, sampled its heft, and passed it on to an assistant. The weapon was clearly quite superior to those purchased from the Syndicate gunrunners, and the rebel was impressed. A fact which he was careful to conceal. “Not bad for a clearly outmoded weapon. Please join me for some tea.”
The better part of two hours had passed, and the teapot had been refilled on numerous occasions by the time negotiations
were finally complete. In return for assurances that nothing untoward would happen where the Ramanthian factories were concerned, Batth had agreed to deliver a constant flow of information regarding affairs within the foreign city of Mys, ten thousand assault rifles, 2 million rounds of ammunition, a supply of surface-to-air missiles (SAMs), plus an adequate number of spare parts.
Both sides felt good about the outcome and parted company with a heightened sense of respect for the other. The Ramanthians spent the night, rose to find that the Claw had disappeared, and rode toward the east.
And so it was that the sun rose, insects circled a pool of dried blood, and thirty-five brass casings lay scattered on the ground. Still, it was but one more day in the temple’s long tumultuous life, and barely worth notice. It dozed in the heat.
3
* * *
All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him. If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.
Sun Tzu
The Art of War
Standard year circa 500 B.C.
* * *
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
When the Imperial troops came they did so with a great deal of fanfare. Cannons boomed, firecrackers popped, gongs rang, trumpets blew, flags snapped, and what seemed like an endless stream of orders were shouted as an enormous column of soldiers approached Mys from the north. The formation was twelve troopers wide and appeared to be at least three miles long. Once the phalanx drew within a quarter mile of the North Gate it split into two columns. One went east, and the other went west, both following the thirty-foot-high defensive wall south toward the Jade River.
For More Than Glory Page 6