Hixon wasn’t used to having officers ask her opinion regarding military matters, much less the view. She looked startled. “Sir, yes sir.”
“Any contact with the Ramanthians?”
By virtue of a long-standing arrangement, guard duty was generally shared by two and sometimes three off-world military organizations. On that particular night the Legion had been teamed with the Ramanthians . . . an arrangement that Santana viewed with a considerable amount of skepticism. Hixon nodded. “Yes sir. One of their noncoms stopped by about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Good. Keep an eye to the north, though; the bugs may have responsibility for the north and west walls, but it’ll be our ass if something goes wrong.”
Hixon grinned. “Sir, yes sir.”
Santana nodded and turned toward the south. Now, as he turned his eyes inward to the city of Mys, the officer saw the six-foot-high stone wall that encircled the embassy, the stretch of well-kept park that paralleled the Jade River, the river itself, the maze of ramps, jetties, and docks that lined the south bank, backed by the complicated jumble of roofs, streets, and alleyways that comprised the area known to the off-worlders as Dig Town, “Dig” being short for “indigenous.”
Coal-oil-fed lanterns hung at each street corner, rectangles of yellow light indicated places where sweatshops worked through the night, and the occasional snatch of off-world music could be heard as soldiers exited one of the bars.
As Santana crossed over the river and walked parallel to Dig Town, he was struck by the fact that two large buildings were not only smack up against the wall, but their roofs were only ten feet lower than the walkway under his feet. That put the top of the wall well within reach of a short ladder—something he had heard Seeba-Ka complain about.
Now, as the officer approached the point where the west wall met the south wall, he could see the top of Polwa’s northernmost wall, the lanterns that marked its corners, and the lights of the city beyond. They were asymmetrical, like diamonds scattered on black fabric, and represented only a fraction of the million-plus souls who lived there. None but a person of noble birth, or a wealthy merchant, could afford to maintain a noka, or night beacon, along with the retainers that normally went with it.
“Evening, sir.”
The voice belonged to Private Suresee Fareye, one of the Naa nationals who had fought under Captain Seeba-Ka back on Beta-018, and a crack trooper. Just knowing he was there, prowling the southern wall, made Santana feel better. Given how sensitive the legionnaire’s sense of smell was, the officer felt sorry for him. “Evening, Fareye, how’s it going?”
The Naa shrugged. “No problems here, sir, but what do you think of that?”
The legionnaire handed the officer his electro-binoculars, and Santana used them to probe farther into the night. Data flickered across the bottom of the electronically merged images. Ranges, bearings, and the wind speed on top of the wall all offered themselves only to be ignored. The inner city glowed off toward the right, its boundaries marked by evenly spaced white lanterns, its buildings appearing as ghostly green blobs. Somewhere, safe within one of those blobs, the Dowager Empress Shi Huu slept, plotted, or did whatever royalty did at night.
But beyond that, like a snake winding its way through a maze of obstacles, something else could be seen. Red lanterns, hundreds of them, bobbed, swayed, and jerked as the LaNorians who held them pushed through narrow streets. Now, as Santana stood there, the officer thought he could hear the distant beat of drums, the occasional blare of a trumpet, and something that might have been screams. When he spoke the comment was intended more for himself than the legionnaire who stood next to him. The Claw.
Fareye nodded. “Sir, yes sir. I think that’s who they are all right. And a mean bunch of slimeballs they are . . . Looks like they plan to visit the palace.”
“The Imperial troops will stop them,” Santana predicted, “but it’s interesting nonetheless. Keep your eye on the bastards and let me know if they get past the inner city.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
Santana returned the Naa’s salute, turned to his left, and walked toward the east. What looked like a clutch of LaNorian soldiers, all armed with muskets, stood atop Polwa’s northern wall. The gap between the two walls was no more than fifty feet wide. Close enough that the officer might have heard them had the LaNorians spoken a little more loudly. They stood in a group, as if conferring on something, and seemed unaware of his presence.
The juncture where the south wall met the east wall was directly ahead, and Santana squinted into the darkness, hoping to spot one of the Ramanthian sentries. That was when the legionnaire heard a commotion off to his right and turned in time to see one of the LaNorians spring into the air! Except that it wasn’t a LaNorian, because LaNorians don’t have wings, and this individual did. They made a steady whuf, whuf, whuf sound as the intruder propelled himself across the fifty-foot gap.
Santana placed a hand on his sidearm as Fareye materialized at his side. The legionnaire brought his assault rifle up to his shoulder and peered into the sight. “I have the bastard, sir. Just say the word.”
“Hold your fire, Private,” Santana said, as the flier settled onto the top of the wall. “The bastard is one of ours.”
The sound of the officer’s voice caused the Ramanthian warrior to turn. His wings rustled and disappeared as they folded themselves along the soldier’s back.
The sentry recognized Santana as an officer, offered the Ramanthian version of a salute, but made no attempt to justify his actions. Nor was there reason to since there was no arrangement by which enlisted personnel belonging to one off-world detachment were expected take orders from or be responsible to officers other than their own. He was of average height, wore a translator strapped to his chest, and was armed with the Ramanthian equivalent of a submachine gun.
Santana struggled to keep his voice firm but level. “Your name and rank, please.”
“Specialist Poth Dusso.”
“Thank you, Specialist Dusso . . . Perhaps you would be so good as to explain why you left your post? There’s a lot of wall . . . and not very many beings to patrol it.”
“Why?” the Ramanthian inquired disrespectfully. “Did someone sneak in?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Santana replied. “But they certainly could have.”
The Ramanthian’s eyes seemed to glitter in the reflected moonlight. “Should something happen tonight, should an assassin find his way into Mys, it won’t be over this section of the wall. I suggest that you look to your own area of responsibility and leave this section of wall to us.” That being said, the Ramanthian turned and shuffled away.
“I still have the bastard,” Fareye said grimly. “Just say the word, and he’s toast.”
“Thanks,” Santana answered wearily, “but I’m in enough trouble already and about to get in more. That last comment had a prophetic quality.”
So saying the officer activated the radio clipped to the left side of his pistol belt and spoke into the wire-thin mike that curved out in front of his lips. “This is Red Six to the Red Team . . . Condition four . . . implement now. Red Six to Red Five . . . raid the barracks. Double the guards at both entrances to the embassy. Do you read me? Over.”
“Red Five to Red Six,” Hillrun answered, “I read you . . . and I’m on it. Five out.”
Well aware of the fact that the whole thing could be and probably was a waste of time, and that he might very well make a fool of himself, Santana started to run. The officer dashed the length of the south wall, took a right, and ran flat out along the top of the east wall until he saw Hixon, dashed for the stairs, and took them two at a time.
Lights came on in the barracks as Hillrun rousted off-duty legionnaires out of their racks, an alarm started to bleat, and a T-2 lumbered toward the rear of the embassy. The lights mounted on its massive head washed across the walkway and bathed a sentry in their harsh white glare. Her name was Fandel, and she looked scared as Santana skidded to a halt. “Everything all ri
ght?”
Fandel had a small face, and it looked frightened. “Sir! Yes sir.”
“Good. Where’s Corporal Wu?”
“Inside, sir. Daw Clo was looking for him, too.”
Santana frowned. “Daw Clo? The dig with the wheelbarrow?”
The legionnaire nodded. “Yes sir. He arrived about ten minutes ago. Said he had something for the corporal.”
“And you let him in?”
Fandel was worried by then. Her features seemed to constrict themselves into a tight little ball. The truth was that Daw Clo was making the rounds with a tray full of spice-filled dumplings, something he had done many times before, and a practice that many of the noncoms winked at. The private could still feel the warmth of the food in her stomach as she gave her answer. “Yes sir. Daw Clo has a Class Two clearance.”
Santana knew that Class Two “chits” as they were called entitled the bearer to move around the main floor of the embassy between the hours of 9:00 A.M. and 6:00 P.M. He also knew that such restrictions were often ignored where trusted members of the staff were concerned. An issue he would pursue in the morning. Meanwhile he decided to enter the embassy, find the LaNorian, and ask him to leave. “Thanks, private. Carry on.”
Santana mounted the short flight of stairs, punched his code into the keypad, waited for the telltale click, and opened the door. Every third light was on. Their reflections marched the length of the highly polished floor. Santana heard the sound his boots made, resolved to walk more quietly, and wondered why. Was he still a bit spooked? Yes, it seemed that he was. Something that would no doubt please the Ramanthian named Poth Dusso.
A quick check of the first floor turned up nothing. No Corporal Wu, no Daw Clo, nothing. Santana decided to ignore the lift in favor of the stairs and was only halfway up when he saw the rivulet of blood and the body slumped beyond. The crushed kepi and khaki uniform left no doubt as to whom the body belonged. A tray lay on one of the stairs . . . its contents strewn everywhere.
The legionnaire drew his sidearm, checked to ensure that the safety was off, and made his way upward. A quick check was sufficient to confirm that Wu’s throat had been slit and that he was dead.
Santana activated his radio and whispered into the mike. Red Six to Red Five . . . Corporal Wu is down halfway up the main stairway inside the embassy. Seal the building, secure the crime scene, and send some low-key backup. I am moving to floor two.”
The officer heard two clicks as Hillrun used standard patrol procedure to acknowledge the transmission.
Then, confident that Hillrun was on the job, Santana continued up the stairs. Having murdered Wu, chances were that the assassin would waste little time going after his real target, Ambassador Soolu Pas Rasha. The ambassador, and members of his immediate family, were asleep on the fourth floor.
Conscious of the fact that the murderer could be lying in wait for him, but even more concerned about what might be about to occur on the fourth floor, Santana threw all caution to the wind and ran up the stairs. Just as the cavalry officer reached the top of the stairs all of the embassy’s lights came on, he heard shouts from the bottom of the stairwell and knew reinforcements were on the way.
A large sitting area gave way to a couple of carpeted hallways. Thanks to his original orientation tour, Santana knew that the one on the left led back toward the ambassador’s bedroom. His boots made a soft thumping noise as he ran down the corridor, rounded the open door, and entered the room. Thanks to the emergency lights which Hillrun had triggered, the would-be assassin stood bathed in a greenish white glare. The legionnaire shouted, “Drop the weapon!” but the hook-shaped blade was already in motion.
Pas Rasha had been awake for a good five seconds by then. His wife, awakened by the lights, started to scream. He saw the assassin, saw the strange hook-shaped blade, but was powerless to move. Not without his exoskeleton, which like his wife’s, stood motionless in the closet. There was time to think of his children but nothing more.
Razor-sharp steel flashed, a weapon fired, and gore splattered the ambassador’s bed. There was a thump as Daw Clo collapsed across the Pas Rasha’s legs, followed by the sound of a human voice. “He’s down! Hold your fire!”
All three of the legionnaires who had entered after Santana raised their weapons. The officer provided cover for Dietrich as he moved forward, checked to see if the LaNorian was breathing, and shook his head. “Dead, sir. Nice shooting.”
The embassy’s physician was summoned to care for the ambassador’s semihysterical wife, the body was moved onto the floor, and the household staff rushed to help Pas Rasha don his exoskeleton. And that’s how things were when Seeba-Ka arrived.
The Hudathan surveyed the room, saw the bloodstained bed, Daw Clo’s body, and the T-shaped claw-knife. That’s when he turned to Santana, saw the weapon in his hand, and scowled. “You shot him?”
Santana came to attention. “Yes sir.”
“And you’re proud of that?”
“No sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because the assassin made it into the embassy and all the way to the fourth floor before being stopped, sir.”
“That’s right,” Seeba-Ka agreed darkly. “See that evidence is collected, take statements from everyone who has a pulse, and report to my office. The major is going to want reports, lots of reports, and you’re going to write every damned one of them.”
THE CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The sixty-five-year-old Dowager Empress Shi Huu awoke as she always did, on a mattress filled with fragrant mountain moss from her home province of Chi, and in the company of the children she often referred to as dogun or foot warmers.
Both the male and the female had been chosen for the physical beauty, and both would be replaced the moment they turned eight years old. Already wise beyond their years the dogun felt their mistress stir, eased their way out from under the coverlet’s warmth, and scampered out into a nearby hall where an older female waited for them.
The Empress, or “gana” (mother) as the dogun were allowed to call her, tended to be in a foul mood when she awoke and it was best to be as far away from her as possible.
Unlike most upper-class females Shi Huu did not allow any of her retainers to enter her suite until certain matters had been attended to. The first step was to crouch over the hand-painted chamber pot, the contents of which would be ceremoniously carried into the Imperial garden, where a Tiz master would cast the bones to determine which tree or shrub would receive “the heavenly harvest.”
Then, having relieved herself, the Empress retired to the chamber of beauty, where a window took up most of one wall and threw light onto the marble counter below. It was pink and seemed to glow from within.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves occupied the other walls. They bore hundreds of identical porcelain canisters, each marked with a hand-painted label, and organized by function. Skin conditioners here, wrinkle removers there, and so forth.
The only problem was that in spite of the countless hours spent in the chamber of beauty, and the endless concoctions that the Empress had rubbed, slathered, and in one case baked into her skin, none had the desired effect. Every morning Shi Huu was one day older, one day uglier, and one day closer to death.
The Empress sighed, sat on the hand-carved three-legged “luck” stool, and gazed into the cell-powered, internally lit, 3X Bliss Industries “ladies’ mirror and makeup assistant.” Just one of the many gifts that the aliens had lavished on her over the last year—and one of the very few that she actually valued.
The underlying structures could still be seen, including the high forehead, the perfectly aligned nostril slits, and the wide thin-lipped mouth. But these features were increasingly obscured by the wrinkled skin, the sagging flesh, and the blotchy “widow” spots that disfigured her once flawless complexion. Skin which the Emperor had once compared to “the first blush of dawn,” causing his courtiers to refer to the then young female as the Dawn Concubine, a na
me which still had currency.
Later, after the Emperor’s death, and her ascendancy to the throne, the Dawn Concubine had acquired other less complimentary nicknames some of which she valued as highly as the first.
During the subsequent years, Shi Huu clung to power, surrendering it only once, and then to her son when he achieved his majority. Even then she ruled through him, causing some to refer to him as the Dar Zo, or puppet prince. But those days came to an end as the result of her son’s accidental death and her reascension to the throne.
However, enjoyable though political power was, Shi Huu missed those long-ago days when every male who looked upon her wanted her, when princes came to call, and the Emperor himself labored between her legs.
There was hope, however, hope that flowed from promises made by the small furry ambassador. Her name was Fynian Isu Hybatha. She claimed to be something called a Thraki, and, if her claims were true, could restore at least some of Shi Huu’s former beauty.
Though far from knowledgeable where the process called nanosculpting was concerned, the Empress knew that the aliens would render her unconscious, scatter tiny computer-controlled machines on her face, and let them remove all of the unsightly wrinkles. Clearly not something the Empress wanted to subject herself to without some assurance that it would work, which was why three homely maidens had been abducted from three separate villages and would soon undergo the process in her place. Then, assuming that all went well, and the alien nanos were able to turn the maidens into beauties, Shi Huu would submit to the process her herself.
In the meantime there was work to do. The Empress washed her face, using water imported from her parents’ home in Chi, anointed her face with those balms proven to be most effective, and applied a thick layer of daytime makeup.
Then, feeling somewhat better about herself, Shi Huu rang for her retainers. They arrived in a subservient flood. It took the better part of an hour for them to bathe her body, spritz it with perfume, and wind a dress onto her still trim frame.
For More Than Glory Page 8