“The ambassador was summoned for a visit with Minister Dwi Faa, spent a good two hours waiting for the impudent beggar to show up, and was finally ushered in. The Polwa murders were discussed, as were those at the mission near Nah Ree, and the new atrocities to the southeast.
“Dwi Faa said all the right things, blamed the incidents on the Claw, and promised that the Imperial government would do everything in its power to protect off-world residents.
“However,” Miraby continued, his gaze shifting from face to face, “the minister said something else . . . Something that both the ambassador and I find troubling. Dwi Faa indicated that when outsiders arrive, displace workers from their jobs, and attempt to supplant local belief systems with their own they should expect what he referred to as some resentment.”
Beckworth started to say something but Miraby raised a well-manicured hand. “I know, impalements and the like extend well beyond any reasonable definition of ‘resentment,’ but that’s what the bugger said.
“Of more importance,” the major continued, “at least from a military perspective, was the conversation that followed. It seems that hill bandits invaded the village of Ka Suu, put the local tax collectors to death, and made themselves at home.
“Now, for reasons not entirely clear, the Empress has decided to request off-world military assistance to help liberate the community and restore order.”
This particular item had not made the rounds, which meant it qualified as news. “It seems damned suspicious to me,” Seeba-Ka said cynically. “Here we are, surrounded by thousands of Imperial troops, all drawing pay for doing nothing, and they need help from us? That’s hard to believe.”
“Yeah,” Beckworth agreed. “And what happens if we send forces to Ka Suu and the digs attack Mys?”
“I’ll thank you not to refer to the LaNorian people as digs,” Miraby said primly, “but I understand your concerns. Were it up to me, I would tell the Empress ‘no,’ but it isn’t. The ambassador believes this may be the sort of opportunity we’ve been hoping for . . . A joint effort that will strengthen our relationship with the Imperial government, foster improved communications, and lay the groundwork for long-lasting agreements.
“More than that, the vast majority of the other ambassadors agree. Accordingly, they have given their approval for a multinational relief force.”
The other officers looked at each other in astonishment. There had been some cooperation in the past, guard duty was an example, but nothing like a joint task force.
“And who,” the Hudathan inquired, “is slated to lead this force?”
Miraby’s eyebrows rose and fell like old-fashioned signal flags. “There were those who hoped that you might lead it—but I put that notion to rest. Should this be part of some elaborate stratagem to weaken our military capability in Mys, your skills will be required here. I didn’t say that, of course—but such were my thoughts.
“Therefore, I’m pleased to announce that the honor fell to none other than Force Leader Hakk Batth, a relative of the Ramanthian ambassador, and a most capable officer.”
Having only recently arrived, and having been focused on the needs of his platoon, Santana had yet to interact with officers from the other embassies. For that reason the news that his old nemesis was on LaNor came as a shock.
The legionnaire was still in the process of trying to assimilate that piece of news when Miraby dropped an even bigger bomb onto the proceedings.
“So,” the major said, completely oblivious to the impact his words had on those in front of him, “I put Lieutenant Santana down to lead our troops and ensure that the bandits get the drubbing they so richly deserve.”
By that time it was clear that Miraby had never taken time to fully review Santana’s P-1, or had skimmed the file so quickly that he had missed the pertinent data and was therefore unaware of the animosity that existed between his subordinate and Hakk Batth.
It was equally clear that the major had either failed to read the report in which Santana suggested that the Ramanthians might have known about the attack on Pas Rasha prior to the actual event, or had read the report and dismissed the contents out of hand.
Santana started to speak, but Seeba-Ka cut him off. “Thank you for the briefing, sir. If you have no objection I would like to free Lieutenants Santana and Beckworth to prepare their platoons for inspection while I stay and ask a couple of questions.”
Miraby looked surprised, but nodded to the junior officers and waited for them to exit. Once out in the hall, and safely out of earshot, Beckworth eyed Santana. “Hey, Tony, the cap is pissed. Miraby’s gonna get an earful. What’s going on anyway?”
Santana sighed. “It’s a long way from Beta-018 to LaNor—but not far enough.”
NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
In spite of the fact that the sun had already disappeared over the western horizon, the sky remained blood red as Frank Busso completed his rounds. There was surprisingly little sound, just the occasional murmur of conversation, or the hum of an insect. The air was heavy, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting for whatever darkness would bring.
The Transcendental mission had turned into an entirely different place since Nuu Laa and her family had been murdered. While some of the converts had remained true to their new-found religion, others had withdrawn, or attempted to, only to learn that the Claw considered them to have been “contaminated.”
The net result was that true believers and the “contaminated” alike fled Nah Ree for the mission. The exodus had started the night before and continued throughout the day. Some left everything behind, arriving with little beyond the clothes on their backs, while others brought cartloads of belongings.
Meanwhile back in the village, fingers of black smoke pointed down at their already looted homes where Rog, the god of fire, had been directed to cleanse the land which they and their families had polluted.
Now, camped behind the mission, along the south bank of Gee Nas River, some two hundred families, about eight hundred people in all, were preparing to bed down for the night.
Frank Busso had already supervised the digging of privies downstream of the encampment and put some males to work building communal shelters. They wouldn’t be ready for a while, however, which meant his followers would have to make do with tents. There was no two ways about it, the situation was bad, and likely to get worse.
Yet, as Busso circled the camp, the barrel of a hunting rifle resting on his left shoulder, he was continually struck by the bravery of the LaNorian people. Adults bowed politely, youngsters ran hither and yon, and the smoke from their tiny cook fires twisted up into the steadily darkening sky. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, they believed he could put things right somehow, and that consistent with the church’s teachings, the most important thing was that they reacted to the calamity. Something most of them were better at than he was.
During the last few days the missionary had been scared shitless and still was. More than that, he’d been forced to confront something he had sensed about himself but never been willing to admit. The truth was that while others saw the things he had given up in order to come to LaNor as a sacrifice, he’d been eager to jettison them. His boring job, a half million-dollar mortgage, and all the other trappings of a middle-class lifestyle had been like weights hung round his neck.
But now, rather than the paid vacation he’d been counting on, the ministry had turned into a true horror show. Part of him wanted to grab his family, abandon the mission, and make a run for Mys. The only problem was that Bethany believed in the phony him, just like the LaNorians did, and Busso couldn’t bring himself to tell any of them the truth. That’s why he continued to patrol the grounds, murmur words of encouragement, and play the part that was expected of him. He was down by the river, admiring a newly constructed fish trap, when his daughter Natalie came running up. “Daddy! Daddy! The Claw is coming!”
Busso felt a lead weight fall into the p
it of his stomach. He turned to the fish trap’s architect—a competent sort named Hwa Nas. “Arm the able-bodied males with sticks . . . Bring them to the front of the mission . . . I’ll meet you there.”
The LaNorian nodded, rose from a crouch, and turned to go.
“And Hwa Nas . . .”
The LaNorian paused. “Yes?”
“Walk, don’t run. We must avoid panic.”
The LaNorian nodded for the second time and departed at a fast walk.
Busso turned to his daughter, ordered her to return to the house, and watched her scamper away. Then, confident that he’d done what he could, the human wound his way through the encampment toward the front of the mission. Darkness had fallen by then, and he could hear the rhythmic pulse of the rebel drums.
Then, clearing the front of the dome, Busso saw what looked like a river of fire. They were Claw all right, hundreds of them, each armed with a red lantern. The snakelike column twisted, turned, and pooled in front of the tall Transcendental T. The crowd swirled, a body was carried forward, and secured to the bottom of the twenty-five-foot-tall upright. Mark appeared at that point with the other rifle that came as part of the mission kit. The adolescent was scared but determined not to show it. “Hey, Dad, what are they doing?”
“I’m not altogether sure, son,” the older Busso answered cautiously. “Go inside . . . I’m counting on you to guard the folks in the dome.”
Mark shook his head. “No way, Dad. I’m staying with you. If they make it all the way to the mission, the whole thing is over.”
Frank Busso knew his son was correct and felt a moment of pride. The boy had certainly matured during the months on LaNor . . . but would he live long enough to make it off?
Hwa Nas had arrived by then—along with fifty males all armed with poles. Not much as armies go, but better than nothing. Maybe, just maybe, a show of force would slow the Claw down.
Some sort of ceremony began and the drums beat a little bit faster. The lanterns bobbed and swayed as each member of the crowd passed the figure bound to the bottom of the enormous T and dropped something at his or her feet.
Busso had spent six months in the LA Militia back during the Thraki conflict and still remembered how to handle a weapon. The missionary brought the rifle to his shoulder, considered the light-amplification mode, but discovered that the lanterns produced enough illumination to see by. The figure on the pole seemed to leap forward. It was Nit Loo, one of the many LaNorians who had attended a couple of services, and was now “contaminated.”
It still wasn’t possible to see what the villagers were dropping at the shoemaker’s feet, but Busso saw a spark followed by a sudden gout of flames, and knew that the material was flammable. Mark said, “Dad. . .” and Nit Loo started to scream.
The drums beat even faster now as the crowd swirled, a likeness of the god Rog danced over their heads, and the screams came in short, agonized bursts.
Tears were flowing down Busso’s cheeks as he swung the crosshairs over onto Nit Loo’s squirming body, applied a long steady pressure, and felt the trigger give. The weapon’s butt kicked his shoulder, a 7.62 mm slug drew a straight line between the end of the barrel and Nit Loo’s body, and the LaNorian gave a sudden jerk as the projectile took his life. The loud whip-crack sound of the rifle going off followed a fraction of a second later. The crowd moaned and started to back away. Claw agitators drove them forward again.
Emboldened now, and angered by what they had forced him to do, Busso chose a second target. Judging from the manner in which he was exhorting the crowd, this particular LaNorian was a leader, and a rather active one at that. Inspired by the violence, and having given himself over to Rog, the male leaped high into the air, landed in a crouch, growled like an animal, and threw himself left and right.
Busso followed the lantern-lit figure, waited for him to pause, and squeezed the trigger. As luck would have it a second individual stepped in front of the first, staggered as the slug passed through the soft flesh of the throat, and was already falling by the time the now-deformed bullet struck the intended target and blew half his head away.
That was more than the crowd could take. Most had never seen such accurate shooting much less been on receiving end of it. The lanterns scattered like sparks from a fire. Mark raised his weapon but Busso pushed the barrel down. “Save your ammo, son, something tells me we’re going to need it.”
“I guess you showed them!” Mark said exultantly. “One shot—two hits! That’s something to be proud of.”
The flames had crawled farther up the Transcendental T by then and spread to its horizontal arms. Busso felt a tremendous sense of sadness. “No, son, it’s not something to be proud of. We promised them peace—and we brought them death. I can’t think of anything worse than that.”
The flames continued to spread, the fire crackled, and the T lit the night.
ABOARD THE CHIEN-CHU ENTERPRISES’ SUBMERSIBLE PLATFORM SEADOWN, APPROXIMATELY SEVEN HUNDRED MILES DUE EAST OF POLWA, IN THE OCEAN KNOWN AS THE GREAT WET.
When the meteorite arrived hundreds of thousands of years before, it was approximately a mile in diameter and traveling at around twenty-five miles per second.
As the object entered LaNor’s atmosphere it became a huge fireball. But that incarnation lasted for little more than a few seconds before the meteorite plunged into the ocean, slammed into the bottom, and exploded with a force equivalent to a magnitude 11 quake.
After the monumental impact, and the destruction it caused, a thirty-foot-high Tsunami raced outward to fling itself up onto every shoreline it could reach.
Enormous amounts of material were blown high into the atmosphere where they formed a thick layer of dust and ash that acted to block the sun. The surface temperature fell almost immediately, killing plant and animal species worldwide.
But then, as the dust started to settle, temperatures began to rise. Because of the high concentration of carbon dioxide and nitrous oxides in the atmosphere, LaNor felt the impact of the greenhouse effect.
Thanks to the materials Chien-Chu had studied en route to LaNor, and reviewed on the Seadown, he knew that the impact had been felt for thousands of years, eventually leading to the extinction of some species and the success of others.
Now, more than seven hundred feet below the surface of the Great Wet, the cyborg skimmed over the surface of the debris field that began at the edge of the vast impact crater and stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. And, while the industrialist was aware that the meteorite had robbed LaNor of certain assets, he knew that it had gifted the planet with others.
Among them were rare elements such as cerium, lanthanium, and europium, which, along with other members of the lanthanide family, were used to manufacture air cars, industrial ceramics, specialized glass products, high-tech electronics, exotic metals, and advanced medical devices.
The deposits were there all right, passing below his scooter’s belly, that much was clear. The only question was whether the concentrations of rare elements were high enough to make a commercial operation feasible. In order to do so it would be necessary to harvest the minerals, process them, and ship the final product off-planet. Assuming the LaNorian government would agree to some sort of licensing arrangement which was far from certain.
All of that would have to wait, however, since Chien-Chu faced other more pressing issues. The first of these had to do with a robot nicknamed “Freddie.” The robot had been on a survey run, using his sonar and other sensors to create a highly detailed topographical map, when the machine suffered an onboard malfunction, sent a distress call, and dropped off-line. Nothing had been heard from him since.
Chien-Chu, in his role as Jim James, Les Foro, and a cyborg named Cindy Woo had been dispatched to find the machine and rescue him. All three of the borgs were equipped with bodies that could handle pressures down to one thousand feet. They had no need for oxygen beyond that already contained within their “hulls,” no need for protection against the co
ld other than their own internal power sources, and no need for protective outerwear other than the form-fitting black suits designed to protect them against “skin” abrasions.
Some fairly large carnivores called the Great Wet home, so the submersible scooters were armed, as were the cyborgs themselves. Three powerful headlights drilled holes into the stygian darkness as the divers approached the area where Freddie had gone off-line.
There were plenty of undocumented life-forms in the depths, which left the off-worlders free to assign their own unofficial names to the creatures they encountered.
One such animal, a ferocious-looking beast with a large head and a long sinuous body crossed through the tunnels of light, gave a contemptuous flick of its tail, and disappeared into the gloom.
Other less threatening denizens of the deep could be seen out along the margins of the light. They were numerous but less dense than the marine populations found five hundred feet above where the sunlight fed billions of tiny photovores, who fed millions of fish, who fed a smaller number of carnivores, and so forth.
“Okay,” Foro said, his voice coming over Chien-Chu’s built-in radio, “this is the spot. Bring up the grid, search the section assigned to you, and stay in contact. Holler if you see anything of interest.”
Chien-Chu and Wu acknowledged the orders, checked their positions relative to the search grid superimposed over their electronic “vision,” and went to work.
The industrialist directed the elongated circle of light toward the ocean’s bottom, activated both sidelights, and cruised toward the west. A forest of what looked like white tulips waved at him from below, each seeking to inhale as many of the waterborne microscopic organisms as they could, seemingly unaffected by the passing lights.
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