Snyder came to a halt, Santana jumped down, and the diplomat turned. She was angry and it showed. “You were right, Tony . . . The Ramanthians attacked us from the rear.”
The platoon leader looked from the first razbul to a second and the dead trooper beyond. “You did all that?”
“I didn’t think I had a choice,” Vanderveen said defensively.
“No,” Santana agreed soberly, “I guess you didn’t. Good work . . . Thanks for covering our six. Where did the rest of the bugs go?”
“I don’t know,” Vanderveen replied. “They seem to have disappeared.”
The officer looked up at Snyder. “How ’bout it, Corporal? Anything on your sensors?”
The cyborg shook her huge head. “No, sir. They’re not only gone . . . they’re long gone.”
Santana nodded. “Odds are that they think we’re dead. Let’s do what we can to keep it that way.” He turned to one of the Thrakies. “Go back up the column . . . Find Sergeant Twelve and Platoon Sergeant Hillrun. Tell them I want every radio in the outfit turned off until further notice. Go.”
The Thraki delivered a sloppy salute and turned to go. Santana reached out to stop him. “Hey, soldier . . .”
“Sir?”
“Turn your radio off as well.”
The Thraki looked embarrassed. “Sir, yes sir. Sorry, sir.”
Santana shook his head and looked off toward the east. Vanderveen followed his gaze. “What are you thinking?”
“It took us a little more than three days to get here . . . but that was pushing it. Four should take us back.”
Vanderveen frowned. “Four? What are you talking about? We need to push on.”
Santana looked at the diplomat in surprise. “You must be joking! Thanks to desertions and casualties our force has been cut by a third. The bandit thing was loony to begin with . . . it’s even crazier now.”
“I couldn’t care less about the bandits,” the diplomat replied stubbornly. “It’s the meeting with Mee Mas that’s important. He’s waiting in the village of Pur Lor, which happens to a lot closer than Ka Suu.”
“So you can advance your career.”
Santana regretted the words the moment they exited his mouth but knew that it was too late to pull them back.
Vanderveen looked hurt then angry. “Listen, Lieutenant, your were right about Hakk Batth, I’ll give you that . . . But what you don’t know about the political situation on this planet could fill a large empty space like the one between your ears.
“The Empress is a self-concerned tyrant, but the head of the Claw, an ex-minister named Lak Saa, is even worse. Mee Mas is the only individual who might lead his people somewhere good. But he needs help in order to do that, a lot of help, and that’s where we come in. Now, if you can’t understand the importance of that, or just don’t give a damn, then head for Mys. I plan to continue.”
Santana sighed. What was it about Vanderveen anyway? He liked the diplomat, even admired her, but always made her angry. Not only that—but the diplomat had a talent for putting him into tight spots. His orders didn’t cover the situation at hand—and the treacherous Hak Batth had absconded with the only radio capable of reaching Mys. That meant the officer couldn’t bump the question upstairs even if he’d been willing to break radio silence to do so, and would have to make the decision himself.
Santana could force Vanderveen to return to Mys, with who knew what sort of official reaction, or go along with her request with equally unclear repercussions.
But when it finally came down to it, the decision pretty much made itself. Right or wrong, there was no way that the soldier could let Vanderveen traipse all over the countryside by herself and still face himself in the mirror. He looked her in the eye, “You are a real pain in the ass.”
“So are you.”
“I’ll probably regret this.”
“You probably will.”
“Have you seen any sign of Dob Zee? It appears that Batth took our guide with him, and my map isn’t as detailed as his was.”
The diplomat shrugged. “Batth never took me seriously . . . Maybe that’s why he left me waiting in his tent while he went out to take the Ramanthian equivalent of a leak. His map was on the table. It took less than one minute to hand-scan it.”
Santana shook his head in wonder. “I should have known.”
“Yes,” Vanderveen said smugly, “you should have.”
It took the better part of four hours to bury the dead, reassemble what remained of the convoy, and retrace their steps. It wasn’t long before they came across Dob Zee’s body. The LaNorian had been tied to a tree and shot. A single casing lay on the ground. It was Ramanthian.
The off-worlders provided the Imperial guide with the best burial they could manage, left the swamp, and turned to the south. The plan was to bypass the swamp, head toward the village of Ka Suu, but stop in a place called Pur Lor, where Vanderveen and Mee Mas were scheduled to meet.
Santana rode Snyder, and together they took the point. The Clones were next, followed by three carts and a group of dejected Thrakies. They had been ordered to march two miles, ride for one, and march again. The platoon leader’s way of getting them into shape without killing the diminutive soldiers in the process.
Sergeant Hillrun, along with the surviving legionnaires, walked drag. Not for the reasons Batth had put them there, but because Santana wanted to ensure that their six was covered, and that both halves of the column would have the capacity to fight were it to be cut in two. The troopers still had to cope with steaming piles of what they called razshit, but there was less of it, and that made them feel better.
Farther out, beyond the effective range of Snyder’s sensors, eyes tracked the column’s progress. A message was written, a messenger ran, and the hunt began.
NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The attack, when it came, was completely unexpected. Ever since what Frank and Bethany Busso still thought of as “the night of fire,” both they and the burgeoning group of 1,504 LaNorians now camped on the mission grounds had worked day and night to prepare themselves for another similar attack.
They didn’t have much, but the one thing they did have was people power, and every bit of it had been put to good use. A deep semicircular trench had been dug from a point upstream, around the prefab mission complex, and back to the river.
That was no small accomplishment, but Hwa Nas, the LaNorian Frank had placed in charge of the project, went the extra mile. It was he who directed the convert workforce to not only pile the newly excavated soil on the inside edge of the moat, thereby creating still another barrier for the Claw to overcome, but to place well-sharpened stakes at the bottom of the ditch in hopes that potential attackers would jump into the water and impale themselves.
Other preparations had been made as well, including the creation of a steadily growing arsenal of clubs, spears, and even some crudely made bows.
As things turned out, however, none of their efforts were sufficient to protect the missionaries from an act of sabotage.
With so many people packed together into close quarters, disease was rampant—and the Bussos had transformed their home into a combination hospital and day-care center. And it was there, on an otherwise unremarkable day, that Bethany entered the living room just in time to witness what appeared to be an act of mindless destruction.
The LaNorian’s name was Baa Hef, a large brute, with the instincts of a bully. The hammer, a hand sledge appropriated from Frank’s workshop, made a horrible thudding sound as it rose and fell.
Trudy, the Busso’s AI, raised her voice in protest. “Stop! This unit has sustained damage! Stop! This unit . . .”
But it was too late. Baa Hef continued to hammer the console, it shattered, and the sledge smashed through the electronics concealed within.
Bethany screamed, ran forward, and threw herself onto Baa Hef’s back. Some volunteer nurses heard and came to the missionary’s assistance. They wrestl
ed the attacker to the ground, managed to bind his limbs, and summoned Frank. The AI was damaged, but maybe, just maybe, the missionary could put Trudy right.
But Frank Busso couldn’t put Trudy right, not without a whole lot of parts he didn’t have, and the implications were enormous. No Trudy meant no radio, and no radio meant no link with the embassy in Mys, and no link with Mys meant that the chances of receiving help anytime soon were slim to none. Especially if Ambassador Pas Rasha believed that the Bussos were dead, which he probably would.
It didn’t take a genius to realize that the situation in Nah Ree was untenable and that the only hope for Frank’s family and the LaNorians under their care was a military escort strong enough to help them reach the city of Mys.
And, thanks to a long series of radio conversations, Pas Rasha had agreed even going so far as to promise help the moment that allied troops returned from their mission to Ka Suu. The missionary had objected, going to some pains to point out that if Pas Rasha waited too long there wouldn’t be anyone to evacuate, but the diplomat, with support from Major Miraby continued to hold his ground. Desperate though the Bussos’ plight might be there was the embassy to think of, not to mention other off-worlders scattered across the countryside, and the Confederacy had limited resources.
Now, with all communications having been severed, it seemed likely that the mission and its needs would fall to the bottom of the embassy’s priority list.
But, before the Bussos could address that problem, there was the matter of Baa Hef to cope with. The LaNorian had been hog-tied and hauled outside where Hwa Nas had taken charge.
Having examined what remained of Trudy, Frank Busso emerged from the mission to find Hwa Nas standing over the prisoner club in hand. He was furious and his eyes flashed with pent-up anger. “Baa Hef murdered Trudy—now he must die.”
Although AIs had some rights under Confederacy law, they were regarded as property unless specifically freed from servitude, which meant they lacked the rights that “naturals” took for granted.
Thus, Frank wasn’t sure whether Trudy had been murdered or simply destroyed. The first was a capital offense and the second wasn’t. Not that Confederacy law meant anything on a planet like LaNor.
First, however there was the matter of intent. Was Baa Hef simply mad? Or had he been acting on behalf of the Claw? The answer would make a considerable difference.
Frank used his facility with the LaNorian language to question the prisoner in his own tongue. The results were questionable at best. Baa Hef babbled incoherently about what he referred to as the table devil, and seemed to believe that he had done something heroic by killing the spirit called Trudy.
But were the words genuine? Or little more than thin cover for an act of intentional sabotage?
There was no way to know for sure, and the Bussos couldn’t stomach the idea of what would amount to a lynching, so they took what Frank thought of as the middle course. Baa Hef and his family of five, were banished from the mission.
Interestingly enough, the newly ejected convert showed no signs of distress regarding what would be a death sentence for anyone the Claw considered to be “contaminated,” collected his meager belongings, and herded his family across the hand-sawn planks that served to bridge the moat. Then, with not so much as a backward glance, the peasant took the road toward Nah Ree.
Hwa Nas, who like many others took exception to the decision, spit into the moat. The spittle sent ripples out through the nearly stagnant water and seemed to serve as a signal. The sky grew darker, thunder rumbled off to the west, and the air was heavy with moisture. The rainy season was about to begin.
It had been raining for the better part of a day when Frank Busso and Hwa Nas sat down with a youth named Yao Che.
Rather than meet in one of the newly established long-houses, where ears were always ready to listen and tongues were always ready to wag, the get-together took place in a remote corner of the compound under the protection of a gray tarp. The makeshift roof shivered as a breeze hit, causing hundreds of raindrops to slide down off its edges and splatter onto the pebbly ground. A tiny driftwood fire provided what little warmth there was. Frank Busso sat on a handmade three-legged stool and held his hands toward the uncertain flames. The LaNorians squatted the way their ancestors had for thousands of years. “So,” the human said, “you’re sure you want to attempt this?”
Yao Che gave a single nod. “Yes, I am sure.”
The missionary felt a lump form in his throat and was barely able to swallow it. “All right then, your hat, is it ready?”
Yao Che touched the cone-shaped felt hat that rested on his head. Such caps were standard attire among adult males and this one had been selected with care. Not too old, and not too new, it looked like thousands of others.
But it wasn’t like thousands of others, not since Yao Che’s mother had split the hat open, inserted a carefully waterproofed letter between the lining and the felt, and sewn it back up again. If the convert could get the letter to Mys, and if he could make contact with Ambassador Pas Rasha, the missive could save hundreds of lives. The youth met the human’s eyes. “Yes, the hat is ready.”
“And your cover story?” Hwa Nas demanded. “What about that?”
Yao Che put his hand on a small red earthenware pot. The lid had been sealed into place with heavy layers of wax in order to protect the contents from the elements. “The remains of my mother’s mother reside in this funeral pot. As oldest son it is both my duty and privilege to convey gana’s ashes to the city of Mys where they will be blessed and interred with those of my grandfather.”
“Exactly,” Hwa Nas agreed, knowing that such trips were a common occurrence and would provide the youngster with a believable reason for traveling cross-country during troubled times.
More than that however was the fact that a second letter, identical to the first, had been secreted at the bottom of the ash-filled pot. That way, should one container be lost, there was a chance that the other would make it through.
“Here’s some money for your journey,” Frank said, handing the youngster a rope heavy with metal coins. “I suggest that you sort through these, find those having the most value, and secrete them in various places on your body.
“If the rope is stolen, let it go. Your mission is to reach Mys, not defend a string of coins. Is there anything else we can do for you?”
Yao Che shook his head.
“Okay,” Frank said, “it’s time to pray.”
The threesome knelt around the fire, called on God to watch over Yao Che, and visualized his safe arrival in Mys.
Then, after a quick good-bye to his mother, Yao Che was gone.
Frightened, but excited as well, Yao Che guided the small raft downriver. Both Frank and Hwa Nas had stressed how important it was to escape the local area without being detected. The youth and the rest of his family were very well known in and around the village of Nah Ree, which meant that were he to be intercepted, members of the local Claw contingent would see through his story in an instant. They knew his mother’s mother was alive—and would put the youngster to death.
That’s why Yao Che lay facedown on the tightly bundled reeds, used his feet to manipulate a makeshift rudder, and aimed his vessel for the center of the channel. There was flotsam out there, plenty of it, and the raft would blend in. The fact that Hwa Nas had laid some branches over his back would help as well.
The main current caught the fragile craft, spun it in a full circle, and propelled it forward. Water surged over the bow, flowed toward the stern, and soaked the front of the youth’s clothes.
Yao Che didn’t care, though—not so long as he was on his way. Because, truth be told, the youngster had an appetite for adventure and this was the first opportunity to come his way. He checked to ensure that his hat was secure—and that the pot was tied to his wrist. The river took care of the rest.
Ironically enough the peasant assigned to watch that particular section of the river on that partic
ular day was none other than the hammer-wielding Baa Hef.
However, because the sentry had decided to supplement the stipend of bread provided by the Claw, his attention was divided. In fact, at the moment when the raft shot past, Baa Hef was standing in the shallows with his back to the river. The fishing net was empty—but the message was on its way.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
In spite of the rain that had fallen during the night, the new day dawned bright and clear, something which normally put Ambassador Pas Rasha in a good mood. But today was an exception and for a very good reason.
It had been only yesterday that Force Leader Hakk Batth had radioed in to inform his superiors of the terrible news. It seemed that against his better judgment the Ramanthian had allowed Lieutenant Santana to lead the column along what was supposed to be a shortcut but subsequently turned into a death trap. Most of the expeditionary force had been killed while Batth, along with most of his Ramanthian troops, were barely able to escape. In spite of the terse formality of the report it was clear that Batth was distraught and, contrary to all common sense, blamed himself for the debacle.
Now, as the ambassador sat with his back to his desk, and stared south toward Polwa, his spirits were at the lowest ebb since Corporal Wu’s murder. Here, as the result of a single blow, he had lost Christine Vanderveen, a promising young diplomat of whom he was genuinely fond, Lieutenant Antonio Santana, who though somewhat impetuous, had saved Pas Rasha’s life, and at least thirty other souls, none of whom deserved to die in a LaNorian swamp. Later that afternoon the diplomat would be forced to sit down and write a report to his superiors, not to mention to each next of kin, informing them of the fate that had befallen their loved ones.
For More Than Glory Page 17