Meanwhile, as if to add to the sense of gloom, there were reports of terrible atrocities out in the countryside. Two railroad workers had been killed in their beds, their throats slit from ear to ear, and a Prithian trading post had been burned to the ground.
Adding to the misery was the fact that in spite of repeated attempts to contact the Busso family, there had been no response, and it was feared that the Transcendental mission had been destroyed.
Worse yet were reports that Imperial soldiers had done nothing to protect off-worlders—and in some cases appeared to be giving aid to the Tro Wa. Still another indication of the manner in which Empress Shi Huu was attempting to play both sides against the middle. The diplomat’s thoughts were was interrupted as a tone sounded and his assistant spoke over the intercom. “Citizen Chien-Chu is here to see you . . . Shall I send him in?”
Pas Rasha glanced at his comp, confirmed that the appointment was there, and realized that he had forgotten about it. A business type if he wasn’t mistaken . . . after some kind of mineral rights. A boring but welcome distraction. The ambassador touched a button. “Send him in.”
Chien-Chu was seated in the outer office. A pleasant room equipped with a variety of furniture, which in spite of the need to cater to a wild assortment of different physiologies, still managed to look congruent somehow. Perhaps it was the fact that all the pieces were made of the same dark wood and upholstered with matching fabric.
LaNorian landscapes decorated the walls, and the cyborg had just zoomed in on a rather impressive sunset, when the spindly-looking Dweller spoke. “The ambassador will see you now.”
Chien-Chu rose, nodded to Pas Rasha’s assistant, and entered the diplomat’s office. There was more matching furniture, a display case filled with local pottery, and shelves loaded with memorabilia, including pictures, plaques, and framed notes.
Servos whined as Pas Rasha’s exoskeleton helped the Dweller come to his feet. The diplomat, eternally sensitive to cultures other than his own, extended a fragile-looking hand. Careful to exert a minimum amount of pressure on the ambassador’s bones, Chien-Chu shook it. “Good morning Ambassador—it’s good to see you again.”
Pas Rasha looked surprised. “We’ve met before? My apologies . . . I can’t say that I remember your face.”
“And for good reason,” Chien-Chu replied. “My face was a good deal different back then. There we are . . . right over there.”
The diplomat followed the cyborg’s finger to one of the many photos that decorated his shelves. The picture showed a much younger version of himself standing shoulder to shoulder with a corpulent human, and not just any human, but Sergi Chien-Chu, the then president of the Confederacy. The name alone should have triggered his memory but had somehow failed to do so. “That was taken just before my biobody gave out,” Chien-Chu said conversationally. “I’ve occupied any number of cybernetic vehicles since then.”
Pas Rasha was astounded. Sergi Chien-Chu, the Sergi Chien-Chu, assuming the cyborg was who he claimed to be, was on LaNor! “I am honored for a second time,” the Dweller said sincerely. “But these are troubled times . . . would you be offended if I asked for some form of identification?”
“Not at all,” the industrialist replied easily. “If you would be so kind as to bring up the embassy’s security template, and enter the following sequence of numbers, you should receive some sort of clearance.”
Both individuals sat down. Chien-Chu in one of the two guest chairs that fronted the ambassador’s desk—and Pas Rasha in a special frame designed to accommodate the exoskeleton that he wore.
The cyborg recited a long sequence of numbers, the diplomat punched them into his terminal, and a likeness of President Nankool materialized over Pas Rasha’s desk. The Chief Executive Officer was human and looked a little puffy. “Regardless of what sort of body he may have on at the moment, and what sort of mischief he may up to, the individual before you is probably Sergi Chien-Chu. He is a past president of the Confederacy, a Reserve Navy admiral, and the owner of Chien-Chu Enterprises. He has a Nova class clearance—and runs occasional errands for me. Please be nice to him.”
The holo turned to mist and Pas Rasha laughed. “I can’t say that I’ve ever seen or heard an endorsement better than that one! Welcome to LaNor, Mr. President . . . What can I do for you?
The cyborg grinned. “Knock off the ‘Mr. President’ stuff for starters. Friends call me Sergi.”
“All right, Sergi,” the diplomat conceded, “what brings you to LaNor? One of those ‘errands’ the president alluded to?”
Chien-Chu shook his head. “No, I’m not working for the government, although there could be some crossover. One of my company’s subsidiaries was fortunate enough to obtain the permissions required to explore certain sections of the ocean floor. An activity which the Imperial government considered to be a waste of time but was still happy to charge us 2 million credits for.”
Pas Rasha could guess where the conversation was headed, and diplomat that he was, began to consider the implications. “And?”
“And we found what we were looking for,” the industrialist continued. “Hundreds of thousands of years ago a meteorite hit what the LaNorians call the Great Wet.
“The impact caused an incredible amount of damage and had a profound effect on all of the planet’s ecosystems.
“However, viewed from the perspective of the present, the meteorite did the LaNorians a tremendous favor. All sorts of debris were scattered over the ocean floor, including commercially viable quantities of rare elements including europium, lanthanum, and cerium.
“So,” Chien-Chu finished, “the so-what of all this is that should the people of LaNor license a company like mine to exploit these natural resources, and if they were to take a reasonable percentage of the profits, they would have a vast sum of money.”
Servos whined as Pas Rasha leaned backward in his chair. He was reminded of the wheel tax—and the manner in which it acted to suppress technological development. Perhaps, if another source of revenue were available, the tax could be dropped. “Would there be enough money to lift this world out of the steam age?”
The cyborg nodded. “That and more . . . Assuming they had a government that acted in their best interest.”
“And your company’s interest?”
“In return for the capital investment necessary to harvest these minerals, my company deserves a reasonable profit,” Chien-Chu responded easily.
“Not something you could be assured of at the present time.”
“Exactly. LaNor requires a stable and enlightened government.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the diplomat said fervently. “But the political situation continues to deteriorate. The Empress wants to maintain the status quo, the Claw seem bent on some sort of semireligious dictatorship, and the one hope we had for something better, a noble named Mee Mas, is running for his life. A member of my staff, a woman named Christine Vanderveen, was on her way to meet with him when she and most of her party were killed in an ambush.”
“Not Charlie Vanderveen’s daughter,” the cyborg inquired. “He’ll be devastated.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Pas Rasha replied. “And we lost some other good people as well.”
Both individuals were silent for a moment. Chien-Chu was first to speak. “So, perhaps it would be best to keep this information to ourselves for now. Until we see how things turn out.”
“Yes,” the Dweller agreed, “although it’s damned near impossible to keep a secret around here. There are spies lurking behind every door. And don’t forget the fact that I represent all of the Confederacy’s members—including those who compete with Chien-Chu Enterprises.”
“Understood,” the cyborg replied. “That’s why I didn’t choose to burden you with the exact location of our find.”
“And I’m glad you didn’t,” Pas Rasha said cheerfully, “I have enough problems already.”
“Yes,” Chien-Chu said dryly, “you certainly d
o.”
The two of them parted company after that, and a robot, no larger than the dot over an “i,” scurried away. It had a report to send . . . and very little time in which to send it. The ambassador’s office was scheduled for debugging in less than fifteen minutes. Still, that was an eternity in bug years, and the robot had plenty of time in which to make its escape.
EAST OF KA SUU, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Once free of the wetlands what remained of the allied column was able to make much better time. There were clouds, some of which appeared threatening, but hurried off toward the west. That’s when the sun appeared and bathed the land in a soft gold light.
The road continued south for about five standard miles prior to turning west again, and skirting the edge of the swamp. Softly rounded hills lay ahead, none of them very tall, or large in circumference. The road, which had clearly been built for the convenience of farmers rather than soldiers, wound its way between them.
Santana, who had a taste for history, not to mention an excellent vantage point from high on Snyder’s back, was fascinated by the fact that some sections of the ancient thoroughfare were actually paved. That, plus the remains of what could have been watchtowers, and the ruins that decorated each hilltop suggested a well-ordered kingdom.
This notion was reinforced by the gradual appearance of what the legionnaire thought of as hillside vineyards, although it was certain that the now-ancient vines had been planted to produce something other than grapes.
Peasants, pruning knives in hand, paused to shade their eyes and stare at the alien convoy. Most had never seen anything like the T-2 before—and simply stared. Others, braver souls perhaps, would occasionally wave.
Santana waved back, but continued to be conscious of the fact that the farmers who appeared to be friendly might belong to the Claw. And, regardless of whether the peasants were members of the Tro Wa or not, there were plenty of signs that the column was being tracked.
On more than one occasion Santana and Snyder had seen flashes of light from distant hilltops, as if the sun had been reflected off the surface of a highly polished weapon, or a carefully polished lens.
There were also times when the cyborg spotted what could have been LaNorian heat signatures crouched within thick clumps of vegetation, “seen” suspicious movements beyond the range of Santana’s unaided eyes, and “heard” two extremely brief radio transmissions.
The Ramanthians had provided the Claw with modern weapons—examples of which had been placed on cart number two. Had the bugs given the Tro Wa some short-range transceivers as well? Yes, the cavalry officer suspected that they had. Were the two groups still in communication with each other? Maybe, although he hoped they weren’t, and believed the odds were slim.
So, convinced that the column was under surveillance, and concerned lest the enemy attack during the night, Santana wanted to find a very special place to camp.
With that in mind, Hillrun, the best scout at the officer’s disposal, had been forced to inspect three different hilltops before finding one that matched the platoon leader’s requirements. The effort involved a lot of cross-country running, which was why Private Kimura and a Seebo nicknamed “Fiver,” stood soaked with sweat as Hillrun, still apparently fresh, made his report. “I think we found what you’re looking for, sir. A hill with a path to the top . . . and a deep ravine on the far side.”
Santana eyed the countryside from Snyder’s back. He saw five gently rounded hills. “Which one?”
Hillrun was far too experienced to point and potentially provide observers with information regarding the column’s intentions. “The one at three o’clock sir, with the lone tree on top.”
Santana looked to the right, spotted the hill in question, and nodded. “Good work, Sergeant. I want to reach the summit well before sunset. Let’s give the bastards an eyeful before the sun starts to set.”
Hillrun said, “Sir, yes sir,” and turned to the now-exhausted troopers. “Come on, let’s get moving, what do you think this is? A frigging tea party?”
Santana grinned. He doubted that the Naa had ever taken part in a tea party, or ever would, but had acquired the phrase from another NCO. It worked nonetheless. The scouts returned to their places, the carts jerked forward, and the road meandered toward the hill with the tree.
Vanderveen, who had chosen to walk rather than ride one of the remaining carts, hurried forward. She carried the rifle openly now, cradled across the crook of her left arm, ready for action.
Santana saw the diplomat coming, unplugged his headset, and dropped to the ground. Snyder continued to plod westward.
“So,” Vanderveen said, as the two of them came together, “what’s up?”
“We’re under surveillance,” the officer replied, falling into step beside her. “There’s no way to be absolutely sure—but I would be willing to wager a month’s pay that the Claw will attack during the night.”
“And you have a plan.”
It might have been sarcastic but Santana saw that it wasn’t. Whatever else the diplomat might think or feel about him she had faith in his military expertise. “Yes, I do. Here’s an overview . . . tell me what you think.”
The officer spoke, the diplomat listened, and eyes continued to watch.
As the sun sank in the west, and darkness crept in to claim the land, a fire appeared at the very top of Lone Tree Hill. A large fire, which having been fed by the off-worlders, was visible for miles around. The blaze blinked whenever bodies passed in front of it, and shivered when a breeze caressed the hill, but was otherwise steady like a beacon in the night.
The aliens are stupid, Noc Paa thought, very stupid, a failing for which they are about to pay.
A cobbler by day, and of the Tro Wa’s enforcers by night, Noc Paa had been tracking the aliens since their departure from the swamp. Now, hidden among the ruins on the top of a neighboring hill, the LaNorian and his band of cutthroats had little to do but eat the cold kas balls stored in their commodious pockets, gossip in low tones, and consider the task ahead.
Noc Paa had known that the foreign devils would spend the night on a hilltop—the only question was which one. The answer became clear the moment that the mechanical giant followed the path up toward the top of Lone Tree Hill. The razbuls, the carts they pulled, and all manner of strange-looking troops followed.
Then, once a camp had been established and weapons placed around the top of the hill, the LaNorian drivers had been sent down to lowlands below, each leading an enormous razbul, with bedrolls on their backs.
All of which made sense since the animals consumed a great deal of food each day and could forage along the edge of the nearby swamp during the night. Then, when the sun rose, the drivers would bring their animals up to the hilltop again. Except that they wouldn’t be able to do so, not without their heads, which would have been removed from their shoulders by that time!
But that was a minor detail, a chore to be handled after most of the aliens had been slaughtered, while a couple of them roasted over the coals of their own fire.
There were dangers, however, since foolish though they were, the off-worlders had managed to escape the ambush in the swamp. More than that they had killed all of their attackers—the leader of which had been none other than Noc Paa’s younger brother.
That’s why the Claw would wait until all but the sentries were asleep, slit their throats, and drown the rest like water rising from the bottom of a well.
Noc Paa found the thought comforting, and continued to relish it as he popped a kas ball into his mouth, and darkness claimed Lone Tree Hill.
It was pitch-black at the top of Lone Tree Hill, but thanks to the standard-issue night-vision visors and goggles worn by the off-world soldiers, they had no difficulty seeing each other or the intense green glow generated by the fire. While pretending to set up camp they had actually been preparing to leave.
The razbul drivers had been sent down to feed their animals, and then, as soon as darkness
fell, to leave the area before the Claw could come after them.
Meanwhile the carts had been unloaded, the contents sorted, and those items deemed most critical distributed to the troops. Santana believed there were only three categories of items worth carrying under the present circumstances and those were ammo, food, and medical gear. Everything else, including tents, extra clothing, and Batth’s folding furniture would be left behind.
Corporal Dietrich, with help from Private Horo-Ba, had been able to rig an oversize pack frame, which Snyder wore on her back. They didn’t put any ammo on the frame, since the T-2 was what Dietrich referred to as “a bullet magnet,” but it was an excellent way to transport most of the food supply, thereby lightening each trooper’s load, and making them more mobile.
Now, before the Claw could move in from wherever they were hiding, Santana wanted to get what he thought of as his platoon down off the hill. Radios were off and orders were delivered via whispers. The T-2 glowed a ghostly green. “Snyder, you first. Cover us once you reach the bottom.”
“Sergeant Twelve . . . Your men go next. Find positions around Snyder and cover our withdrawal.”
The ravine was climbable, they knew that, because Private Pesta had scouted the route shortly after the group’s arrival. The ravine had started as a fissure, grown wider as daily fluctuations in temperature caused chunks of rock to break off, and been further deepened by torrential rains.
Debris, much of which was quite loose, formed a gigantic staircase that the soldier used to reach the bottom. That’s where he found the ruins of an old stone building, a spring filled with freshwater, and lots of animal tracks. Then, with four newly filled canteens slung across his back, Pesta made his return to the summit.
Still, even though a biobod could make the climb didn’t mean that a T-2 could, and Snyder was forced to move with great care. Marvelous though it was, her body had never been designed for climbing. It was difficult to find places to put her feet—each one of which was the size of a standard concrete block. Not only that but her hands, really more like graspers, were practically useless for rock climbing.
For More Than Glory Page 18