For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  Yao Che had no choice but to put the best possible face on the matter, surrender the earthenware vessel, and hope for the best.

  Ply Pog accepted the pot, appeared to weigh it with his work-callused hands, and tugged on the lid. The wax was still in place however, which meant that the warrior had to cut through the seal with the hook-shaped metal claw that he wore on the middle finger of his right hand. There was a tiny release of air as pressures were equalized and the lid came free.

  The youngster held his breath as the older male peered inside and stirred the ash with one of his blunt fingertips. “Sorry, lad,” Ply Pog said, returning the vessel to its owner, “but these are troubled times. Why just yesterday we stopped a farmer with a cartload of razbul manure. One my friends used a spear to check the load and what do you think he found?”

  Yao Che shook his head. “I have no idea . . . What?”

  “A devil!” the Claw said triumphantly. “Hiding inside a pile of shit! Can you beat that?”

  “No,” the teenager replied, “I can’t. What did you do with the foreigner?”

  “Well,” Ply Pog replied, “we tied both the farmer and his devil to long poles and roasted them over the fire. They screamed for hours.”

  Yao Che thought of his friend Natalie Busso, imagined her bound to a spit, and felt a lump form in his throat. He was barely able to swallow it. “And a good thing, too.”

  “Exactly,” Ply Pog replied. “Now, what was it that you wanted to know?”

  “Is this the road to Polwa?”

  “Why, yes it is,” the warrior answered jovially, “and that’s where we’re headed. Why don’t you come along? We’ll deliver your gana’s ashes, drink some big-city beer, and kill every devil in Mys . . . What do you say?”

  There was only one thing that the youngster could say, which was how Yao Che became a member of the Tro Wa Reds and subsequently entered the Imperial city of Polwa.

  THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  The restaurant in the Strathmore Hotel provided a neutral setting in which all beings could meet so long as they didn’t mind everyone in the off-world community being aware of it. And Fynian Isu Hybatha didn’t mind at all—especially if onlookers discovered that she had not only bested Chien-Chu Enterprises, but Chien-Chu himself, the very individual who was most responsible for the manner in which her people had been defeated during the recent war.

  That’s why the Thraki ambassador was already seated at the linen-covered table when the cyborg entered the room and looked around. It was lunchtime, and at least two dozen sets of eyes followed Chien-Chu as he walked over to the diplomat’s table and took his place in front of a place setting he had no reason to use.

  The Thraki’s “form,” a tiny robot that was more pet than functionary, did a headstand next to Hybatha’s elbow. She formulated a human-style smile and extended her hand. The industrialist shook it. “Good afternoon, Ambassador. . . and happy Flight Day.”

  The diplomat, who was seated in what amounted to a fancy high chair, was taken aback. With the exception of a few scholars very few humans had troubled themselves to study her people’s history.

  Flight Day, the day on which her entire race had taken flight from the murderous Sheen, was the equivalent of a national holiday. The fact that the industrialist knew that, or had taken the trouble to conduct some research prior to meeting with her, served to remind the diplomat that Chien-Chu was a formidable opponent indeed. She manufactured a second smile. “Thank you. That’s the problem with postings like this one . . . we don’t even get the day off!”

  “Yes,” Chien-Chu agreed dryly, “and you’ve been very busy indeed.”

  There were any number of things that the Thraki didn’t like about humans—and the direct manner in which they often chose to communicate was one of them. Her form did a cartwheel across the surface of the table, nicked a bud vase, and threatened to turn it over. The diplomat managed to catch the container before it could fall. “So, you heard?”

  “Yes,” Chien-Chu acknowledged. “I did. My source tells me that you offered to make the Empress look young again in return for rights to the subsea minerals that my company spent millions to find and evaluate. An effective strategy—but not a very ethical one.”

  A LaNorian waiter approached but Hybatha waved him off. Her eyes narrowed and her ears went back against her skull. “Spare me the moralistic nonsense Citizen Chien-Chu . . . Representatives from your company paid the LaNorian government only a fraction of what the exploration rights were worth.”

  “That’s not true,” Chien-Chu replied calmly. “We paid fair market value, especially in light of the fact that government officials refused to read the tutorial materials we prepared for them, and believed that the entire effort was a complete waste of time.”

  There was silence for a moment as both individuals eyed the other. Hybatha spoke first. “Look, I understand how you feel, but let’s be pragmatic . . . Rather than fight over the find we could cooperate. My government has the mineral rights . . . and you know where the deposits are. Yes, we could import the necessary equipment, and find the minerals ourselves but why go to that expense? Especially if we can come up with a suitable agreement.”

  Chien-Chu raised an eyebrow. “Terms?”

  “Three percent of whatever we negotiate with the government.”

  “No.”

  Hybatha, who had expected Chien-Chu to be a good deal more pragmatic, was genuinely surprised. “ ‘No’? Why not?”

  “There are three reasons,” Chien-Chu replied evenly. “First, I don’t like you. Second, the arrangement wouldn’t be ethical. Third, it’s my opinion that Empress Shi Huu will no longer be in power thirty days from now, which will leave you out in the cold. Good day.” And with that the industrialist got up and left.

  The form, still intent on entertaining its owner, did a double backflip. Hybatha, her eyes on Chien-Chu’s back, failed to notice.

  WEST OF THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  As front after front rolled in from the west the rainy season began in earnest.

  There were downpours that flattened crops, roiled the surface of fishponds, and led to flooding.

  There were on-again off-again showers, here one moment and gone the next.

  And there were “mist storms,” when the water seemed to mix with the atmosphere, and hang suspended in the air.

  That meant everyone was wet twenty-seven hours a day. They woke up wet, marched wet, and went to sleep wet. In fact, the only thing that prevented the entire group from succumbing to hypothermia was the fact that the air was relatively warm.

  Still, it was a miserable, muddy-looking procession that snaked its way from one small hamlet to the next, eternally aware that death dogged their steps.

  Nearly three days had passed since Mee Mas had surfaced in the well—and a lot had happened since then. Though eager to leave Pur Lor before the Claw could mount an attack of some sort, Santana was well aware of how tired the troops were, and the need to rest them. Accordingly, he forced himself to stay until everyone had the benefit of at least one uninterrupted sleep cycle.

  The prince, who was overjoyed to see his rescuers, quickly proved himself to be both an asset and a liability. An asset in that he had an intimate knowledge of the surrounding countryside—and a liability because he was incredibly spoiled. The latest manifestation of which came as the column slogged down an especially muddy section of road. Snyder was on point. Santana came next, followed by the Seebos, the Thraks, Vanderveen, the prince, Sergeant Hillrun, and the rest of the legionnaires.

  Santana was so engrossed in the simple process of placing one mud-caked boot in front of the other that he wasn’t even aware of Mee Mas until the LaNorian cleared his throat. The officer turned to see what looked like a bedraggled legionnaire. Rather than his usual finery Mee Mas was decked out in a camouflage rain poncho, a pair of Private Taz’s trousers, and a sturdy pair of sandals. Though far being a
n expert on the nuances of LaNorian facial expressions, the platoon leader could see that the noble was pissed. His voice had an imperious quality. “I am wet.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I wish to be dry.”

  “We all do.”

  “You will stop at the next village.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Mee Mas, who was not accustomed to hearing the word “no,” looked surprised. “But you must! I am a prince.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Santana replied patiently, “but I am a lieutenant, and right here, right now, I outrank your ass. Now, get back to where you’re supposed to be, and shut the hell up.”

  Sergeant Twelve snickered and Mee Mas stood in stupefied silence until Vanderveen caught up with him. At least she was friendly—and the prince fell into step next to her. “So,” the diplomat said, “how did it go?”

  “Not very well,” Mee Mas admitted. “He told me to return here ‘and shut the hell up.’ ”

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Vanderveen commented mildly.

  “Can he do that?” the prince inquired. “Can he tell individuals of higher rank to ‘shut up’?”

  “Perhaps he shouldn’t,” the diplomat said philosophically, “but he can. That’s because he cares more about the safety of the people under his command than currying favor with his superiors. If we were to stay in the next village the locals might betray us, we’d be forced to fight on their ground, and there would be a lot of collateral damage. That means dead civilians.”

  Mee Mas looked thoughtful. “He told you this?”

  “No,” Vanderveen replied, “not directly, but I’m learning how he thinks.”

  “And this is a good way to think?”

  “Yes, it is. For a soldier at any rate.”

  The two of them were silent for a moment. Mee Mas looked at his feet and wondered if he could ever get them clean. “If I am to lead my people, I must learn to be a soldier.”

  “Yes,” Vanderveen agreed, looking up the line to where the massive T-2 led the way, and the solitary figure who marched behind. “There are times when they do come in handy.”

  It was early the next morning when Santana held a council of war. Sergeant Hillrun was there, as was Sergeant Twelve, L-1 Narvony, Vanderveen, and Mee Mas. Breakfast was over, a fine mist hung in the air, and they clutched mugs filled with hot tea. The fire, which was fueled by moisture-impervious heat tabs rather than wood, glowed rather than burned.

  “So,” Santana said, using his combat knife to make marks in the mud, “here’s the situation. We’re less than a day’s march from Mys. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we’re being followed. Sergeant Hillrun, tell us what you saw.”

  The Naa, who came from a planet where the average surface conditions made LaNor’s rainy season look mild by comparison, was muddy but otherwise unperturbed. “Sir, yes sir. Corporal Dietrich and I went for a little walk two hours before dawn. As all of you know some three or four individuals have tailing us ever since we left Pur Lor. Now, judging from the number of fires we saw, it appears that approximately two dozen digs, I mean LaNorians, have joined the chase.”

  Santana let the words sink in for a moment. He used his knife as a pointer. “So, thanks to the intelligence gathered by Sergeant Hillrun and Corporal Dietrich, we know the enemy is right about here. We’re here . . . and Mys is there. The sudden arrival of additional warriors would seem to signal the possibility of an imminent attack.

  “The question is this, do we go for it, and try to reach Mys before the Claw can catch up with us, or do we lay some sort of ambush?”

  Mee Mas observed the proceedings with a considerable amount of interest. Here, much to his amazement, was a seemingly strong leader who, unlike all the generals of the youth’s acquaintance, not only shared information with his subordinates, but even went so far as to solicit their opinions. Was that good or bad? Weak or strong? The prince waited to see.

  “Well,” Sergeant Twelve put in, “I favor an ambush. Remember all the Imperial troops we passed as we left Mys? They sure as hell didn’t look very friendly. Who knows where things stand now? What if the folks to the rear are the hammer—and the Imperials are the anvil?”

  It was good thinking—and Santana nodded accordingly. “Thanks, Sergeant. Hillrun? What do you think?”

  “I’m with Twelve,” the Naa replied. “Let’s get ’em off our tails so we have a clear line of retreat if we run into trouble.”

  “L-1 Narvony? Any opinions?”

  The Thraki didn’t relish the idea of an unnecessary fight and looked doubtful. “I don’t know, sir. What if we lay an ambush and they flank us? Even if we win all it would take is a few causalities to slow us down. That would give the Claw the opportunity to summon more warriors and attack again.”

  In spite of the fact that Santana was somewhat suspicious of the Thraki’s true motives, everything she said made sense and would have to be taken into account. “Those are excellent points, Narvony. Well said. How ’bout the civilians among us? Any suggestions?”

  “What about a compromise?” Vanderveen inquired. “You provide Mee Mas with an armed escort, send them toward Mys, and we stage the ambush.”

  Santana noted the “we” and understood the diplomat’s reasoning. She wanted to protect the prince. The officer didn’t want to divide his force however, and was about to say so, when the Mee Mas broke in. “No! If you fight, then I fight. Please provide me with a weapon.”

  There was a long drawn-out silence as Santana looked from person to person. His eyes came to rest on Vanderveen. The diplomat raised both of her carefully plucked eyebrows and gave an elaborate shrug. Somehow, in spite of the mud smeared across one cheek, she still managed to look beautiful.

  “All right,” the platoon leader said, “you heard the prince. Give him a rifle.”

  The Tro Wa “blues” were strung out in a long line, well separated in case of an ambush, and armed with cheap semiautomatic weapons purchased from human gunrunners. Unlike the farmers, weavers, and metalsmiths who followed him, Orl Kno actually had some military experience. Hard-won experience gained while serving under General Has Doo in the bandit-ridden western provinces. But that was back in the days when the Emperor was alive—and Shi Huu had been his consort.

  Now, with more than sixty birthdays behind him, Orl Kno should have been sitting by the fire, warming his bones.

  But the Claw were active in his village, very active, and each family was expected to do its part. That’s why Orl Kno had volunteered, so his son wouldn’t have to, and could remain with his young family.

  Had he been asked the old soldier would have described himself as apolitical, not caring which despot ruled from Polwa so long as they didn’t raise taxes too high, and stayed out of his village.

  However, having been forced to take up arms on behalf of the Tro Wa, Orl Kno was determined not only to carry out the mission he’d been given, but to bring as many of his poorly trained peasants home as he could.

  That’s why the oldster never ceased to harp on the basics. Things like the importance of military discipline, the need to keep weapons scrupulously clean, and the difference between rhetoric and reality.

  Claw leadership persisted in preaching all sorts of nonsense, including the notion that truly devout followers of the way were impervious to bullets, that the most fervent red lanterns could fly, and that the off-worlders were cowards.

  So, thanks to Orl Kno’s experience and levelheaded leadership, his detachment of “blues” were better organized and trained than most such groups were.

  Their primary mission was simple: overtake the enemy and kill them.

  There was a secondary mission, however, one which reeked of politics and made the LaNorian extremely nervous. By some miraculous means, his superiors didn’t say how, Orl Kno was supposed to inspect the party of off-world beings to determine if a prince named Mee Mas was among them, and then, absurd though the notion was, take the princeling
alive. All based on orders handed down by some idiot named Lak Saa.

  But orders are orders, and there was bound to be at least one informant in the group, which meant that Orl Kno had to at least pretend to follow orders. That’s why he had dispatched a young rather athletic youngster to pass the devil beings during the hours of darkness, examine them as they passed by, and report via one of the two cheap handheld radios that had been issued to the team.

  Now, as the old soldier slogged up a hill, a voice sounded in his pocket. “Orl Kno? Are you there?”

  The oldster frowned as he fumbled the unfamiliar device out of his pocket, located the “talk” button, and pressed it down. “Of course I’m here . . . Where else would I be? Sitting on Shi Huu’s throne?”

  The youngster, an apprentice named Pok Tay was used to the oldster’s somewhat cranky ways and knew the question was rhetorical. “I found a hole in the embankment, made it larger, and climbed inside. Then, using some brush, I covered the opening. The devils walked right by me! I could have reached out to touch them.”

  Orl Kno doubted that but was impressed nonetheless. “Good work, lad, what did you see?”

  “The machine passed first, followed by the off-worlders, and a single LaNorian.”

  “A LaNorian? You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” the youngster replied confidently. “He wore devil clothes, but he was a LaNorian all right, and armed with a weapon.”

  “Good,” Orl Kno said, “stay where you are . . . The rest of us will arrive shortly.”

  Though not capable of running as he once had—Orl Kno could jog, and he proceeded to do so. He moved over to the edge of the road, where the ground was firmer, and waved his troops forward.

  The blues caught up with Pok Tay fifteen minutes later, picked up speed, and topped the rise just in time to see two figures vanish over the summit of the next hill.