Clauson felt someone brush the covers on his bed and opened his eyes. Vanderveen’s face was dirty, but he thought she looked angelic nevertheless, and managed a smile. “Hey, Christine, what are you doing? Goofing off again?”
The younger diplomat nodded. “Exactly. How did you know?”
Clauson shrugged. “Bosses know these things.”
“Here, I brought you some of those lozenges you like.”
There was only one place on LaNor where that particular type of lozenge could be obtained—and that was in the lower-right-hand drawer of Clauson’s desk. So, given the fact that the diplomat’s office was on one of the upper floors, Clauson knew Vanderveen had risked sniper fire to retrieve them. She unwrapped one and slipped it between his lips. “There . . . How’s that?”
The coffee-flavored drop tasted wonderful. “Thank you,” Clauson said feelingly, “but don’t go up there again. You could get killed.”
“I won’t have to,” Vanderveen said brightly. “I brought your entire supply down to ground level—and locked it in the embassy safe.”
Clauson laughed, but the motion made his leg hurt, and his hands went down toward the stump. The incoming artillery shell, one of dozens lobbed over the wall on that particular day, had exploded as he crossed Embassy Row. The lower part of his right leg had been severed below the knee. One of the Legion’s medics had put a tourniquet on long enough to stem the worst of the bleeding, slapped a battle dressing onto the stump, and allowed the built-in coagulant to seal the wound. Assuming the relief force arrived soon the limb could be regrown or, failing that, replaced with a bionic prosthesis. In the meantime it hurt like hell. Vanderveen frowned. “Should I call for a nurse?”
The diplomat shook his head. “No, they have enough to do. Besides,” he said, glancing at his wrist term, “the med cart is due by in five minutes and twenty-six seconds. Not that I’m keeping track.”
Vanderveen nodded. “Good, but I’ll check in every once in a while, just to see if there’s something you need.”
“Thanks,” Clauson replied sincerely. “So, how’s the boss? Has he managed to hold the menagerie together?”
Vanderveen bit her lower lip. This was the moment she’d been dreading. “I’m sorry, Harley, but a spent bullet fell out of the sky, and struck the top of the ambassador’s head. We buried him earlier this afternoon.”
Clauson felt a sense of disbelief. Pas Rasha? Dead? It didn’t seem possible. In spite of the Dweller’s fragility, he’d always seemed to be above it all, as if subject to a completely different set of rules and therefore invulnerable. “And Madam Pas Rasha? How is she?”
“Devastated. Cerly is trying to comfort her—but she’s taking it hard.”
Both diplomats were silent for a moment. Clauson was the first to speak. “You know what this means . . . Given the fact that Pas Rasha is dead, and I’m out of commission, that makes you the ranking diplomat on LaNor.”
Vanderveen nodded mutely. The reality of that was still sinking in. The Confederacy was big on protocol, it had to be in order to hold so many diverse cultures together, and nowhere was that more true than in the area of diplomacy.
In spite of the fact that individual governments were free to send representatives to worlds such as LaNor their portfolios were supposedly limited to areas such as economic development, agricultural programs, and cultural exchanges. It was the Confederacy’s diplomats, who on behalf of the president, dealt with matters such as treaties, technology transfers, and military alliances.
All of which meant that while diplomats like Sea Sor, Regar Batth, Ishimoto-Forty-Six, and Doko-Sa might be senior to Vanderveen in both rank and years of experience, it was she who was in charge. A sobering thought. “So,” the no-longer-junior diplomat asked, “do you have any advice?”
Clauson considered the question for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I do. Don’t dither, delay, or be too deferential.”
Vanderveen grinned. “The three D’s.”
“Yeah,” Clauson replied thoughtfully, “I guess so. Just grab ahold of the situation and don’t cut any of our honorable colleagues any slack.”
Vanderveen nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
“Good,” Clauson replied. “Now get out there and hold this mess together. The relief force should arrive anytime now—and it would be nice if there was someone left to greet them.”
Vanderveen smiled, squeezed the other diplomat’s hand, and turned away.
There weren’t any trumpets to announce her coming, but it was the new ambassador to LaNor who stepped out into the afternoon sunlight, and started to make her rounds.
Darkness had settled over Mys by the time that the Prithian warriors had formed up at the southeast corner of the parade ground. That was the point from which they and the Ramanthians were scheduled to depart for the corporate sector where Mee Mas and his irregulars were all that stood between the LaNorian converts and the mixed force of Imperials and Tro Wa dug in on the west side of Embassy Row.
There was the gentle murmur of voices, plus the occasional clink of metal, as Prithian officers forced each warrior to jump up and down. Any gear that clinked, rattled, or squeaked was identified, resecured, and tested again. The whole idea was to make the trip from the parade ground to the roof of the cathedral undetected so that subsequent flights could be used to ferry critical supplies.
Seeba-Ka watched impassively as the Prithians made ready, but kept an eye on the time and finally ran out of patience. Santana and his platoon were stationed on the west wall not far from the Ramanthian embassy which explained why they were chosen. “Blood Six to Bravo Six. Over.”
Santana ducked below the top of the wall. “This is Bravo Six. Go. Over.”
“Take a squad and check on Golf Six. He and his detachment are late for dinner. Over.”
The platoon leader could guess what “dinner” referred to, and pushed the transmit button twice. Then, switching to the platoon frequency, Santana gave the necessary orders. “Bravo Six to Bravo Two Six and Bravo Three Six. Two, take your squad and meet me at the base of the wall. Three, cover the resulting gap. Over.”
The officer listened for two sets of affirmative clicks, heard them, and moved toward the stairs. It was relatively quiet at that particular moment, blissfully so, with only the blare of a distant trumpet, the occasional gunshot, and the pop of a flare to mar the otherwise peaceful night.
Once on the ground Santana spotted Sergeant Bonnie Cvanivich, pointed toward the Ramanthian embassy, and used hand signals to direct the squad forward. It was a strange thing to do, given that the Ramanthians were allies, but Santana couldn’t bring himself to trust them. Not after his experiences on Beta-018 . . . and the march to Ka Suu.
As usual it was Private Rockclimb Warmfeel who led his teammates toward the dark one-story building. The Naa seemed to float over the ground like an animated shadow. Pausing to look, listen, and feel, pushing ahead, then pausing again.
Santana felt a vague uneasiness transform itself into something akin to fear as the legionnaires closed with the building. Where were the normally territorial bugs anyway? The squad should have been challenged by then.
In the meantime Warmfeel had sidled up to the building, announced himself, and received no reply. Consequently, the scout slid along the wall, arrived at the embassy’s back door, and made an amazing discovery. Not only was it hanging open, and completely unguarded, but the smell of smoke hung in the air. Not the normal stuff, typical of both Mys and Polwa, but a more acrid odor reminiscent of burning plastic. The Naa looked for Santana and was quick to motion the platoon leader forward.
The officer sprinted across a patch of moonlit duracrete and arrived at the other side of the door. The Naa hooked a thumb toward the interior. “Not a bug in sight, and it seems like something’s burning, sir.”
Santana swore and mashed his transmit button. “Bravo Six to Blood Six. It looks like Golf Six ran away from home . . . or decided to hide under his bed. I’m going in to see wh
at we can find. I suggest that you put the Quick Reaction Force front and back until we know what we have. Over.”
“This is Blood Six,” Seeba-Ka replied. “Roger the QRF. Report in five. Over.”
Santana sent two clicks, checked to ensure that Cvanivich and her squad were ready, and followed Warmfeel inside. What illumination there was emanated from their helmet lights and what Santana thought of as “footers” because they were mounted at the base of walls and spaced roughly six feet apart. Having been in the building before, the platoon leader knew that the primary lighting was off and the footers were emergency backups.
Cvanivich used a series of jerky hand movements to direct members of her team down side corridors and through open doors. Their helmet lights played across walls, glinted through glass, and wobbled across the floors. All were back within a matter of minutes. They shook their heads and fell in behind.
Santana located the ramp that led down into the basement, made note of the fact that the smell of smoke had grown even more intense, and followed his nose. They hit the bottom of the incline and paused. More squad members were dispatched and it wasn’t long before Hadley returned with news. “We located the fire, sir. It looks like someone used thermite grenades to destroy their computers.”
Santana nodded. The new piece of information suggested that the Ramanthians had left on their own although there was no way to be absolutely sure of that. His concerns continued to deepen. “Sergeant, let’s keep everyone together for the moment, I don’t like the way this place feels. I want good spacing between the troops . . . and a clean line of retreat.”
Cvanivich nodded and passed the word. Santana followed the main corridor toward the back of the building. The farther the legionnaire went the warmer it became. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, ran down into his eyes, and forced him to wipe them away. The atmosphere grew steadily more oppressive, the air thickened, and the officer released the safety on his CA-10 carbine. Something was wrong, very wrong, but what was it? There were no Ramanthians, dead or alive, yet the city was surrounded . . . Where had the bugs gone?
The answer came with horrifying suddenness as a LaNorian screamed and the lead elements of an Imperial assault force poured out of the darkness. Santana fired his weapon on full automatic, saw a wild-looking face shatter as his bullets tore it apart, and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Pull back! Pull back! The bastards tunneled their way in!”
They backed onto the ramp. It was only about four feet wide which meant that contact was limited on both sides. Cvanivich and Warmfeel stood shoulder to shoulder with their platoon leader and fired into the oncoming mob. Santana felt a steady stream of hot shell casings hit his left shoulder as the noncom fired her weapon, fell over backward, and went down with what looked like a crossbow bolt protruding from the center of her forehead. Corporal “Dice” Dietrich moved forward to take her place. Dietrich was considered to be something of an artiste where grenade launchers were concerned and used his weapon to send a steady stream of high-explosive (HE) rounds down the corridor.
The objective was to relieve the pressure on Warmfeel and Santana and grease as many of the digs as he could without getting killed by one of his own projectiles. A very real danger in such close quarters.
There was a series of bright flashes as the grenades went off, shrapnel cut the Imperial troops to shreds, and the walls were drenched with blood.
Santana felt his weapon cycle empty, hit the magazine release, and had just seated another when someone used his combat harness to jerk him back off his feet. The platoon leader fell backward, hit the deck, and had the impression of something huge stepping over his body. “It’s the QRF!” Bagano shouted into his ear. “I was afraid Zook might step on you.”
“Thanks,” Santana said, struggling to regain his feet. “Please feel free to deck my ass whenever you see fit.”
All further conversation was rendered impossible as the T-2 squeezed his way down the ramp, arrived at the bottom, and opened fire. It took the cyborg less than three minutes to clear the corridor all the way back to the point where the LaNorian tunnel connected with the rear of the Ramanthian embassy. Two hours later, having plugged the tunnel with one of the reconditioned RAVs, the perimeter was secure once more.
A close look at the LaNorian bodies revealed that while the invaders had been dressed in Imperial uniforms, many wore metal claws, or had Tro Wa symbols cut into their ear fans. Based on that it appeared that members of the Claw had been disguised so they could pass through Imperial lines. One more indication that the earlier alliance had come apart.
No one knew where the Ramanthians were, except to say that they were outside the walls, where it was assumed that the Tro Wa would give them sanctuary. A possibility that made Seeba-Ka’s blood boil. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Regar Batth believed that Mys would fall, that the entire off-world population would be put to death, and that safety lay in surrender.
However, much as Santana wanted to get his hands on the Ramanthians, he wanted sleep even more. In spite of the fact that he had been forced to share his room with one of the corporate types, the businessman had volunteered to be part of the city’s extremely active fire brigade, and was presently on duty.
Santana slipped into the room, took a quick shower, and fell into his bed. Sleep had already reached up, and was in the process of pulling him down, when the door opened and someone slipped inside. The platoon leader was reaching for the sidearm on his nightstand when a hand covered his and a fall of soft blond hair brushed his arm.
The legionnaire felt Vanderveen slip into his bed, knew he should do something about the fact that she was fully clothed, but couldn’t quite muster the energy.
The diplomat whispered into the soldier’s ear, he whispered into hers, and then, locked within each other’s arms, they drifted off to asleep.
15
* * *
Our best ally is surprise.
Ramanthian General Jawa Harl
Standard year circa 1245
* * *
PLANET ARBALLA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Even if Sergi Chien-Chu’s body didn’t require any rest, his brain did, and it was asleep when the com started to chime. The cyborg mumbled, “Com on,” and struggled to make sense of the words that spilled from the speaker. “Whoa,” the industrialist said, “hold on. Who is this? And what’s the problem?”
It wasn’t the first time that Analyst 5 Sikora had been asked to start over again so she hurried to apologize. “Sorry, sir. This is Clarice Sikora. It’s about the disk you gave us—the one from LaNor. Could you come see me? It’s very important.”
Given the nature of the ship’s purpose the Friendship was literally crawling with thousands of electronic bugs. So that meant Sikora couldn’t tell Chien-Chu why she was so excited but there was no need to. The Ramanthian code had been broken, a translation had been made, and the results were interesting. Damned interesting judging from the urgency in the analyst’s voice. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” the industrialist assured her, and broke the connection.
The corridors were busy as usual, but Chien-Chu knew the ship better than most, and arrived in the Intelligence section a scant twelve minutes after having left his cabin. Clarice Sikora was there waiting for him, as was her boss, Margaret Rutherford Xanith.
No one was allowed to bypass security, not even an ex-president, which meant that the women had no choice but to wait while Chien-Chu was forced to produce ID, scanned for bugs, and “sniffed” for explosives. Finally, having been cleared through the checkpoint, he was ushered into a sterile-looking corridor.
Other than her bright intelligent eyes, the rest of Sikora’s features could only be described as plain, as was her unrelieved beige clothing. In fact the only thing that hinted at the nonprofessional aspect of the analyst’s personality was the extravagant fall of shiny black hair that hung all the way to her waist. It was held together by a silver clasp located at the nape of her neck
, the sort manufactured by Prithian silversmiths, and prized for the quality of their craftsmanship. “Wait till you see this stuff!” the analyst said excitedly. “This is the intelligence coup of the century!”
Chien-Chu glanced at the woman known as Madame X, and she nodded soberly. “Clarice is correct, but that doesn’t mean that you’re going to like it, or that we aren’t in a whole heap of trouble.”
The cyborg winced. “It’s that bad?”
“Yup, I’m afraid so.”
Chien-Chu was about to ask for a summary, a one-line synopsis of what they had learned, when the women guided the cyborg into a vacant conference room. “Have a seat” Xanith suggested, “and take a look at this . . . Once the code was broken we had the contents translated. There were reams of administrative garbage, the sort of stuff the Ramanthians would get if they pulled the same stunt on us, but right there, buried in the middle of a production report from the bug in charge of a LaNorian factory, is the equivalent of a hundred-megaton bomb. What you are about to look at was written by an administrator named Akko Seda—and addressed to a bigwig named Suu Norr. And he, if memory serves, heads the Department of Civilian Affairs on Hive.”
The use of the pejorative term “bugs” was far from politically correct, but neither Chien-Chu nor Xanith made an effort to correct her. Sikora flipped a switch and a block of text appeared on the conference room’s wall screen. The words began to scroll and Chien-Chu followed along. “. . . during the last quarter of the year. So, barring any unexpected production problems, I believe that we will be able to do our part in providing the 5 billion new souls with the basic everyday tools necessary for them to lead civilized lives.” Chien-Chu paused at that point and went back to read the same words over again.
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