Less known to those outside the realm of government was Jakov’s companion of late. An extremely ambitious diplomat named Kay Wilmot. Those who kept track of such things agreed that the assistant undersecretary had shed at least ten pounds since accepting a temporary position on Jakov’s staff, where, according to certain wags, the
“under” secretary took her title quite literally. But even the harshest of critics would have been forced to admit that Wilmot was a match for any of the vice president’s previous consorts on that particular evening. Though not a beautiful woman, the foreign service offi?cer was attractive, and she knew how to emphasize what she had through the use of carefully applied makeup. That, plus a green dress cut to emphasize her large breasts, drew plenty of attention from the human males in attendance.
All conversations came to a halt, and there was lightbut-sustained applause as the couple entered the huge room, both because Jakov was well liked, and because the military ball was not only the vice president’s idea, but had been funded out of his pockets. Booly and Maylo watched with amusement as at least half of their fi?ckle admirers left to join the throng of beings now gathered around Jakov and Wilmot.
But such defections were to be expected, and without President Nankool being there to claim the spotlight, it was Jakov’s night to be at the center of attention. A role he clearly enjoyed, as senators, ambassadors, and senior military offi?cers lined up to claim their smile, pat on the back, or well-honed joke.
Hors d’oeuvres were served fi?fteen minutes later. In spite of the fact that the Legion’s cooks spent most of their time churning out thousands of meals for both the troops and the large contingent of civilians who had been forced to take up residence on Algeron, they could still produce something approaching haute cuisine when the occasion demanded, a fact that quickly became apparent as trays of beautifully prepared appetizers made the rounds. Included were a variety of creations that not only melted in the mouth, beak, or siphon tube, but represented the full spectrum of culinary traditions found within the boundaries of the Confederacy. Never mind the fact that some of the offerings were diffi?cult to look at, had a tendency to crawl about, or produced what some guests considered to be unappetizing odors.
Thanks to the hors d’oeuvres, and the free-fl?owing drinks from the bar, most of the guests were in a good mood by the time they were instructed to take their places at the carefully arranged tables. Because who sat next to whom, and how close they were to the vice president’s table, was not only an indication of status but a matter of practical importance as well. Since it would never do to put potential antagonists right next to each other—or to unintentionally promote alliances that might prove to be strategically counterproductive later on.
That meant “reliable” people such as Booly and Maylo had been paired with individuals like the recently named Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who not only lacked some of the social graces expected of top-echelon politicians, but had a tendency to get crosswise with any Hudathan he encountered. Because, while others might have put the horrors of the Hudathan wars aside in the interest of political expediency, both Truespeak and his constituents were slow to forgive.
And as if the sometimes cantankerous Truespeak wasn’t a suffi?cient challenge, Booly and Maylo had been saddled with the treacherous Thraki representative as well. In fact the short, somewhat paunchy Senator Obduro had recently been part of a conspiracy to help the Ramanthians recondition some of the Sheen warships they had stolen. An offense for which he was anything but contrite. The evening’s entertainment had begun by then, which, in keeping with the military nature of the ball, involved various displays of skill by well-practiced legionnaires, sailors, and marines. A group of naval ratings had just begun a spirited stick dance, when Booly noticed that a contingent of noncoms were delivering notes to guests who, having read them, immediately got up to leave. Jakov and Wilmot the fi?rst to do so.
That was not only unusual, but cause for concern, since any news that was so important that the duty offi?cer felt compelled to notify the vice president was probably bad. Maylo had noticed the messengers as well, and the two of them exchanged glances as a staff sergeant approached their table. “For you, sir,” the legionnaire said, as he handed a note to Booly.
The offi?cer thanked the soldier, read the note, and hurried to excuse himself. Though careful to hide her emotions, Maylo felt something heavy settle into the pit of her stomach as her husband walked away, and knew her appetite wasn’t likely to return.
Fort Camerone’s com center was a windowless cluster of rooms buried below ground level, where it would be safe from anything short of a direct hit by multiple nuclear bombs. It had always been important, but now that the government was in residence on Algeron, the complex was at the very center of the vast web of communications that held the Confederacy together.
Most of the intersystem messages that came into the center arrived via FTL courier ships—or hyperdriveequipped message torps. However, thanks to a new technology stolen from the Ramanthians, the old ways would soon be obsolete. Because once all of the Confederacy’s ships had been equipped with hypercoms, it would be possible to communicate with each vessel in real time from any point in space. Of course it would be a while before the big clunky contraptions could be miniaturized and massproduced—but battleships like the Gladiator already had them. Which was why the ship’s commanding offi?cer had been able to notify Algeron of the Ramanthian trap, the loss of her entire battle group, and the resulting surrender. The vice president was reading the message for the second time when Booly arrived in the dimly lit com center. A single glance at the miserable faces all around him was suffi?cient to confi?rm the offi?cer’s worst fears. “Here, General,” the grim-faced duty offi?cer said, as he gave Booly a copy of the decoded text. “This arrived about fi?fteen minutes ago.”
Booly read the short, matter-of-fact sentences, saw Captain Flerko’s long angular face in his mind’s eye, and swore softly. She was good, very good, so it was unlikely that the loss of the battleship and its escorts had been the result of human error. No, it looked like the Ramanthians had come up with a new strategy, and it was one that Confederacy military forces would have to fi?nd a way to counter. In the meantime there was the last part of the message to consider. One that left the offi?cer feeling sick to his stomach. “Have no choice but to surrender . . . The president is alive and will blend with the other prisoners. Do not, repeat do not, announce his capture. Pray for us. . . . Captain Marina Flerko.”
Booly wasn’t the only one who was moved, because when he looked up, it was to see Vice President Jakov comforting a com tech. “There, there,” the offi?cial said, as the woman sobbed on his shoulder. “It’s a tough break, but we’ll get the bastards.”
Many, perhaps most, onlookers would have been impressed by the vice president’s composure and his willingness to provide comfort to a lowly technician. But there was something about the scene that troubled Booly. Was it the look of barely contained avarice in Jakov’s eyes? The cold, somewhat calculating look on Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot’s face? Or a combination of both?
But there was no opportunity to consider the matter, as everyone followed Vice President Jakov into the adjoining conference room, and the group that Nankool liked to refer to as his “brain trust” took their seats. Six people were present besides Jakov and herself, and while Wilmot didn’t know any of the group intimately, she was familiar with their reputations. First there was General Booly, who, had it not been for the fact that he was married to the formidable Maylo Chien-Chu, would have been worth a roll in the hay. He was part Naa, and if the rumors were true, had a strip of fur that ran down his spine.
Also present, and looming large in one of the enormous chairs provided for his kind, was Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who functioned as both his race’s representative to the Senate and head of state. Which made the craggy hard-eyed alien a very important person indeed. And one that Wilmot wasn’t all that fond of given the manner in which the Hudat
han had recently gone around her to form a backchannel relationship with a low-level subordinate named Christine Vanderveen. Still, if Nankool was sitting in a Ramanthian prisoner-of-war camp, then so was Vanderveen!
A bonus if there ever was one.
Not to be taken so lightly, however, was the woman generally referred to in high-level government circles as Madame X. Her real name was Margaret Xanith. She had a head of carefully styled salt-and-pepper hair and a surprisingly youthful face, which wore a seemingly perpetual frown. Perhaps that was a refl?ection of her personality, or the fact that as the head of Confed Intelligence she knew about all of the things that were going wrong and rarely had much to smile about. She whispered something to one of her aides, who nodded, and left the room. Seated next to Xanith was an extremely powerful man who though no longer president of the Confederacy, or head of the huge company that still bore his name, continued to hold the rank of reserve navy admiral and was Maylo Chien-Chu’s uncle. A cyborg who, in spite of the fact that he looked to be about twenty-fi?ve years old, was actually more than a hundred.
The fi?nal participant was a relative newcomer to Nankool’s inner circle. A female Dweller named Yuro Osavi. Her frail sticklike body was protected by a formfi?tting cage controlled by a microcomputer that was connected to the alien’s nervous system through a neural interface. The academic had been living on a Ramanthian planet and studying their culture until the war forced her to fl?ee. Osavi had been drafted by Nankool to provide the president with what he called “. . . an enemy’s-eye view of the confl?ict.” Just one of the many reasons why the wily politician had weathered so many storms and remained in the Confederacy’s top job for so long.
“Okay,” Jakov said somberly, “I suppose we could be on the receiving end of even worse news, but it’s damned hard to think what that would be. And, like you, I am absolutely devastated by the tragic loss of an entire battle group plus thousands of lives. That having been said, you can be sure that our absence will be noted, and unless we return to the ball soon, all sorts of rumors will begin to fl?y. So, unless there are immediate steps we can take to strike back, or free our personnel, I suggest we adjourn until 0900 hours tomorrow morning. By that time I’m sure that Margaret, Bill, and Yuro will have prepared some options for us.” At that point Jakov scanned the faces all around him, and having heard no objections, rose from the table. Wilmot hurried to do likewise. “All right,” the vice president said cheerfully, “I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that he was gone.
There was a long moment of silence once Jakov and his companion had left the room. The people still at the table stared at each other in utter disbelief. Because although rumor control was important, surely the vice president could have remained long enough to hammer out some sort of initial plan. Unless the politician wasn’t interested in a speedy response that is? A possibility all of them had considered—but only Doma-Sa was willing to give voice to. “So Jakov wants to be president,” the triad rumbled cynically. “This reminds me of home.”
Hudathan politics had been extremely bloody until very recently, so the others understood the reference, even if some were reluctant to agree. “It does seem as if we could go around the table,” Booly agreed. “How ’bout you Margaret? Assuming our people are still alive, where would the bugs take them?”
“We’re working on that,” the intelligence chief replied gravely. “Although we’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be taken to Hive.”
“I agree,” Osavi put in. “The Ramanthian home world serves as the residence of the Queen and is therefore sacred. To land aliens on the surface of Hive would be unthinkable.”
“Well, they’d better get used to the idea because it’s going to happen,” Doma-Sa responded grimly. “And when it does, a whole lot of bugs are going to die.”
“Sounds good to me,” Booly replied. “But it’s going to be a while before we can penetrate their home system, much less drop troops onto Hive. In the meantime, let’s put every intelligence asset we have on fi?nding out where our people are. Margaret’s staff is working on it, but maybe there’s something more we can do. How about Chien-Chu Enterprises, Admiral? Can your people give us a hand?”
The possibility had already occurred to Sergi Chien-Chu. The family business was a huge enterprise, with operations on dozens of planets, some of which were no longer accessible due to the war. But the vast fl?eet of spaceships that belonged to Chien-Chu Enterprises had access to those that were—and there was always the chance that one or more of his employees would see or hear something. The problem was time, because while all of his vessels would eventually have hypercoms, none was equipped with the new technology as yet. “Maylo and I will put out the word,” the businessman promised. “And report anything we hear.”
“Thank you,” Booly replied gratefully. “In the meantime I will tell the public affairs people to work up a release concerning the loss of the Gladiator but with no mention of Nankool or his staff.”
“It’s imperative that we keep the lid on,” Xanith agreed earnestly. “Because if the Ramanthians realize they have the president, they will use him for leverage. I’m sure he would tell us to refuse their demands, but who knows how much pressure Earth’s government will bring to bear? Or what the Senate may decide? The Thrakies might lead a
‘Save our president’ movement actually intended to aid the Ramanthians.”
“And there’s something else to consider,” the fraillooking Dweller added gloomily. “Very few people within the Confederacy are aware of the Spirit cult that has grown increasingly popular within the Ramanthian military. They believe true warriors always fi?ght to the death. That means they have no respect for prisoners and tend to treat them like animals. So, if Nankool and the rest of the survivors fall into the pincers of those who believe in what they call ‘The True Path,’ life will be very hard indeed. So hard that one of his fellow prisoners may be tempted to reveal the president’s identity in hopes of receiving favorable treatment.” It was a sobering thought, and even though all of them had to return to the party, it was diffi?cult to think of anything else.
THE VILLAGE OF WATERSONG, PLANET ALGERON,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
As the sun started to rise somewhere beyond the cold gray haze, daylight began to fade in, as if emanating from within the planet itself. And gradually, as the mist started to clear, the jagged Towers of Algeron appeared more than a thousand miles to the south. Some of the peaks soared eighty thousand feet into the sky, making the mountains so heavy that if they were somehow transported to Earth, their weight would crack the planet’s crust. But the two worlds were different. Very different. Because while it took Terra twenty-four standard hours to execute a full rotation, Algeron completed a full 360-degree turn every two hours and forty-two minutes. The cycle was so fast that centrifugal force had created a globe-spanning mountain range, which thanks to the gravity differential between the poles and the equator, weighed only half what it would have on Earth.
None of which was of the slightest interest to the onearmed bandit chieftain named Nofear Throatcut except to the extent that most of those in the village below him had been asleep for two local days and would remain so for two additional planetary rotations. There would be sentries, of course, because no self-respecting Naa village would be so foolish as to rest without posting some, but having been on duty for a while, and with the gradual return of daylight, the watch keepers would not only be a little sleepy, but slightly overconfi?dent.
But Throatcut and his mixed band of deserters, renegades, and thieves were anything but typical. A fact that quickly became apparent as Nightrun Fargo pulled the trigger on his homemade crossbow and sent a metal bolt speeding through the early-morning mist. The razor-sharp point ripped a hole through a sentry’s unprotected throat. Which was no small feat since it had been necessary for the bandit to crawl within 150 yards of his target without generating noise or being detected by the villager’s acute sense of smell.
The target, a young
ster of only seventeen, made a gurgling sound as he attempted to shout a warning, tugged at the now slippery shaft, and was already in the process of falling as Nosay Slowspeak loosed another bolt. This one was directed at an older sentry. There was a dull thump as the bolt hit the warrior’s chest, penetrated his leather armor, and knocked the oldster off his feet. But the more senior watch keeper was a clever old coot who, having tied a lanyard to the cast-iron alarm bell mounted next to him, managed to ring the device even as he fell. Throatcut swore as a loud metallic clang was heard, and a third sentry fi?red into the mist. “Okay,” the chieftain said, as he brought a Legion-issue hand com to his lips.
“Lindo, you know what to do. Don’t kill all of the females, though. Some of the boys are horny!”
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