The fugitive’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang as the trapdoor that led down into the underground chamber was thrown open and Orno felt a sudden stab of fear. His right pincer went to the gun, but rather than the assassins the Ramanthian half expected to see, the intruder was Ula, his host’s youngest daughter. She had large lightgathering eyes, pointy ears, and horizontal slits where a nose might otherwise have been. Ula spoke standard, a language that Orno, as a diplomat, spoke fl?uently as well. “I have a message for you!” the youngster said excitedly as she raced down the ramp and into the underground chamber. Orno was about to chide the youngster for failing to announce herself, but he knew it would be a waste of time, and said “thank you” instead. The message was sealed in a box that immediately popped open, allowing a tiny bipedal robot to climb out. Which wasn’t surprising since the Thrakies loved to make robots and use them for tasks that could have been carried out in other ways. Ula squealed in delight at the sight of the electromechanical form, but the Ramanthian was in no mood for frivolity. “If you have a message for me, then deliver it,” the fugitive said gruffl?y.
Even though the robot was small, the voice that issued forth from it was in no way diminished by its size and belonged to Sector 18—one of a small group of individuals who sat on the Committee that governed the Thraki people. “A representative from the Confederacy of Sentient Beings would like to meet with you regarding subjects of mutual interest,” the voice said. A time and a place followed, but there were no pleasantries as sparks shot out of the robot’s ears, and it toppled off the writing table onto the earthen fl?oor.
“Are you going to go?” Ula wanted to know as she bent to retrieve what remained of the robot.
It was a good question. Because even though the voice sounded like that of Sector 18, it could have been synthesized in an effort to draw the fugitive out of hiding. But so what? While such a death is less dignifi?ed than suicide, dead is dead. Orno thought to himself. “Yes,” the Ramanthian answered. “Please notify your father. I will need some ground transportation. Something discreet.”
Ula was thrilled by the opportunity to carry such an important message to her father and dashed up the ramp. That left Orno to consider what lay ahead. There was no way to know what such a meeting might portend. . . . Was Nankool hoping to establish back-channel negotiations with the Ramanthian government? If so, Orno might be able to parlay such an opportunity into a promise of clemency, or even full restoration of his previous rank! The mere thought of that was enough to make his spirit soar. Thus emboldened, Orno rose, shuffl?ed over to his travel trunk, and opened the lid. Either redemption was at hand or a group of assassins were about to kill him. Either way it was important to look good.
Orno was too large to ride in a Thraki ground car, so the fugitive was forced to hunker down in the back of a delivery vehicle as it approached the city from the south and swerved onto a downward-sloping ramp. Whatever architectural traditions the Thrakies might have had before they left their home system had been forgotten during the race’s long journey through space. And now, as they put down roots on the planet they called Starfall, new cities were rising all around the world. All of which were constructed in a way that forced vehicular traffi?c underground so pedestrians could have the surface to themselves. Lights blipped past as the vehicle sped along an arterial, then slowed as the driver turned off and came to a stop in front of a subsurface lobby. The rear doors were opened, and a ramp was deployed so that the Ramanthian could shuffl?e down onto the pavement, where a Thraki waited to greet him. Not an offi?cial but a low-level fl?unky. Still another sign of how far the Ramanthian’s fortunes had fallen. From the pull-through it was a short journey up an incline to a row of freight elevators. Would the lift carry the ex-diplomat higher? Back to respectability? Or deliver him to a team of assassins? No, Orno reasoned, if assassins were waiting, they would take me right here. Thus reassured, the fugitive allowed himself to be ushered onto an elevator that lifted him up to the twenty-third fl?oor, where it hissed open. Though scaled to accommodate alien visitors, the ceilings remained oppressively low by Ramanthian standards, something Orno sought to ignore as his guide led him into a hallway. From there it was a short walk to a pair of wooden doors and the conference room beyond.
As was Orno’s practice when spending time on alien planets, the Ramanthian was wearing contacts that consolidated what would have otherwise been multiple images into a single view as he entered the rectangular space. There was a table, six chairs, and a curtained window. A single human was waiting to greet him. A repulsive-looking creature who, judging from the way her clothes fi?t, had especially large lumps of fatty tissue hanging from her chest. Orno recognized the female as a low-ranking diplomatic functionary to whom he had once been introduced but had had no reason to contact since. Which explained why he couldn’t remember her name. “This is a pleasure,” Orno lied. “It’s good to see you again.”
It appeared that the Ramanthian diplomat remembered her, and Kay Wilmot felt a rush of pleasure as she hurried to reintroduce herself. “My name is Kay Wilmot. I am assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”
“A promotion!” Orno said heartily. “And well deserved, too.”
“Please have a seat,” Wilmot said, as she gestured toward a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshments, but the Confederacy’s embassy isn’t aware of my presence, and while they have been helpful, the Thrakies feel it’s necessary to maintain a certain distance.”
“I understand,” Orno said. “We live in complicated times.”
Once both of them were seated, Wilmot took the fi?rst step in what promised to be some delicate negotiations by placing a portable scrambler on the surface of the table in front of her. It generated a humming noise, which was accompanied by a green light. Two doors down the hall a pair of Thraki intelligence agents swore as the feed they had been monitoring was reduced to a roar of static. But, effective though the device was, the scrambler had no effect on the photosensitive fabric from which the Ramanthian’s loose-fi?tting robe had been made. Or the storage device woven into the garment’s shimmery fabric. “No offense, Ambassador,” Wilmot said. “But could I inquire as to the general nature of your present assignment?”
Orno couldn’t tell the truth, not if the Wilmot creature was to take him seriously, so he lied. “At the moment I’m serving her majesty as a special envoy to the Thraki people. More than that I’m not allowed to say.”
“Of course,” the human responded understandingly. “I hope you will forgive my directness, but there’s a rather sensitive matter on which we could use your help, although it falls well outside the realm of your normal duties. And, were you to act on our behalf, we would require complete confi?dentiality.”
The fi?rst emotion that Orno experienced was a crushing sense of disappointment. Rather than ask him to broker a peace deal, or something similar to that, the human was clearly paving the way for some sort of illicit business deal. Not what he had hoped for but well worth his consideration. Especially if he could use the funds to smuggle the Egg Orno off Hive. It wouldn’t do to reveal the extent of his need however—so the ex-diplomat took a moment to posture. “My fi?rst loyalty is to the Queen,” Orno said sternly. “Everything else is secondary.”
“Of course,” the human replied soothingly. “I know that. But what if it was possible to serve the Ramanthian empire and bank half a million Thraki credits at the same time? Wouldn’t that be an attractive proposition?”
Orno pretended to consider the matter. “Well, yes,” he said reluctantly. “If both things were possible, then yes, it would.”
“That’s what I thought,” Wilmot said confi?dently. “So, I have your word? Whatever I tell you stays between us?”
“You have my word,” the Ramanthian replied stoutly.
“Good,” the offi?cial said importantly. “Because what I’m about to confi?de in you may change t
he course of history.”
The Ramanthian was skeptical but careful to keep his doubts to himself. “To use one of your expressions, I’m all ears,” the ex-diplomat said reassuringly.
“The situation is this,” Wilmot explained. “While on his way to visit the Clone Hegemony, President Nankool was captured by Ramanthian military forces and sent to Jericho, where he and his companions will be used as slave labor.”
“That’s absurd!” Orno responded scornfully. “First, because my government would take Nankool to a planet other than Jericho, and second because his capture would have been announced by now.”
“Not if the Ramanthians on Jericho were unaware of the president’s true identity,” Wilmot countered. “And we know they aren’t aware of the fact that he’s there, because we have an intelligence agent on Jericho, and he sent us pictures of Nankool trudging through the jungle. Images that arrived on Algeron fi?ve days ago.”
Orno clicked his right pincer. “You came to the wrong person,” he said sternly. “A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, especially if he could raise the ante, and maximize the size of his reward.
“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded gently.
“I’m not here to seek help with a rescue mission—I’m here to make sure that Nankool and his companions are buried on Jericho.”
It took a moment for Orno to process what the human was saying. But then, as the full import of Wilmot’s statement started to dawn on him, the fugitive’s antennae tilted forward. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”
“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I do.”
“Soon to be President Jakov?”
“With your help. . . . Yes.”
“It is a clever plan,” Orno admitted. “A very clever plan. But why contact me? My duties have nothing to do with Jericho.”
“If you say so,” Wilmot agreed politely. “But, according to the reports I’ve read, you are close friends with Commandant Yama Mutuu. Is that correct?”
Orno didn’t have friends as such, but he did have a wide circle of cronies, some of whom remained loyal in spite of his disgrace. Was Mutuu among them? There was no way to be certain, but yes, Orno thought the odds were fairly good. And, given the old geezer’s delusions of grandeur, he would be easy to manipulate. In fact, assuming Orno provided Mutuu with the right sort of story, the royal would kill Nankool for nothing! Which would allow the fugitive to pocket the entire fee. “It would take money,” the Ramanthian lied. “One million for myself and half a million for Mutuu.”
The price was steep, but well within the amount that Wilmot was authorized to spend, so the assistant undersecretary nodded. “I will give you half up front—and half on proof of death. And not just Nankool. The others must die as well.”
The Ramanthian nodded. “You want all of the witnesses dead.”
“Exactly. . . . And one more thing,” Wilmot said coldly.
“No action is to be taken against our intelligence agent. I want him to witness the executions and report the slaughter to Algeron. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good,” Wilmot said cheerfully as she reached out to reclaim her scrambler. “If you would be so kind as to wait in your vehicle, the fi?rst payment will arrive there within the next fi?fteen minutes. Proof of death should be delivered to the address that will be included along with the cash. The second payment will be forthcoming within one standard day. Do you have any questions? No? Well, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“And you,” Orno replied, his heart fi?lled with hope. Because here, in his hour of greatest need, was a way out. With the Egg Orno at his side, and a million-plus credits to grease the way, the two of them could disappear.
“One last question,” Wilmot said coolly, as the Ramanthian rose to leave. “Our intelligence people believe you were the one who planted the bomb on the Friendship. Are they correct?”
There was a long moment of silence as the coconspirators stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Orno answered. “Yes,” the Ramanthian replied. “It was my fi?nest moment.” And with that, the ex-ambassador left the room.
ABOARD THE EPSILON INDI, IN ORBIT AROUND THE PLANET ALGERON,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The jungle foliage was thick. Too thick to see properly. But thanks to the fact that each member of Santana’s platoon was represented by a symbol projected onto the inside surface of his visor, the cavalry offi?cer knew exactly where they were relative to him and the Trooper II he was riding.
There wasn’t anything subtle about the way that the ten-foot-tall cyborg plowed through the jungle, and there couldn’t be given the war form’s size. So Santana bent his knees and sought shelter behind the T-2’s blocky head, as an army of branches and vines tried to rip him off the borg’s back. Could the enemy hear them coming? Absolutely, assuming that the tricky green bastards were somewhere nearby.
But the alternative was to follow one of the alreadywell-established jungle trails north toward the objective. That would be quieter, not to mention faster, but such paths were almost certain to be booby-trapped and kept under constant surveillance by the enemy. So, cutting a new trail through the jungle was the better choice, or so it seemed to Santana.
Of course, the key to implementing that strategy was the use of the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system that allowed the aggressor team to “see” each other electronically, even though it was necessary for each cyborg to maintain an interval of at least a hundred yards between themselves and other units so that a single artillery mission wouldn’t be suffi?cient to kill all of them.
So when the ITC suddenly went down, Santana’s unit was not only too spread out to provide each other with line-of-sight fi?re support, but vulnerable in a number of other ways as well. . . . The offi?cer felt something heavy land in the pit of his stomach, and he was just about to issue an order, when Corporal Gomez placed a hand on his shoulder. The unexpected contact caused Santana to jump as his mind was forced to break the connection with the virtual world and reintegrate itself with the real one.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” the noncom said. “But it looks like the brass hats want to noodle with you now. One of the Indi’s shuttles is waiting to take you dirtside.”
“Don’t ever do that again,” Santana said, as he pulled the VR helmet up off of his head. “I nearly had a heart attack.”
Gomez tried to look contrite but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Yes, sir, that is no, sir. I won’t do that again. Now, no offense, sir, but we need to board that shuttle.”
Santana put the helmet down, removed the VR gauntlets, and stood. “We?”
“Yes, sir,” Gomez answered evenly. “I took the liberty of having myself assigned to your command. I hope that’s okay.”
The cavalry offi?cer frowned. His father had been an NCO, and he knew from experience that senior enlisted people could pull all sorts of strings if they chose to do so. But Gomez was too junior to have arranged such a posting on her own. “Was Major Lassiter a party to this arrangement by any chance?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez said expressionlessly. “The major said that we deserve each other. Sir.”
The comment could be taken in a lot of different ways, and Santana was forced to grin. “Okay, Corporal, but you may live to regret that decision. Let’s get our T-1 bags and board that shuttle. I don’t know why the brass are so eager to see us, but it can’t be good.”
*
*
*
It was dark when the shuttle emerged from a blinding snowstorm to hover over one of Fort Camerone’s landing platforms. Nav lights glowed, and repellers screamed as the ship lowered itself into a cloud of billowing steam. Thanks to the fact that it was so cold, and the visibility was poor, the shuttle managed to touch down without taking sniper fi?re from the neighboring hills. Only one person was present to meet the inco
ming ship—but the Hudathan was big enough to qualify as a reception party all by himself. His name was Drik Seeba-Ka. Major Drik Seeba-Ka, and he recognized Santana the moment the human emerged from the shuttle. What illumination there was came from one of the spaceship’s wing lights as Santana approached the other offi?cer. Coming as he did from one of the most hostile planets in known space, the Hudathan had no need for a parka. What might have been an expression of amusement fl?ickered within his deep set eyes as the human dropped his T-1 bag and came to attention. “Captain Antonio Santana reporting as ordered, sir!”
“Stand easy,” Seeba-Ka said as he returned the salute.
“You’re just as ugly as the last time I saw you.”
“Look who’s talking,” Santana replied, and staggered as a massive hand slapped him on the back. The Hudathan made a grinding noise, which, based on previous experience, the human knew to be laughter.
“And who is this?” Seeba-Ka wanted to know, as Gomez arrived at the bottom of the ramp with her T-1 bag strapped to her back.
“Please allow me to introduce Corporal Gomez,” Santana replied dryly. “But watch your step. . . . She doesn’t like offi?cers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the Hudathan growled. “Welcome to Algeron, Corporal. I’m sure the fort will be that much safer now that you’re here to help guard it.”
But Gomez didn’t want to guard the fort—or anything else for that matter. She wanted to be with Santana. Partly because the noncom felt she owed the offi?cer, partly because he appeared to be competent, and partly for reasons she wasn’t ready to fully confront yet. So the noncom was about to object when Santana saw the look in her eye and hurried to intervene. “Report to the transient barracks, Corporal. I’ll track you down.”
Gomez heard the promise that was implicit in the offi?cer’s last sentence, took comfort from it, and managed a respectful, “Yes, sir.”
Santana nodded, bent to retrieve his bag, and followed the Hudathan down into the fortress below. Gomez looked up into the thickly falling snow, felt a half dozen fl?akes kiss her face, and cursed her own stupidity. Joining the Legion had been stupid. Continually fi?ghting the system was stupid. And falling in love with an offi?cer was the stupidest thing of all.
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