A Fighting Chance

by William C. Dietz

  The Thraki looked up to acknowledge the introduction with a curt nod. So Vanderveen allowed Tuchida to seat her and let the social process carry her along. There was a menu to choose from, the usual small talk about the war, the hand that Soro placed on her left knee. Vanderveen removed it and turned to Tuchida. It didn’t take long to discover that they had numerous acquaintances in common, something Vanderveen was quick to capitalize on. “So,” she said, as the first course arrived, “do you know Captain Antonio Santana by any chance?”

  Tuchida was no fool and sensed that the question was something more than a casual inquiry. He had black eyebrows, and they rose slightly. “I know a Major Santana. Not well, mind you—but both of us were on Gamma-014. He was one of the last people to make it out. Aboard a ship owned by Chien-Chu Enterprises if I’m not mistaken. General Kobbi thinks highly of him.”

  “Yes,” Vanderveen agreed. “If anyone deserves a promotion, he does. I wonder where he is now?”

  Tuchida smiled gently. “If I knew, I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

  Vanderveen felt herself color slightly and was grateful when an android requested permission to pour some wine. The next hour passed comfortably enough and was capped off by a variety of desserts and a performance by Misty Melody. There was thunderous applause as she left the table and made her way up onto the platform at the center of the room. The lights dimmed, the stage began to rotate, and a huge holo of the planet Earth appeared. It was transparent and seemed to encapsulate the performer. Then, as Melody began to sing “My Home,” Earth morphed into Gamma-014, which dissolved to another planet and so on until all of the worlds ravaged by the Ramanthians had come and gone.

  There was a standing ovation as Melody hit the final plaintive note, and Imbia’s miniature robot somersaulted across the table. Senator Tras Gormo caught the form, closed a power-assisted fist round it, and crushed the toy. Electricity crackled around his hand, which didn’t bother him in the least. When the applause was over, the Dweller dropped the mangled object onto the table. It landed with a thump.

  Imbia stood on his chair and was clearly going to object, when General Tuchida leaned in to speak with him. It was impossible to hear the exchange. But once it was over, the Thraki jumped to the floor and stalked away. Vanderveen turned to Tuchida. “What did you say to him?”

  Tuchida grinned. “I told the little bastard that if he said a single word, I would shove what’s left of that form up his ass. Was that a breach of diplomatic protocol? If so, I apologize.”

  Vanderveen laughed. “No apologies required insofar as I’m concerned. Well done.”

  People were streaming out of the dining room by then. And as both of them stood, Tuchida took a look around as if to make sure that no one could hear him. Then his eyes swung back to Vanderveen. “O-Chi 4. The major is on O-Chi 4.” And with that he was gone.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The Galaxsis was far too large to pass through a planetary atmosphere and take off again. So, having dropped out of hyperspace and into orbit, it was necessary to shuttle passengers down to the planet’s surface. Though classified as “earthlike,” Algeron was a very different planet, primarily because it completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes. The rotation was so fast that centrifugal force had created a mountain range around the equator. The indigenous Naa called them “the Towers of Algeron,” some of which were higher than Everest on Terra or Olympic Mons on Mars.

  The once-obscure Fort Camerone was located in the northern hemisphere. It had been destroyed many years before, and a larger structure was built to replace it. Even so, the complex had been too small to accommodate the Legion and the sudden influx of civilians that took place after the ship housing the Confederacy’s space-going capital was destroyed. There were other planets, of course. Hundreds of them. But none wanted to be elevated to the status of target number one.

  So Naa Town had been leveled to make room for the addition commonly referred to as “the new fort.” A full-scale spaceport was under construction west of the old fort, and a huge training complex was taking shape twenty miles to the north. All of which could be seen as Vanderveen’s shuttle circled the area before coming in for a landing.

  Vanderveen had been there before, of course. But everything looked strange as she entered baggage claim. That was where she spotted her father, who forced his way through the crowd to greet her. Charles was tall, slim, and had a long, narrow face framed by a full head of silvery hair. Vanderveen hadn’t seen him for a year or so. But it looked as though he had aged five in that period of time, and she knew why. Because as the war continued to drag on, there was a never-ending temptation for the more vulnerable races to declare neutrality or align themselves with the Ramanthian Empire. That meant diplomats like her father were locked in a continuous struggle to strengthen alliances, pave over differences, and hold the network of existing relationships together.

  There was a happy collision as father and daughter came together. Vanderveen took comfort from the familiar smell of him, the strength of his arms, and the sound of his voice. “Welcome to Algeron, sweetie . . . It’s been too long.”

  Vanderveen pulled back in order to take a second look at him. “You need a haircut. How’s Mom?”

  Charles smiled. “I haven’t actually spoken with her. Hypercom time is way too scarce for that. But, based on what Sergi Chien-Chu tells me, she’s working with the resistance. I asked how, but he wouldn’t say.”

  Vanderveen felt a stab of concern. Even though her mother might look like a helpless socialite, she was an active horsewoman and possessed an inner toughness. But working with the resistance? Shooting Ramanthians? That was hard to imagine.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Charles said as he took control of her rolling suitcase. “Because I made dinner. It may be humble, but my cooking beats the Foreign Service mess. You’re staying with me by the way. I scored a one-bedroom apartment back when such a thing was still possible. And the couch is yours.”

  “Sounds good,” Vanderveen said as she took his arm. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  The apartment was located in the so-called old fort. It was small but included a kitchenette, bathroom, bedroom, and a sitting area. A far cry from the one-room “boxes” that were presently being constructed. And while the decor would never have passed muster with her mother, Vanderveen thought the comfortable mix of Naa artifacts, outdoorsy paraphernalia, and leather-covered furniture was just right for a bachelor dad.

  The main course had been simmering for hours. It consisted of a hearty dooth stew, chunks of fresh bread purchased in New Town, and a bottle of Napa Valley red that had been given to Charles as a gift six months earlier. The whole thing was delicious and took nearly two hours to consume as they told stories and caught up.

  Eventually, it was one such story that led Vanderveen to mention the issue foremost on her mind. “So you’re plugged in. What have you heard? Where am I headed?”

  Charles looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, hon. For some reason, people don’t talk about you when I’m around.”

  Vanderveen could see the concern in his eyes and felt a sudden sense of apprehension. “Come on, Dad . . . Level with me. You know something.”

  Charles shrugged. “No, I don’t. Not really. But I can make an educated guess. Odds are that Nankool and senior members of his team are rather conflicted where you’re concerned. And that’s understandable,” he said clinically. “The way I hear it, you formed a relationship with members of the Clone underground on Alpha-001 during a state visit. And after meeting with them, you came to the conclusion that their efforts to overthrow the government might be successful.

  “So you shared that opinion with your superiors and recommended that they agree to some sort of a deal. They said ‘no.’ So you went AWOL. Ultimately, your judgment was proven to be correct. And thanks to your relationship with the rebels, the new government became part of the Confederacy. But, had the
revolt failed, your actions could have done considerable damage to our relationship with the Alpha Clones. Is that a fair summation?”

  Vanderveen could see the disapproval in her father’s eyes, and it hurt, largely because she knew he was correct. Her actions had been very dangerous indeed. And she had come to regret her relationship with the rebel leader, Alan Freeman. An affair that might have influenced her judgment—and violated the implicit agreement that she had with Santana. It was difficult to meet her father’s eyes. “Yes, that’s a fair summation.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair. “Okay, then. So you can see the president’s dilemma. Should he punish you for disobeying a directive? Or reward you for bringing a powerful ally over to our side?”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that your fate is probably up in the air. But that’s just a guess.”

  There was a long moment of silence as Vanderveen looked away. Finally, when her eyes came back, his were waiting. “So I screwed up?”

  Charles nodded. “I would break you down to file clerk 1.”

  Vanderveen forced a smile. “Mom wouldn’t let you.”

  Charles laughed. “No, she probably wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll check in first thing tomorrow. Or four days from now, as the case may be.”

  Charles laughed and raised his glass. “Confusion to the enemy.”

  Vanderveen wondered which enemy he was referring to. The Ramanthians? The Foreign Service? Or something inside of her? She took a sip of wine. It was anything but sweet.

  Her father’s couch wasn’t all that comfortable. And she had a lot to think about. So about three hours passed before Vanderveen was able to fall asleep. And when she awoke, it was to find that her father had already eaten breakfast and left for work. That made her feel guilty. Because she was used to working and working hard.

  So she showered, put on a conservative suit, and made herself a light breakfast. Then, with a mostly empty briefcase in hand, Vanderveen locked the door behind her and went looking for the so-called government block, where Secretary of State Mary Yatsu’s office was located. Not that she would get to meet with the secretary. Because while Vanderveen was fairly senior, especially for a person her age, she wasn’t that senior. No, chances were that she would be handed off to an assistant secretary of state. And that was fine so long as it wasn’t Richard Holson, who had been in charge of negotiations on Alpha-001 and been very upset with what he referred to as her “antics” there.

  The corridors were eternally crowded, and even though Vanderveen thought of it as morning, it was dark outside. Just one of the things Vanderveen would have to adjust to as she made a series of wrong turns and was forced to ask for directions. Ten minutes later, she arrived at the suite of offices assigned to the Foreign Service.

  Blastproof duraplast doors sensed her presence and slid out of the way. The lobby was equipped to meet the needs of a wide variety of races and was already full of sentients who wanted someone to grant them a favor, explain an obscure law, or stroke their egos.

  Vanderveen navigated her way around a table and the vase of flowery branches that sat on top of it, made her way over to the reception desk, and waited for the gray android to look up from the screen in front of him. The name CHET was stenciled across the center of his chest. “Yes? How can I help you?”

  “I’m FSO-2 Vanderveen,” the diplomat replied. “I was ordered to report to Algeron from Alpha-001.”

  “Welcome to Algeron,” Chet said tonelessly. “One moment please.”

  A few seconds passed as the robot consulted his screen. “Ah, yes, here we are. You have an appointment to see Secretary Yatsu at 1500 hours local, five standard days from now.”

  Vanderveen was surprised to hear that the appointment was with someone so senior and disappointed regarding the date. “Five days? You don’t have anything earlier than that?”

  “No,” the machine said unapologetically. “Will there be anything else?”

  Vanderveen considered pitching a fit but knew it would be pointless. So all she could do was to say, “Okay, thank you,” and leave the office.

  Disappointed, but determined to accomplish something, Vanderveen took the opportunity to visit the Foreign Service’s research library, where employees could access data on every known planet and culture. It was a long, rectangular room with partially screened workstations to either side, about half of which were occupied.

  Having been told that Santana was on O-Chi 4, she sat down at a terminal. Once Vanderveen verified her identity, she was free to read about the planet, the products it was known for, and a rather superficial analysis of O-Chi civilization. There was a military summary as well, but it had been written in the immediate aftermath of a disastrous attack on a Ramanthian base and was badly outdated. Further efforts to find out what was taking place on O-Chi 4 were met with a polite, “The information you requested is not currently available,” which was govspeak for “mind your own business.”

  All of which led Vanderveen to believe that Santana was on a special-operations mission of some sort. To attack the Ramanthian fortress mentioned earlier? The diplomat feared that was the case. She wanted to cry and bit her lower lip to prevent herself from doing so.

  The walk to her father’s apartment was long and depressing. And when Vanderveen entered, it was to discover that an envelope with her name on it had been slipped under the door. She tore it open. The note was written in what looked like a feminine hand.

  Dear Christine,

  My uncle Sergi has known your parents for a long time and my husband has mentioned your service to the Confederacy more than once. I know from personal experience that Algeron can take some getting used to. I have some errands to run at 1300 hours. Perhaps you would like to join me? I could show you around.

  Sincerely,

  Maylo Chien-Chu

  Vanderveen had agreed to meet Maylo Chien-Chu in the old fort at the entrance to the Hall of Honor. It was a corridor really, both sides of which were lined with photos of the Legion’s heroes, along with descriptions of what they had done. Having arrived a few minutes early, Vanderveen followed the hall all the way to the end, where two legionnaires stood guard over a wooden display case. Their backs were ramrod straight and their eyes were fixed on the other end of the corridor as Vanderveen paused to look down through clear duraplast.

  The wooden hand had once been worn by Captain Jean Danjou. Arguably the Legion’s most important hero. A man who, like most of those in the Hall of Honor, had been killed in action. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” a female voice inquired. “I’ve been married to a legionnaire for years, and I still don’t understand.”

  Vanderveen hadn’t heard any footsteps. But when she turned, Maylo Chien-Chu was there. She was one of the most photographed people in the Confederacy. So there was no mistaking the glossy black hair, the high cheekbones, or the full lips. But she was thinner. Some observers said gaunt. And Vanderveen thought she saw something like sadness in Maylo’s eyes. Because she was married to General Bill Booly? And, therefore, to the Legion? Probably. “Yes,” Vanderveen replied. “It’s both wonderful and horrible at the same time.”

  “Ah,” Maylo said understandingly, “so you have one, too.”

  Vanderveen was astonished by the speed with which Maylo had uncovered her relationship with Antonio Santana. “Yes,” she said. “If he’s still alive.”

  Maylo winced and nodded. “These are very difficult times. I’m Maylo Chien-Chu.”

  “And I’m Christine Vanderveen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Come,” Maylo said as she took the younger woman’s arm. “You’ve been to Algeron before?”

  “Yes, but it has been a while.”

  “Well, I’m sure you remember Naa Town.”

  Naa Town had originally been little more than a collection of Naa dwellings that had grown up next to the old fort. A place where legionnaires could have a meal, get drunk, and blow off some steam. There were dangers, too, becau
se the relationship between the Naa and the Legion had traditionally been a tumultuous one although things were better now that the locals had a measure of independence. “I remember it well,” Vanderveen said. “It was easy to get lost down there.”

  “Yes, it was,” Maylo agreed, as they left the hall. “I think you’ll find that New Town is far easier to navigate now. My job, our job, is to wander about and see how things are going. You’re a diplomat, so you understand the importance of staying in touch with the local population. Especially those who live and work near an installation like this one.”

  Everyone knew that Maylo was an ex-officio member of the administration, a philanthropist, and a patriot. The kind who would actually pitch in and do something rather than simply stand around and talk about it. So Vanderveen wasn’t surprised to learn that Maylo was an unofficial ambassador to the local business community. “That makes sense,” Vanderveen agreed.

  The women continued to chat as they took an elevator down to a brightly lit subsurface walkway. A moving sidewalk carried them a quarter of a mile north, to the point where they could board an escalator. That conveyed them and a scattering of other people up to a heated lobby. It had transparent walls that let in the dim sunlight.

  “We could have built everything underground,” Maylo said, as they stepped out into the frosty air. “But that would make New Town like thousands of other malls. The goal was to reimagine a Naa village in a way that would look and feel genuine while introducing some modern elements.”

  The next hour was spent walking through well-marked streets, window-shopping, and pausing to speak with small-business owners. And, judging from the way many of the Naa came rushing out of their stores to greet her, Maylo was a very popular figure.

  The final stop was a restaurant called the Gor’s Head. Stairs led down into a generously sized room. A large Naa-style fireplace dominated the center of the room, where all of the guests could see it and feel at least some of the surrounding warmth. Light fixtures fashioned from gor antlers hung over each table, and the air was heavy with the odors of good food. “This is Bill’s favorite restaurant,” Maylo explained. “My husband is something of a carnivore—so we come here when we can.”