So Sawyer took them along the edge of the embankment to the point where a well-packed section of dirt road cut through the obstruction. That led them into the circular arena where the ambush would take place. The whole thing had been rehearsed back at China Lake, so everyone knew what to do. “Remember,” Sawyer cautioned them, “it’s important to kill the honor guard silently. The last thing we need is to have more bugs arrive on the scene.”
Margaret and her team weren’t expected to fight. So they were directed to take cover behind the pieces of earthmoving equipment that were parked next to the crater’s wall. Lothar was there, as was Woo, each of whom seemed determined to ignore the other.
Margaret’s thoughts were focused on the plan. Would the Thursday-morning cremation ceremony actually take place? Especially in the wake of the battle in LA? Sawyer thought so. “What are they going to do?” he had demanded earlier. “The base is clearly being used as a mortuary. So unless they burn the incoming bodies, they’ll start to pile up. Plus, they know some of them are diseased. Don’t worry, ma’am. They’ll come.” But despite Sawyer’s unwavering certainty, Margaret continued to worry.
The resistance fighters had intentionally arrived fifteen minutes early to allow for the possibility of delays along the way. So time seemed to crawl by as the sun inched higher in the sky and finally rose over the east rim of the crater. And it was then, right on time, that the distant sound of engines was heard. Margaret felt her heart start to beat faster as the noise grew steadily louder and eventually turned into a roar as the first hover truck floated into the arena. It paused for a moment before following the spiral road to the top of the miniature mountain. The second and third trucks followed.
Then the fourth truck arrived, pulled over to one side, and settled onto its skirts. Just as it had many times before. Except Sawyer said there had been a fifthvehicle in the past. A transport loaded with troops. Did that mean the base was running low on personnel? Margaret hoped that was the case, as Ramanthian troopers shuffled down out of the fourth transport and formed two ranks.
The noncom who began to inspect them was about halfway along the first rank when the resistance fighters emerged from their various hiding places. All were armed with silenced weapons. Some of the noise suppressors were military issue, and the rest were homemade. But all of them were reasonably effective. The Ramanthians began to jerk and twitch as a hail of bullets hit them.
Margaret closed her eyes. She understood the necessity of what was taking place and knew that the enemy had done worse, but she was still sickened by the cold-blooded slaughter. It took less than a minute to put the entire honor guard down.
But the bugs up on top of the hill were still alive and could theoretically alert the base. Sawyer was about ten feet away from Margaret holding a radio up to his ear. She knew that two snipers, both positioned up on the water tower, were supposed to neutralize the troopers on the hill. Sawyer nodded. “Good, good, what? Well, shoot the bastard!”
That was when one of the men to Margaret’s left pointed up into the sky. “Look! One of them is flying!”
And it was true. Even though Ramanthians, especially older ones, couldn’t fly very well, they could get aloft for short periods of time. And this individual was not only young, judging from the energy with which he was flapping his wings, but had the advantage of a hill from which to launch himself into the air. So he was already gliding over the crater wall by the time the humans opened up on him from the ground. But the fusillade of bullets had no visible effect on the trooper, who quickly disappeared from sight. “Goddamn it to hell!” Sawyer raged. “The idiots on the tower missed. I’ll go after him.”
“No, you won’t,” Margaret said sternly. “Phase one is over so I’m in command. He’s halfway to the base by now, so it’s very unlikely that you’ll catch up with him. Prepare another ambush—and whack the bastards when they arrive. In the meantime, my team will go up and collect what we came here for. Let’s get to work.”
Sawyer opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, clearly thought better of it, and closed it again. “Yes, ma’am. Maybe we can get that hover truck running. If so, it might come in handy.”
Margaret nodded, turned to her team, and waved them forward. “Come on . . . We have a hill to climb.” The scientists weren’t in very good shape. So there were lots of complaints as Margaret sent them huffing and puffing up the spiral road to the top of the conical mountain where the trucks were parked. Bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen. One of the vehicles had been partially unloaded. Margaret, who was out of breath herself, pointed at the first transport. “Get the rest of the bodies off that truck. Lothar and Woo will identify donors.”
The team went to work. The bodies were sealed in plastic. They made thumping sounds and sent up little clouds of dust, as Margaret went over to supervise the sorting process. Woo made a face as she cut a body bag open and the stench of decomposing bug filled her nostrils.
Then, with help from Lothar, Woo took a close look at the back of the bug’s head. It had a normal appearance. So Lothar spray painted a red X onto the soldier’s bag. The second body had a bullet hole in its forehead and had clearly been killed in combat. But the third had the very thing they were looking for. An attempt had been made to cover it with a bandage, but a stroma was visible on the back of the soldier’s head. “Sistek!” Lothar shouted. “Over here.”
Sistek was a burly lab tech who had been selected for the job of harvester because of his upper-body strength. He motioned the scientists out of the way and raised a razor-sharp machete over his head. The blade generated a solid ka-thunk sound as it came down.
Lothar made a grab for the head as it rolled free, got hold of a stubby antenna, and held his prize aloft. “Pay dirt!” he proclaimed proudly. “Just one of these melons contains enough spores to infect a hundred bugs—each of whom can infect a hundred more. Margaret—turn around. You’re the boss, so the first head goes into your pack.”
The grisly business of harvesting heads continued after that, as the scientists examined bodies, and the machetes fell. But as Margaret made the rounds and urged her team to work faster, she knew it was only a matter of time before Ramanthian reinforcements arrived. So it came as no surprise when the radio in her pocket burped static, and Sawyer spoke to her. “Look toward the base, ma’am. It’s time to pull out. The hover truck is running, and we’ll use it to make our getaway.”
Margaret looked south, saw the airborne transport, and realized that she’d been wrong about a ground attack. The Ramanthians had a faster way to respond. Worse yet, it was a sure bet that the boxy aircraft had at least thirty troopers on board. And it was coming straight at her. Shells kicked up dirt on top of the hill as the pilot fired his nose cannons. “Run for the truck!” Margaret shouted to the team as she pointed downhill. “Run like hell.”
That was easier said than done since every one of them was carrying a pack loaded with Ramanthian heads. Some made the trip in well-calculated leaps. Others tripped, fell, and skidded downhill. Margaret caught a glimpse of Lothar pausing to help Woo as she ducked behind one of the hover trucks.
But the improvised escape plan wasn’t going to work because the ship would land, the troops would get out and fire down on the humans before they could board Sawyer’s truck. Unless . . .
As the ship flared in for a landing, Margaret hurried over to a small platform she had noticed earlier. Then she pulled her pistol and fired. It was impossible to miss. But the small-caliber bullets had no effect as the transport settled onto the grate, and a ramp hit the ground. That was when Margaret pulled the lever on the side of the control station. It released a roaring blast of fire that shot upwards and wrapped the ship in flames.
There wasn’t much time. No more than a second or two in which to think about Charles and Christine. Would her daughter marry Antonio Santana? Was he still alive? Then there were no more thoughts as the ship’s fuel supply went up, and the resulting explosion swept the top of the hi
ll clean.
13
We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
—William Shakespeare
Julius Caesar
Standard year 1599
PLANET TREVIA, THE POONARA PROTECTORATE
Vanderveen was asleep when the com set began to beep. She fumbled for the handset and swore as it clattered to the floor beside her bed. Having retrieved it, she rolled over onto her back. It was daytime but just barely. Sunlight streamed down through the slats of wood over her head and threw long, narrow shadows across her blanket. “Hello? This is Christine Vanderveen.”
“It’s Missy,” Sayers said. “Sorry to call so early, ma’am, but we need to get to the hospital now.”
Vanderveen sat up and swung her feet over onto the tile floor. Her first thought was for her staff. “Why? What happened?”
“It isn’t one of our people, ma’am. Somebody tortured Hamantha Croth. Then they shot him and left him for dead. Except he isn’t dead. Not yet anyway. A neighbor saw some Ramanthians leave his place in the middle of the night and called the police. They brought Croth to the hospital. And he’s asking for you. I think this is important, ma’am. We need to hurry.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” Vanderveen replied. “And bring some sort of recorder.”
The diplomats entered the hospital twenty minutes later. There was a slight delay at the front desk. Shortly thereafter, a Ramanthian doctor arrived to escort them up to the second floor. He spoke standard with a heavy accent but could still be understood. “We must hurry. Citizen Croth is dying. We did everything we could, but it won’t be enough.”
Croth/Hoknar had a room to himself. He was belly down on a Ramanthian-style bolster bed. He was hooked to an IV, and there was machinery all around. His eyes were closed, and a rasping sound could be heard each time he took a breath. A patch of sealant marked the spot where he’d been shot, one of his wings was missing, as was a foot. To say that Croth/Hoknar had been tortured was an understatement. It made Vanderveen feel sick as she knelt next to him. “Citizen Croth? Or should I say Majordomo Hoknar? This is Consul Vanderveen. You wanted to speak with me?”
There was no response at first, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthian was conscious. Then his eyes opened and seemed to roll into focus. Hoknar’s voice was so faint that Vanderveen had to lean forward in order to hear it. “Listen carefully . . . The Warrior Queen is still alive. And in hiding. But a cabal led by ex-Governor Parth managed to place their own Queen on the throne. Now, because of my weakness, they know where she is. Go to Sensa II, find the rightful Queen, and return her to power. Both sides will have to make concessions. But, if you do as I say, peace is possible.”
Vanderveen felt a rising sense of excitement. If what Croth, AKA Hoknar, said was true, the mere fact that the Warrior Queen was alive represented an important opportunity. Because by publicizing that fact, it might be possible to sow the seeds of dissent within the Ramanthian population. And, if the Warrior Queen would be willing to negotiate a truce in order to regain her throne, that could end the war. She glanced at Sayers and was relieved to see that she was aiming a camcorder at Croth/Hoknar. “Around my neck,” he rasped. “The royal seal. Take it. Tell the Queen what I said. She may not like your proposal, but she will listen.”
“I will try,” Vanderveen promised.
Croth/Hoknar closed his eyes, shuddered as if in pain, and opened them again. “Thank you. And one more thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“Tell the Queen I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. The pain was too much.”
Vanderveen started to reply but saw the light in the Ramanthian’s eyes start to fade and knew he was gone. A tone sounded and stopped as the doctor pinched a switch. He had been responsible for the Queen’s medical care during her short stay on Trevia and liked her. His eyes made contact with Vanderveen’s. “So you’ll help?”
“If I can.”
He nodded. “Please hurry.”
Two hours after Croth/Hoknar’s death, Vanderveen was seated at her desk staring at the hypercom in front of her. Assuming the device worked, it would allow her to have a real-time conversation with people on Algeron. Interestingly enough, the basic technology had been stolen from the Ramanthians by none other than Major Antonio Santana. And now, a year and a half later, it was revolutionizing interstellar communications. Because prior to the advent of the hypercom, it would have been necessary to send a message torp to Algeron and wait for a reply. A two-week process if everything went well.
Now she could make an FTL call. But would Assistant Secretary Holson take the opportunity seriously? And react to it quickly enough? She feared that he wouldn’t.
There was another way of course. And that was to try for Secretary of State Yatsu. Or the president himself. But if she went over her supervisor’s head, the move could be seen as further evidence of what her superiors perceived as a rebellious nature. Vanderveen sighed. There was no way in hell that she was going to call Holson and run the risk that the bastard would try to block her.
First, she had to enter a five-digit access code into an alphanumeric keypad. Then it was necessary to slip a finger into the ID port. The finger prick hurt. What seemed like a very long ten seconds passed as the device verified her DNA and opened an FTL link. Eventually it would become possible to call discrete locations from the field. But for the moment, all Foreign Service calls were routed through a computer on Algeron. Its female persona had black hair and brown skin. The image shivered, broke up into a thousand motes of light, and came back together again. “Good evening, Consul Vanderveen. Who are you calling?”
“The president.”
A human might have registered surprise, but the simulacrum’s expression remained unchanged. “Priority?”
“One.”
“Please hold.”
The operator, if that was the correct word, disappeared. A Confederacy seal appeared in her place. Vanderveen held and held some more. Fifteen long minutes passed. Finally, with no advance warning, Nankool appeared on the screen. He looked disheveled and had clearly been asleep. “I’m taking this call because of what we went through on Jericho,” he said grumpily. “But it had better be important. Because if you’re calling to whine about conditions on Trevia, this will be a very short conversation. Come to think of it, why call me? You report to Assistant Secretary Holson.”
Vanderveen felt sick to her stomach. Was the Croth/Hoknar thing real? What if he had been lying? But why would he do that? “I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Vanderveen said, as she battled to keep her voice steady. “But I have evidence that a Ramanthian cabal forced the Warrior Queen into hiding on Sensa II—and replaced her with a monarch of their own choosing. Given how important such a development would be, and the urgent need to protect the Warrior Queen from a team of assassins, I thought it best to call you directly.”
Nankool looked stunned. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Finally, having regained his composure, he was able to speak. “You mentioned evidence. What evidence?”
“The Ramanthian you are about to see is named Bebo Hoknar. He called himself Hamantha Croth while in hiding. He was the Warrior Queen’s majordomo prior to her supposed death. After being tortured, shot, and left for dead, he sent for me. Here’s what he had to say.”
Vanderveen’s right index finger stabbed a button. Video from Sayer’s camcorder followed the carrier wave through hyperspace to Algeron. She watched as Croth/Hoknar told his story all over again. Once it was over, Nankool reappeared. There was a frown on his face. “How long have you been there? A few weeks?”
It was actually considerably less than that—but Vanderveen could see where things were headed. “Something like that, sir.”
“And you’re already causing trouble.”
Vanderveen didn’t see it that way, but said, “Yes, sir.”
“We don’t have a consulate on Sensa II, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“And you want to go there. Am I correct?”
“It seems like an important opportunity, sir.”
Nankool grinned broadly. “Holson will be pissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to the navy. Hopefully, they have a suitable vessel in the area. They will contact you.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
At that point, Vanderveen expected Nankool to break off the conversation, but he didn’t. A serious expression appeared on his face. “Christine . . . There is a dispatch on the way to you via normal channels. And I’m sorry to say that it contains some very bad news.”
Vanderveen felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Santana. It had to be Santana. Nankool knew him, as did her father. She bit her lower lip in an effort to fight back the tears. “Yes?”
“It’s your mother, Christine . . . She was killed in action during a raid. The nature of the mission is classified, so I can’t give any details. But suffice it to say that a number of people owe their lives to her bravery. Margaret was an extraordinary woman.”
Vanderveen managed to say, “Thank you for letting me know,” though she was crying as the little screen went black. Her mother dead? It didn’t seem possible. Her father would be devastated.
Vanderveen wanted to retreat to her quarters but couldn’t do so without being seen. So she locked the door to her office and curled up on the couch. Sobs racked her body, shadows crept across the room, and the war continued.
ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY MINESWEEPER 10 IN ORBIT AROUND SENSA II
According to all of the information that Vanderveen had been able to get, the city of Heferi was a very dangerous place. For that reason, the Io’s commanding officer, LTJG Craig Sullivan, insisted on going with her. Which should have been fine except that the diplomat couldn’t tell if Sullivan was going to be an asset or a liability. He looked as if he wasn’t a day over eighteen. But as his XO, a chief warrant officer named Lopez, had told Vanderveen during the trip out, “Don’t let the schoolboy looks fool you. It takes balls to disarm a mine. And brains, too. He’s a little uptight, but that will wear off.”
A Fighting Chance Page 23