After performing the necessary research, Vanderveen had been able to confirm that Dr. Tomko not only had a home on the planet below but a well-equipped research facility as well. And assuming that the assassins knew what she knew, it was extremely important to reach Tomko’s estate before the Ramanthians did. And that was why she was aboard the Intheon. The freighter was so large that she barely qualified for a landing on a planet with something close to Earth-normal gravity. But the Intheon was the only ship Vanderveen had been able to hire on short notice. The elderly vessel shook like a thing possessed as she dropped into the atmosphere. Not having wings, the ship couldn’t glide. So it was all about brute force as the freighter’s engines roared and battled to keep the Intheon from cratering on the surface below.
The captain’s name was Nora Perthy. And judging from the explosion of gray hair around her head, she was almost as old as the ship. Perthy owned the Intheon, but just barely, and couldn’t afford luxuries like a pilot. So the crew consisted of Perthy, a robotic load master, and a rarely seen engineer.
As Vanderveen sat with her hands clenching the chair’s armrests, Perthy was conning the ship. A necessity since the ship’s NAVCOMP was on the blink. The process involved manipulating a small joystick, stabbing various buttons, and coaxing the Intheon to do what Perthy wanted. “That’s right, honey,” she said softly. “Slowly, slowly, keep it level. You can do it. Remember the landing on Alto? You did it there, didn’t you? Hmmm. What have we here? There’s a battle going on.”
The last was directed to Vanderveen, who was seated in the nav officer’s chair to left of and slightly to the rear of Perthy. Six curved screens were arrayed above the banks of controls. The camera mounted on the ship’s rotund belly was up on the main screen at the moment, and as a wisp of low-lying cloud blew through the shot, Vanderveen could see that a Thraki-style ship was already on the ground.
Tiny figures were scurrying toward the main complex as smoke poured out of two outbuildings. And from what Vanderveen could see, it looked as though the attackers were about to overrun the largest structure. “See those people?” she inquired. “Take them out.”
Perthy turned to stare at Vanderveen. She looked incredulous. “You must be joking. My ship isn’t armed. But even if it were, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, yes you would,” Vanderveen said, as she pulled the pistol from under her jacket. “Look closely. They’re Ramanthians. On one of the Confederacy’s planets. Attacking some innocent citizens. So you will stop them, or I will blow your brains all over the control panel.”
“But then both of us will die!”
Vanderveen smiled thinly. “That’s correct.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Yes, I am. Now kill them.”
“But how?” Perth demanded desperately.
“Use your repellers. Walk the ship back and forth. Burn anything that moves.”
Perthy swore some very unladylike oaths as she turned back toward the controls. Vanderveen’s chair seemed to rise to meet her as the Intheon’s descent slowed, and the globe-shaped vessel began to hover some twenty-five feet off the ground.
The attackers had broken off their assault by then and begun to shuffle away from the main building as the Intheon’s repellers plowed black furrows in the ground. One of the Ramanthian soldiers disappeared in a flash of fire, quickly followed by another, as the freighter chased them down. “The ship!” Vanderveen shouted. “It’s lifting. Stop it.”
But it was too late. The Thraki vessel was not only a lot smaller, but much more agile, and it had little difficulty making its escape. “Damn it,” Vanderveen said. “You were supposed to kill all of them.”
“I will do no such thing,” Perthy said primly. “That’s what the navy is for. I’m going to land, and you’re going to pay me. Then I’m going to lift.”
Vanderveen lowered the gun and put it away. Some of the would-be assassins had escaped. But the Queen was still alive. Or so she hoped.
Vanderveen was on the ground ten minutes later. She followed a still-smoking furrow up a slight incline toward the building beyond. Judging from appearances, the much-abused facade had been struck by hundreds of bullets and at least one rocket.
When she was a hundred feet away, Vanderveen stopped, and a Ramanthian shuffled out to greet her. He was nicely dressed and bowed formally. “Greetings. And thank you. Dr. Tomko’s security people weren’t prepared for such a concerted attack. And you are?”
“My name is Vanderveen. Christine Vanderveen. I am the Confederacy’s consul on Trevia. The planet where you and the Warrior Queen were in hiding before you left for Sensa II. How is her majesty? Well, I hope.”
There was a long silence as they looked into each other’s eyes. The Ramanthian was the first to speak. “So your government knows?”
“At a very high level—yes.”
“And you were dispatched to make contact?”
Vanderveen nodded. “I was. The Ramanthian cabal wants her majesty dead. And the Queen plans to retake the throne. We can help.”
“But for a price.”
“Of course.”
The Ramanthian nodded. “My name is Ubatha. Chancellor Ubatha. I think it’s time that you met the Queen.”
15
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
—Human folk saying
Date unknown
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
It was dark at the moment and so cold that President Nankool could see his breath fog the air as the Thraki shuttle lowered itself onto the VIP pad. He was standing on one of Fort Camerone’s ramparts looking downwards as the ship was enveloped by a cloud of steam. The entire area had been cordoned off, and security was extremely tight; all hell would break loose if word of the meeting were to leak out—both in the Confederacy and in the Ramanthian Empire. Because fanatics on both sides weren’t willing to settle for anything less than total victory. And in their minds, peace talks would equate to treason. Plus, there were those who were benefiting from the war and wanted the conflict to continue. They included arms manufacturers, senior members of the military, and the rapacious news combines, which continually fed off the conflict.
As for regular folks, if they heard that peace talks were under way, expectations would soar. Then, if the negotiations fell apart, Nankool feared that morale would sink even further. So rather than conduct preliminary conversations in the harsh glare of the public spotlight, he was about to meet with Chancellor Parth in private. And it pained him to do so because there was general agreement that the bugs were winning the war. And that meant he and his staff would be forced to negotiate from a position of weakness.
As the handpicked ground crew surged forth to service the shuttle, Nankool glanced to his right. Judging from all appearances, Charles Vanderveen was just fine. But Nankool knew that the death of the diplomat’s wife had hit him hard. So much so that there were reports he’d been drinking a lot lately. And the fact that his daughter had put herself back in harm’s way didn’t help either. All of which had a bearing on Nankool’s’s decision to include Vanderveen on the negotiating team. Maybe some hard work plus the passage of time would help him to heal. A rectangle of light appeared as a hatch opened, and half a dozen backlit figures shuffled down a ramp to the place where Secretary Yatsu and some of her staff were waiting to receive the Ramanthians. Vanderveen said, “Bastards,” under his breath, and Nankool pretended not to hear.
“Come on, Charles . . . We’re serving live grubs in hot sauce—and you wouldn’t want to miss out.”
Very few Ramanthians had been allowed on the surface of Algeron, and with the exception of a few POWs, all of their visits had taken place prior to the war. As Parth shuffled down the ramp onto the landing pad, he was struck by how cold the air was, the glare of the surrounding lights, and the alien feel of the place. There were members of the cabal, Admiral Tu Stik, for example, who felt that the trip to Algeron was a mistake. As a member of the Nira cult, he opp
osed any form of negotiation. But if overruled, he preferred that the meeting take place on a Ramanthian battleship, so the animals could feel the full weight of the empire’s military might.
But Parth was a politician. And a pragmatist. As such, he knew that while his willingness to visit Algeron could be viewed as a sign of weakness, there were potential benefits as well. The primary one was to place the animals in a receptive frame of mind. And that was important because even though the Ramanthian military had won battle after battle since the beginning of the war, there was a very real possibility that dark days lay ahead.
The burgeoning alliance between the Hudathans and the Confederacy was bad enough. But now that the Clone Hegemony had placed its genetically bred warriors under General Booly’s command, and some sort of horrible disease was spreading among the troops on Earth, Parth feared the military momentum was starting to swing the other way. So it made sense to negotiate a deal while in a position of undeniable strength. Besides, Parth thought to himself, we can always break the truce and attack the animals later on. Members of the Nira cult would object at first but ultimately go along.
Parth’s thoughts were interrupted as a small human with lots of black hair came forward to greet him. “Welcome to Algeron,” Yatsu said solemnly. “I’m Secretary of State Yatsu. It’s an honor to meet you. We often greet guests with a formal ceremony. But given the temperature and the need for security, I suggest that we go indoors.”
Parth bowed. “Chancellor Parth. The honor is mine. By all means, let’s put comfort before ceremony. We can continue the introductions inside.”
Both diplomats made small talk as a phalanx of cybernetic monstrosities led them through an open door into the brightly lit warmth within. The higher temperature felt good, but Parth’s sense of smell was quite acute and the mixed odors of human perspiration and food caused him to gag, a reaction he sought to conceal as he and his staff were escorted through a maze of hallways and into a large conference room.
A formally set table occupied the center of the space, round so as to put everyone on an equal footing. Even if that was a bit delusional where Parth’s hosts were concerned. Six saddle chairs were available as well, and he wondered where they had come from. A Ramanthian world perhaps? Where they had been looted along with everything else that wasn’t nailed down? Yes, he thought so.
Nor did the preparations end there. In place of the offensive odors encountered earlier, the reassuringly familiar scent of Ramanthian cooking hung in the still air. And Parth could see a row of gleaming warmers sitting on the tables that lined one wall. It seemed that the humans had gone all out in an effort to please their superiors. A propitious sign indeed.
But before refreshments could be served, introductions had to be made on both sides. A tiresome business that had just concluded when President Nankool entered the room with another human at his side.
Parth felt a sudden flush of pride. Because rather than meet with the Queen, who was technically his peer, Nankool had been forced to negotiate with a lesser power instead. That was a sure measure of Ramanthian dominance. Although, had the human been aware of it, the two of them were actually equals since the Warrior Queen was in hiding and her successor was at Parth’s beck and call. Secretary Yatsu made the necessary introduction. “President Nankool, please allow me to introduce His Excellency, Chancellor Parth.”
Having been briefed by Charles Vanderveen, Nankool knew that a bow was in order, and delivered one as Parth bent a knee. Then it was time to meet the Chancellor’s staff and prattle about the weather, even as the Ramanthians continued to slaughter the Confederacy’s citizens. And that was the crux of it. Which was better? To negotiate a peace deal of some sort? And trade sovereignty for safety? Or to refuse and fight to the last man, woman, and child?
It would have been a difficult decision regardless. But now, based on the information that Christine Vanderveen had submitted, there was a very real possibility that the Warrior Queen was still alive. That would make the sitting Queen a pretender who, according to Christine Vanderveen, was being controlled by Parth and a group of his cronies.
So what to do? Make some sort of deal on the theory that even if she was alive, the Warrior Queen wouldn’t be able to regain the throne? Or refuse whatever terms were offered in hopes that the current government would fall? Millions of lives hung in the balance as Yatsu spoke.
“It’s lunchtime for us, and on the chance that you might be hungry after your long journey, we took the liberty of preparing some Ramanthian delicacies. Fortunately, from our perspective at least, a prisoner of war named Inbo Haknu is being held on Algeron. He, if I’m not mistaken, is a master chef. We asked chef Haknu if he would be willing to cook for you, and he agreed. He was quite demanding where the ingredients were concerned, and though unable to fulfill all of his requests, we did the best we could.”
Parth felt a combination of anger and grudging respect. Here, clad in the form of a diplomatic nicety, was both a compliment and a boast. Because even as the animals went to considerable lengths to please their guests, they were sending a not-so-subtle message: “We may be losing the war, but we have hundreds of thousands of Ramanthian POWs, and their fates hang in the balance.”
“You are very kind,” Parth lied. “The food smells wonderful. And you are correct. Chef Haknu is very well-known and highly respected. I look forward to eating whatever he prepared.”
As Nankool’s guest of honor, Parth was the first person to sample what the buffet had to offer. The human food came first. And revolting though it was, Parth forced himself to take a few small samples. Then came the warmer filled with sautéed grubs, all of which were still wiggling, and there were more favorites, too.
After filling his plate, it was off to the round table, where waiters stood ready to serve a variety of liquids. Having been seated next to Nankool, Parth tied the Ramanthian-style napkin around his neck and speared one of the grubs with a single-tined fork. It was still struggling as he held it up for Nankool to inspect. “Have you ever had one? They’re quite active—but a single bite is sufficient to subdue them.”
Having opened his beak, Parth placed the morsel in his mouth. Then, having flipped the extra-large napkin up over the top of his stubby antennae, the Ramanthian bit the morsel with his beak. Parth heard the characteristic popping sound as a mixture of blood and intestinal matter spurted against the inside surface of the napkin. The rich, fatty taste combined with the hot sauce was on a par with the best cuisine available on Hive. The food was, all things considered, an unexpected pleasure.
Prior to the war, when the Ramanthians had been part of the Confederacy, Nankool had been present when grubs were served at ceremonial dinners attended by a dozen sentient races. So he was ready for the napkin ritual. But what about the statement that preceded it? Was Parth’s comment what it seemed? A simple observation? Or was there something more to it? A warning perhaps . . . A veiled way of saying that, struggle as the Confederacy might, the empire could consume it with ease.
Nankool wasn’t sure. But when Parth’s napkin came down, the human was waiting. Secretary Yatsu, Charles Vanderveen, and the rest of the Confederacy’s staff members watched in horrified fascination as Nankool placed a grub between his front teeth and held the wiggling creature there for a full three seconds. Then, rather than flip a napkin over his head, he held it in front of his face. There was no mistaking the loud pop or the blood on the formerly pristine cloth. He swallowed, and a big grin appeared on his face. “That was yummy.”
The rest of the meal was polite if not pleasant as both sides sought to avoid any sort of faux pas, knowing that the real discussion was to follow. And Nankool was pleased to see that regardless of whatever emotions were churning inside of him, Vanderveen had been able to maintain his composure.
Finally, once the dishes were cleared away, it was time for the talks to begin. And, since the Ramanthians were the ones who had suggested the meeting, it was agreed that they would go first. Nankool took note of
the fact that Parth spoke without notes. Was that because he’d gone to the trouble of memorizing them? Or was that an indication of how powerful the Chancellor was? So powerful that he could say whatever he pleased. That would line up with the information provided by Christine Vanderveen.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with representatives of the Ramanthian Empire,” Parth began. “Sadly, for those on both sides of the conflict, millions of sentients have lost their lives or been injured. In fact, my mate, the War Parth, fell during the opening days of the war. So my surviving mate and I are in an excellent position to understand the terrible price that families on both sides have paid.
“That makes our task all the more urgent,” Parth said earnestly, as his space black eyes roamed the faces around him. “So, acting in the best interest of our people as well as yours, we would like to propose the outline of a treaty. Of course the devil, as humans like to say, is in the details. But I think you’ll agree that there can’t be any details without the creation of an overarching accord.
“Now,” Parth continued, “I know that this is a delicate and very difficult subject. But the facts are clear. Given the strategic realities, we are winning the war.”
Secretary Yatsu started to object, but Parth raised a pincer. “Please . . . Allow me to finish. Let’s begin with the human home planet. We conquered Earth and presently occupy it. I’m sure that’s very painful for you. Just as it would be for me if the situation was reversed. So as a gesture of goodwill and to signify the beginning of a new relationship, we are willing to withdraw our troops from the surface of the planet. That would limit casualties and allow your citizens to resume their normal lives under the protection of the Ramanthian fleet.”
A Fighting Chance Page 27