“Can we hold ’em off?”
Kor shrugged. “Maybe. But I doubt it.”
Shattered glass lay everywhere and made a crunching sound as Vanderveen stood and turned to peek out a window. She jerked away as a bullet slapped the back wall. Where were the reinforcements she had requested? There was a war on, and the government was short of everything, but surely the Confederacy had some sort of resources in the area. Even a contingent of customs agents would be welcome if they could fight. “Uh-oh,” Kor said ominously, as she looked over a windowsill. “Here they come.”
Having checked to ensure that the Queen was safe, or as safe as she could be under the circumstances, Chancellor Itnor Ubatha shuffled past the animals assigned to protect her into the chamber beyond. Sparks was sitting in a chair, staring up at a bank of video monitors. One showed the scene on the floor above, where the mercs were beginning to fire at the oncoming attackers. And two provided shots of the grounds. The rest were black.
Having heard Ubatha’s approach, Sparks spoke without turning to look at him. “Here comes another attack, sir. It looks like your friends hired a group of mercs.”
“They aren’t ‘friends,’ ” Ubatha grated. “They’re enemies. Mine as well as yours.”
“Roger that,” Sparks replied. “Look! One of them has a sword!”
Ubatha felt something cold grab onto his guts. “Zoom in on the soldier with the sword.”
Sparks did so. The Ramanthian in question was standing near one of the holes that had been blown in the fence, waving the mercs through. “What’s so special about him?” the tech inquired. There wasn’t any answer. And when Sparks turned, Ubatha was gone.
As Vanderveen took a peek through the blown-out window, she saw dozens of tiny figures passing through the gaps where the security fence had been holed. “Kill them,” she ordered grimly. “And remember . . . They won’t take prisoners.”
The comment was intended more for Kor’s men than the officer herself. Because they were mercs. And like hired guns everywhere, they were bound to put themselves first. Fortunately, none of the men and women showed any signs of running as the snipers opened fire from the hills and the attackers swept forward. “Aimed fire,” Kor said grimly. “We’re starting to run low on ammo. Hey! Where’s the bug going? He’ll get his ass shot off.”
As Vanderveen turned to her left, she saw that Chancellor Ubatha had exited through the hole where the front door had been. He was holding a pistol. And, judging from appearances, he was about to join the battle. She shouted, “No! Stop!” But it was too late.
Vanderveen grabbed one of the assault weapons that were leaning against the front wall and made for the front entrance. Not because Ubatha was a friend, but because he was an important link to the monarch and the only member of her retinue who had the capacity to stand up to her.
A bullet pinged off the door frame as she darted outside. The formerly pristine lawn was a mess. Kor’s mercs were firing out through the windows. And Vanderveen knew there was a very real danger of being shot from behind. But it was too late to worry about that as one of the attackers opened up on Ubatha with a submachine gun. Geysers of dirt rose all around the Chancellor as he continued to plow his way forward, and Vanderveen dropped to one knee.
There wasn’t enough time to use the scope. All Vanderveen could do was bring the rifle up and fire instinctively. One of her bullets struck the man with the SMG in the shoulder and turned him around. Another threw him down. Ubatha, seemingly unaware of the manner in which his life had been spared, continued to shuffle forward.
As bullets kicked up puffs of dust around him, the War Ubatha felt a terrible sense of shame. For to lead animals into battle was to be an animal. But such was the fate that the gods of war had allotted him. And the alternative was even worse. If he failed, the entire empire would be at risk. The War Ubatha’s thoughts were interrupted by a series of overlapping sonic booms. All of the beings around him paused to look up at the sky. “Drop pods!” a noncom shouted. “Destroy them.”
And the mercs tried. But there wasn’t much point in doing so. The chutes used to slow the containers had already been released, and the containers hit the ground one after another. Plumes of gas jetted away from them as the pods began to open. “Now!” the War Ubatha shouted. “Attack them now. Before they can defend themselves.”
What ensued was a horrible free-for-all. Each drop pod contained two legionnaires—a cyborg and a bio bod. Once on the ground, they were supposed to exit, come together, and prepare for combat. A process that should take less than sixty seconds. But while some of the containers landed in front of the Ramanthian-led force and some landed behind it, the rest came down practically on top of it. T-2s were struck by multiple rockets as they lurched out of their pods. And many bio bods fared even worse. They were shot while still strapped into their seats. But try as they might, the mercs couldn’t kill all of the legionnaires, and it wasn’t long before they were taking casualties as well.
The War Ubatha saw one of the containers hit fifty feet away, raised his sword, and charged. There was a flash followed by a loud boom as the pod took a direct hit. A panel blew off as the blackened vehicle toppled over onto its side. It appeared as if the cyborg was trapped in the wreckage. But a human rolled free and struggled to rise.
The War Ubatha had arrived on the scene by then. He raised the blade high, knowing that when it fell, the animal’s head would roll free.
Chancellor Ubatha wasn’t a very good shot. Nor did he need to be from only a dozen feet away. He looked down the barrel, squeezed the bulb-shaped handle, and felt the resulting recoil. The bullet struck the War Ubatha’s right thigh, shattered his chitin, and dumped the warrior on the ground. Meanwhile, as the revengeful T-2s and their riders made use of their superior firepower to cut the mercs down, the tide of battle began to turn. In fact, the battle was nearly over as the legionnaire whom the War Ubatha had been so determined to behead raised his carbine. “No,” Vanderveen ordered as she stepped in. “Hold your fire. That’s an order.” The soldier complied.
The War Ubatha still had his sword and was trying to lift it when a second bullet shattered his arm. “Now,” Chancellor Ubatha said, as he stood over his fallen mate. “Now you will pay. There is only one way you could have followed us here. And that is with information obtained from the Egg Ubatha. Information you would have had to force out of her. Is she still alive?
“Answer me,” Chancellor Ubatha demanded as he placed a foot on his mate’s chest. “Did you kill our mate?”
The War Ubatha had been wounded before. But never so badly. And the pain was intense. He could hear the other Ubatha. But the words sounded as if they were coming from a place a million miles away. “We are at war,” he answered. “Each must do his or her part. I asked, and she refused. Sacrifices must be made. That is the way of the warrior.”
Chancellor Ubatha made a strange, choking sound. He fired again and again until the pistol was empty—and the War Ubatha was nothing more than a bullet-riddled corpse. Then, having thrown the pistol down, he turned away. Vanderveen looked at the legionnaire as a T-2 fought its way clear of the wreckage. “Follow him. Keep him safe.”
The legionnaire’s face had been hidden behind his visor until that point. But as he removed his helmet, she saw something remarkable. “Tony? Is that you?”
Santana smiled. “Sorry we took so long. But we were on a transport en route to Adobe when orders came in to divert. They said a diplomat was in trouble. I should have known.”
Vanderveen’s eyes were full of emotion. “Yes,” she replied joyfully. “You should have known.”
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Days were short, so timing was critical; as the sun rose in the east, the shuttle temporarily designated as RAM 1 settled onto the VIP pad at Fort Camerone, and a contingent of Naa blew the spiral-shaped horns that had traditionally been used to announce the arrival of an important chief. A large group of dignitaries, including Pr
esident Nankool, Secretary of State Yatsu, and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly, were on hand to greet those aboard the incoming ship.
Intersol vid anchor Danny Occuro was stationed on the ramparts above the landing pad. One of the news network’s flying cameras was focused on him. The rest were providing the director with shots of the scene below. Occuro felt nervous and for good reason. He had been chosen over many others to provide pooled coverage of the most important news story since the destruction of the Friendship and the beginning of the war with the Ramanthians. It was a weighty responsibility and one that would put his name in the history books. Because, assuming that what he’d been told was true, the Warrior Queen had survived her injuries by becoming a cyborg. And pictures of her new body were about to be sent throughout the Confederacy for the first time.
As the shuttle’s skids made contact with the repeller-scorched tarmac and the engines spooled down, it was time to begin his narration. “This is Danny Occuro, reporting live from the planet Algeron, with breaking news. I am referring to the arrival of the Ramanthian monarch, often referred to as the Warrior Queen, who, having been injured on Earth, had reportedly died of her wounds. In fact, it was only a little more than a month ago that the Ramanthians held a state funeral for her and chose a new Queen to replace her.
“But according to highly placed government sources, the Warrior Queen was actually on the run, hiding from a team of Ramanthian assassins. That suggests that the present Queen is little more than a pretender, a tool placed on the throne by a cabal of senior officials, all of whom want to run the government themselves. I’ll have more on that as additional information becomes available.”
The picture dissolved to a shot of the landing pad. “The hatch is opening now, and President Nankool is going out to meet the monarch, even as a formal twenty-one-gun salute can be heard in the background. That’s an honor reserved for the president and visiting heads of state. A sure sign that the Confederacy plans to recognize the Warrior Queen as the legitimate leader of the Ramanthian people. Doing so would open up the possibility of a truce although there aren’t any assurances that the present Queen would agree to step down.”
As the director took a wide shot and the camera zoomed in, Occuro described what he saw. “This is it, gentle beings . . . Our first look at the Queen’s new human-designed body. It’s our understanding that this is one of three vehicles the monarch can wear, each of which offers certain advantages.”
At that point, a split-screen comparison appeared showing file footage of the Queen right next to the live feed. What the audience saw was a richly dressed Ramanthian who had already exchanged formal bows with the president and was making her way along the reception line. A small coterie of staff members followed behind. Two were human although Occuro had no idea who they were. “However,” he said, as the split screen disappeared, “even though the Queen’s body looks normal, I have it on good authority that the design incorporates bullet-resistant materials as well as communications gear that is consistent with both Confederacy and Ramanthian protocols. That, too, seems to suggest some sort of diplomatic accommodation is in the works or has already been agreed to.
“I suggest that you remember this moment. There are all sorts of uncertainties, not the least of which is how the Ramanthian people will respond to the sudden resurrection of their once-popular leader. But it’s possible that we are witnessing a pivotal moment in history.”
Never, in all of her twenty-seven years, had the Warrior Queen been in the presence of so many animals. Their ugly faces surrounded her. Harsh voices assailed her ears. And the putrid stench of their filthy flesh made her want to vomit. Except that she couldn’t vomit. Not anymore. Because her electromechanical body had no need to consume food or get rid of it.
It was an amazing vehicle, with which she had developed an almost immediate love-hate relationship. Love because of the way in which it had freed her from the metal rack, and hate because she was an incomprehensible monster now. All of which was made more painful by the knowledge that without the aid of the disgusting creatures around her, she would already be dead. Murdered by members of her own race. That fact and more swirled through her mind as the last introduction was completed, and President Nankool escorted her into the fort.
Airborne cameras were everywhere. They zipped, darted, and even rolled along the floor as the animals sought to capture every moment of her shame. But the publicity was necessary. The Warrior Queen knew that. Parth and his cabal would try to block the incoming broadcasts. But the soon-to-be-reinvigorated denialists would find a way to make the truth known. Bootleg copies of the broadcast would be made and secretly distributed to all of the empire’s planets.
Parth and his cronies would declare them to be propaganda and insist that the creature seen meeting with the animals was a robot rather than a cyborg. And what else could the traitors say? Since they had declared her dead?
So, in the end, it would come down to what she said, how she said it, and testimonials from the expat experts that Chancellor Ubatha was going to bring in. In the meantime, the royal would do what she had been taught to do since birth. And that was to play her part to perfection.
Vanderveen and Santana had been relegated to the very end of the processional, and the diplomat was happy to be there. Having successfully defended the monarch from assassins and negotiated an interim agreement with the royal, it was a relief to hand her charge off to more-senior officials. That plus the fact that Santana was walking along next to her combined to put Vanderveen in a very good mood. So when the president, the Queen, and the rest of the party entered a conference room and left her outside, she was thrilled. “We’re going to have dinner with my father,” Vanderveen said, as she turned to Santana. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
“I would love to have dinner with your father,” Santana said. “I haven’t seen him since the day I left Algeron for Jericho. He came out to see me off. He was very worried about you.”
“He’s still struggling with my mother’s death,” Vanderveen replied. “Let’s see if we can cheer him up.”
Santana nodded. “And then?”
Vanderveen put her hands in his. “Then we’ll have some time to ourselves.”
Santana smiled. “That sounds good. Very, very good.”
For the first time in many months, President Marcott Nankool had reason to hope. His decision to back the Warrior Queen rather than accept Parth’s offer looked as if it might pay off. Assuming that he and his staff could convince the frequently cantankerous monarch to do all the right things. And that would be no small feat because, in spite of the words that came out of her beak, it didn’t take an empath to detect the underlying contempt she felt for all humans, including him.
They were seated around a circular table. It was the same one that had been used during the meeting with Parth. Even Christine Vanderveen’s detractors had to agree that the high-level verbal agreements she had negotiated with the Ramanthian royal were quite solid. The most important of them was that the Confederacy would help restore the Warrior Queen to her throne in return for “a reset to prewar conditions.”
If implemented, the agreement would force the bugs to surrender all the worlds they had captured, with the possible exception of certain nursery planets. And the Confederacy would do likewise. The exact wording of the agreement would have to be hammered out. But there wasn’t much doubt as to the outcome since the Confederacy was in the driver’s seat.
No, the problem was a difference of opinion regarding how to begin the upcoming PR offensive and where to do so. This was why Chien-Chu was making the Confederacy’s case for the second time. “With all due respect, Your Highness,” he said patiently, “Earth is the perfect place to launch your campaign because it’s the human home world. And in order to succeed, we need buy-in from our citizens. That will require some effort since nearly all of them blame you for starting the war.
“Yes,” Chien-Chu said, as Chancellor Ubatha opened his beak to speak
, “I know . . . The previous Queen, sometimes referred to as the great mother, set events in motion prior to her death. But perceptions are important. And Earth is the place where you were wounded, thereby cementing your unofficial title of Warrior Queen and earning you a permanent place in the hearts of all Ramanthians. By going there to make your first speech, you will evoke strong emotions on both sides. Although they may have reservations, most humans will rejoice over the prospect that their home world will be freed. Meanwhile, those Ramanthians who have grown tired of the war and understand the strategic realities, will realize that a reset represents a good outcome given what could occur otherwise.”
Nankool couldn’t read the Queen’s nonverbals but suspected that she wasn’t used to much, if any, push back. So when she spoke, he was interested to see what she would say. “I continue to have reservations,” the royal replied. “The planet Trevia would be a better choice in my mind. A great many Ramanthian expats live there, a significant number of whom would welcome my return. But I place a great deal of trust in Chancellor Ubatha and his opinion.”
All eyes went to the Ramanthian official, and although Nankool fully expected him to echo the Queen’s opinion, he was in for a pleasant surprise. “Thank you, Highness,” Ubatha said. “I believe Earth would be a good location for all of the reasons Admiral Chien-Chu put forward plus one more. Assuming that the Confederacy can put you on the surface and provide sufficient security, the visit will not only highlight the physical courage that you’re known for, but the cabal’s dishonesty as well. Because Parth and his cronies have lied to our citizens about conditions on Earth. And your presence there will make that clear.”
Perhaps it was Ubatha’s vision. Or maybe his comments gave the Queen a chance to save face. But whatever the reason, she agreed. “We will assign a senior diplomat to travel with you,” Yatsu declared. “And General Booly will arrange for security.”
A Fighting Chance Page 29