That was when Captain Ryley arrived on the scene. Charlie Company had been in the lead, with Farber tucked between the squad on point and the second platoon, when the shit hit the fan. Now, as Ryley’s T-2 carried him back in the direction they had come from, it looked as though the ex–militia officer had decided to run. Santana swore, raised his carbine, and was about to take a shot at Ryley when the other officer’s cyborg swerved. Seconds later, Ryley was on the ground and sprinting toward the quad. “Major! Order the quads to fire missiles at the Ba-Na trees. They’re the tallest ones. Do it now.”
Santana didn’t like Ryley. And couldn’t see how firing missiles at trees was going to help. But if the battalion went down, Ryley would, too. So, desperate to do something, Santana gave the necessary order. “Zulu Nine to all quads. Target the tallest trees and fire missiles at them now. Over.”
There was a pause as the cyborgs processed the unexpected order and launched their missiles. Then came a series of loud booms as the weapons struck, the trees were severed, and the tops began to fall. “More!” Ryley demanded. “Fire again.”
The quads obeyed. The first trees were falling in slow motion by then. There was a loud, crackling noise as hundreds if not thousands of branches broke, a multitude of vines snapped, and the forest was torn asunder. The ground shook as the gigantic trunks struck, a T-2 and its rider disappeared as a massive Ba-Na tree fell on them, and a vast cloud of dust rose. And then, as it began to settle, the incoming fire ceased.
That was when Santana understood. Being the tallest structures in the forest, the Ba-Na trees had been supporting the parasitic plants and the snakelike vines that provided the O-Chi warriors with what amounted to elevated highways. Scores of indigs had been killed as an entire layer of the environment was destroyed. A few survived, only to be cut down by vengeful troopers.
Finally, as the gunfire died away, it was time for the surviving platoon leaders and noncoms to begin the bloody business of salvaging what they could. Santana had been kneeling next to the quad. He stood, raised his visor, and looked at Ryley. “Thank you, Captain. You saved a lot of lives today. I won’t forget.”
Ryley produced a crooked smile. “You’re welcome, sir.”
“You were up front when they hit us,” Santana said. “What happened to Colonel Farber?”
“He ran into the jungle,” Ryley replied coldly. “The bastard.”
Santana nodded. “We’ll send someone to look for him as soon as we can. In the meantime, there’s a lot of work to do. We’ll spend the night here. I want a ditch, a berm, and all the rest of it.”
“You’ll have it, sir,” Ryley said. And both men went to work.
The battle was over, and an eerie silence had fallen over the forest. In fact, it seemed as if all the jungle creatures had fled or gone into hiding. But Dietrich knew that danger lurked all around him as he followed a trail of broken twigs, crushed plants, and occasional boot prints deeper into the green maze. In spite of the damage inflicted on the area to the west, this part of the forest was still intact. So, alert to the possibility that O-Chies could be watching from above, the noncom kept his rifle up and ready to fire.
While Sergeant Major Dice Dietrich wasn’t a native, he had fought on LaNor, Savas, Jericho, and Gamma-014. Often under hellish conditions. So he knew a thing or two about how to stay alive in a variety of environments.
But there weren’t any snipers, trip wires, or man traps waiting for him. Just the zigzag trail of destruction Colonel Farber had left as he ran pell-mell into the jungle, looking for a place to hide. Not that the noncom needed such evidence. He could “see” Farber’s location projected on the inside of his visor. He paused next to a small stream and took a long look around before stepping over the flow of water onto some soft mud. His right boot obliterated one of the tracks Farber had left.
Then it was time to make his way up a gentle slope, climb over a rotting log, and push his way through a grove of spindly tree trunks to a point where he could look down into a small clearing. And that was where Farber was. His helmet lay on the ground, most of his shirt was missing, and he had been tied to a tree. “Thank God!” Farber said feelingly, as Dietrich appeared. “I chased one of the bastards into the forest. That was when they captured me.”
It was a simple story. And Dietrich might have been willing to believe it if he hadn’t seen Farber run with his own eyes. Now that Dietrich was closer, he could see the writing on the officer’s bare chest. “Go back or die. Maj. D. Temo.”
“So Major Temo led the ambush . . . Now that’s interesting.”
“Cut me down,” Farber growled. “That’s an order.”
“I’d like to,” Dietrich responded, as he sat on a moss-covered log. “I really would. If only to testify at your court-martial. But that would be way off in the future, wouldn’t it? After this mission fails—which it surely will if I leave you in command.”
Farber’s face was bright red. “How dare you? I’m a colonel! And you are a noncom. You will do as you’re told or pay the price.”
Then, as if thinking better of his words, the tone became more conciliatory. “But, if you free me now, we’ll pretend that this conversation never took place.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Dietrich replied. “That STS cannon needs to be destroyed—and Major Santana is the man who can get the job done. We wouldn’t be in this fix if the brass had left him in command.”
“Santana is nothing,” Farber said contemptuously. “He has some medals, but so what? So do dozens of others. I’m slated to be a general. Do you hear that? A general. I could take care of a man such as yourself. Think about it. Would you like a commission? I can make you a lieutenant today. Right now.”
“I was a corporal when I met Santana,” Dietrich said reflectively. “He was a second lieutenant back then—having been busted from first. That was because a superior officer ordered him to fire on a group of civilians, and he refused. So I stuck with him, saved his ass a couple of times, and he saved mine. Hell, he saved me from myself. From becoming the kind of person you are. So I owe him. And that’s going to be real hard on you.”
“They’ll hang you,” Farber said, as the full import of Dietrich’s words sank in. “You’ll die with your feet kicking in the air.”
“Maybe,” Dietrich conceded as he stood. “And maybe not. But one thing’s for sure. You won’t be around to see it.”
“No!” Farber screamed, and wet his pants. “Help me!” A single gunshot rang out. The battle was over.
10
Though not very pretty to look at, diplomacy is superior to war, which is the only alternative.
—Lin Po Lee
Philosopher Emeritus, The League of Planets
Standard year 2164
PLANET TREVIA, THE POONARA PROTECTORATE
Some parts of the Regulus were more than a hundred years old. But, thanks to the fact that her drives were relatively new, the tramp freighter continued to eke out a profit by hauling cargoes to places where the regular lines weren’t willing to go. And that included planets like Trevia, which was located in a remote sector of the Confederacy known as the Poonara Protectorate.
As Vanderveen stood at the center of the crew lounge and stared up through a viewport, she could see the pale, slightly orange orb floating above her. The sight of the planet, and the knowledge that she would likely be stuck there for a couple of years, filled her with a sense of gloom. If the president and the secretary of state intended to punish her, then Trevia was the perfect choice. Because it was not only remote but inhospitable. Though roughly the same size as Earth, the planet’s atmosphere was much colder, and there was half as much oxygen in the air. Plus, there was just one population center of any size on Trevia, and that was the aptly named Dome City. A sealed habitat that was home to roughly six thousand residents, many of whom were political exiles, eccentrics, and outcasts. And that made sense because who else would want to live there?
Vanderveen’s thoughts were interrupted by a l
ow whistle as Captain Eric Canther entered the lounge. He was about ten years older than she, handsome in a largely unkempt sort of way, and had been coming onto her since the beginning of the trip. “You make that suit look good,” Canther said. The leer was intentional.
Vanderveen was attired in a so-called skinsuit. Meaning a mechanical counterpressure suit rather than traditional space armor. It was tight and left very little to the imagination. Something Canther clearly enjoyed. “It’s not too late, you know,” he added suggestively. “I could put a thirty-minute hold on the shuttle.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Vanderveen responded. “It took longer than that to put my pressure suit on. Plus, I’m looking for something more than recreational sex. Or do you plan to propose, give up your job, and live on Trevia?”
Canther laughed and held up his hands. “No, anything but that! Get the rest of your stuff and board the shuttle. We’ll be back in a month or two. And I’ll look better to you by then.”
Vanderveen stuck her tongue out at him and went aft to collect her helmet, carry-on bag, and the hypercom set she had been issued. The trip to the surface was largely unremarkable. There weren’t any other passengers. Just cargo modules filled with food, spares, and all manner of personal items that had been ordered by the city’s diverse population.
After descending through the relatively thin atmosphere and braking for what seemed like a prolonged period of time, the shuttle leveled out over a rocky plain. As an ugly complex of buildings and smokestacks flashed by below, Vanderveen knew she was getting a look at one of the solar-powered greenhouse-gas-producing factories scattered across Trevia’s surface. The plan was to raise the planet’s temperature by pumping chlorofluorocarbons, carbon dioxide, and methane into the atmosphere. Then, having melted some of the ice at the poles, it would be possible to separate oxygen and hydrogen from the resulting water and begin the lengthy process of creating a breathable atmosphere.
In the meantime, the locals were forced to live under a huge duraplast dome. Light glinted off the surface of the half bubble as the shuttle banked, circled, and came in for a vertical landing. The Class III spaceport was necessarily outside of the dome and located a mile away for safety reasons.
As Vanderveen placed the helmet over her head, she felt it self-seal to her skinsuit’s neck ring and eyed the HUD that appeared in front of her. All of the indicator lights were green. She felt a solid thump as the shuttle put down next to the blister building that served as combination passenger terminal and maintenance facility. A wreck and a couple of beat-up air cars were visible off to one side.
Having received a go-ahead from the pilot, it was time for Vanderveen to pass through the ship’s tiny personnel lock and make her way down a set of roll-up stairs. She could feel the additional pressure as the skinsuit began to hug every square inch of her body.
A small crowd was waiting as the shuttle’s cargo hatch cycled open. But as a pair of space-suited humans and half a dozen worn robo loaders came forward to unload the ship, a solitary figure remained. Vanderveen recognized the machine as a standard Class II Admin droid. At least one or two such robots were standard equipment at every consulate. It was about five and a half feet tall, vaguely humanoid in appearance, and clad only in its dull alloy skin. “Consul Vanderveen? My name is Ralph. Welcome to Trevia.”
Vanderveen heard the voice via the speakers in her helmet and knew that the robot could communicate on various frequencies using a dozen different languages if required to do so. Androids didn’t have feelings. Not really. But it was hard not to treat them like people because their accumulated experiences produced what came across as individual personalities. She responded accordingly. “Thank you, Ralph. Just out of curiosity, where is FSO-3 Price? He’s the acting consul I believe.”
Like all of his kind, Ralph had a very limited inventory of facial expressions, none of which was on display. So there was no body language to analyze as the android made its reply. “The consul pro tem is indisposed. May I take your bag?”
“No, thank you,” Vanderveen replied. “But I would appreciate it if you could collect my luggage.”
“It has already been loaded onto our ground car,” Ralph said matter-of-factly. “Please follow me.”
“What about customs?” she wanted to know.
“There are no customs inspections,” Ralph replied. “But you will be required to register as you enter the dome.”
So Vanderveen followed the android around the shimmery blister to a large lot with only three vehicles parked in it. All were skeletal affairs, clearly intended for use by people wearing pressure suits. True to Ralph’s claim, Vanderveen’s trunks had already been loaded into the cargo bed and strapped down. “Would you like to drive?” he inquired politely. “Or should I?”
“I’ll leave it to you,” Vanderveen replied as she climbed into the passenger seat. There weren’t any other cars on the road, and it was arrow-straight. So the trip from the spaceport to the dome took less than ten minutes. In order to enter, it was necessary to pass through a spacious lock. That was followed by a mandatory stop at the city’s access-control station. Like most of the structures inside the habitat, the facility didn’t have a roof nor was there a need for one.
Interestingly enough, a Ramanthian was in charge of the registration process. That was reminiscent of the days prior to the war, when bugs could be found throughout the Confederacy performing a variety of tasks. And the alien’s presence was consistent with what Vanderveen had been told on Algeron. There were quite a few Ramanthian expats on Trevia. The original colony had been founded when a religious cult was forced to leave Hive. Now, more than seventy years later, the settlement included people from many races and backgrounds.
Having been entered into the city’s database and welcomed in what could only be described as a perfunctory manner by the registrar, Vanderveen followed Ralph out to the vehicle. Like all of the vehicles permitted inside the dome, it was powered by an electric motor.
The streets were laid out like spokes on a wheel and tied together by circular boulevards, each identified by a letter. Space was at a premium, so most of the structures shared walls with each other and were backed up to other buildings.
Because most of the dwellings were modular, they would have been boring to look at had it not been for the way they were painted. Pastel colors were most popular. And a plentitude of well-maintained plants and trees brought a much-needed touch of green to the community while throwing off additional oxygen as well.
The Confederacy’s consulate was located at the very center of the dome’s circular footprint along with the city hall, a medical facility, and some major stores, most of which were set up to serve the needs of the contract workers who were paid to service the greenhouse-gas factories. Dangerous jobs given the harsh working conditions—but ones they could depend on for a long time.
As Ralph guided the car into one of four parking spots in front of the two-story consulate building, Vanderveen saw that the windows were equipped with adjustable shutters. For privacy probably—since there wasn’t any weather to worry about. “So tell me what I’m looking at,” Vanderveen said. “What’s on the first floor?”
“Offices,” Ralph replied. “Living quarters are located above.”
“That will make for a short commute,” Vanderveen observed, as she followed the android through a pair of security doors. The lobby didn’t have a ceiling, and the furnishings were a bit shabby, but the floor was spotlessly clean. And there, positioned directly below the Confederacy seal, was a massive desk. The woman seated behind it appeared to be in her sixties. She had fluffy pink hair and was dressed in the sort of two-piece outfit that had been popular on Earth three years earlier. She smiled and stood. “Good morning, ma’am . . . And welcome to Trevia. I’m Nina Crosby.”
Vanderveen smiled and went forward to shake the receptionist’s hand. That was when the pistol caught her eye. It was sitting in Crosby’s in-box. “Are we expecting trouble?” she inquir
ed mildly.
Crosby followed Vanderveen’s gaze. “Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “There used to be a sergeant and a squad of marines stationed here. But they were taken off Trevia three months ago to help with the war. So we’re on our own now. Dome City is a peaceful place for the most part. But we do get the occasional nutcase. I shot one three weeks ago. Just in the leg, mind you . . . There was no reason to kill the poor bastard.”
Having read Crosby’s P-1 file, Vanderveen knew the receptionist was a retired master chief. “We’re lucky to have you,” Vanderveen observed. “I will feel quite secure knowing you’re on the job.”
Crosby nodded. “Don’t worry, ma’am. There ain’t nobody that’s going to see you without an appointment.”
Vanderveen wondered if Crosby might do too good a job of keeping people at bay and resolved to keep an eye on that possibility. “Ralph tells me that the vice consul is indisposed?”
Crosby gave a snort of derision. “I guess you could call it that. But I’d say that flat-assed drunk is more like it.”
“Is that a common occurrence?”
“Yup,” Crosby answered cheerfully. “Fortunately, the place pretty much takes care of itself. No offense, ma’am.”
“And none taken,” Vanderveen assured her. Then she turned to give her helmet to Ralph. “Would you show me to Mr. Price’s office? And take my belongings up to my quarters?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ralph replied obediently. He led her past the desk and into a hallway. The vice consul’s office was the second one back and on the left. “This is it,” Ralph announced. “Your office is next door.”
Vanderveen looked inside. She saw the predictable wall seal, a desk, and two guest chairs, one of which was clearly intended for use by Ramanthians. As for the man himself, he was laid out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of booze on the coffee table beside him.
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