Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell

by William C. Dietz

  Vanderveen wasn’t sure which she detested most, the parties that claimed two or three evenings a week, or her boss, who seemed to delight in them. Not to meet new contacts, strengthen relationships, and pick up odd bits of intelligence, but to hook up with the Clone Hegemony’s military attaché, who had a taste for free breeder sex. Or so FSO-5 Mitsi Ang claimed.

  It was dark, and the lights of the steadily growing city glittered as the embassy’s long black limo paused to allow a similar vehicle to discharge its formally clad passengers at the foot of a covered walkway. Vanderveen looked forward to escaping both Wilmot’s overwhelming perfume and her overbearing personality.

  “That should do it,” the ambassador said, as she checked her image in a small mirror and put her lipstick away. “Looks shouldn’t matter . . . but they do.”

  Only to other humans, Vanderveen thought to herself, as the car in front of them pulled away, and the limo crept forward.

  “Don’t forget to pitch Ambassador Sca Sor. He likes you for some reason . . . and we need the Prithians on our side. They don’t have much military clout, but if they were to align themselves with the Confederacy, it would make for a very nice headline. And Lord knows the cits could do with some good news. All they see on the evening vids are transports loaded with vacuum-sealed body bags. It’s depressing.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Vanderveen replied evenly, “I’ll do my best.”

  Wilmot was well aware of the fact that the Prithian ambassador liked Vanderveen because both of them had been stationed on LaNor during the Claw rebellion. Although it was a connection that the older woman resented, she hoped to take advantage of it.

  A uniformed robot opened the passenger-side door. Wilmot exited, and Vanderveen followed. Then, having plastered what she believed to be a winning smile on her face, the senior diplomat spotted a businessman she knew, waved to her subordinate, and was off.

  Vanderveen heaved a sigh of relief, climbed the broad flight of stairs in company with the trade delegation from Earth, presented her invitation to a Thraki security guard, passed through a screening device, and was admitted to a large if somewhat sterile reception area.

  Like so many Thraki structures, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was reminiscent of the space arks on which the race had lived for so long. And even though the diminutive aliens had intentionally raised the ceilings, made the doors larger, and widened the hallways for the benefit of other species, the building’s interior still had a cramped feel.

  The human diplomat allowed herself to be pulled along by the crowd, exchanged greetings with the various beings she knew, and wound up in a large reception room. Tables lined the walls, each heavily laden with different types of cuisine and a wide variety of eating utensils. Robots, dozens of them, roamed the room carrying trays loaded with drinks. Thanks to his brightly colored plumage, and distinctive voice, Sca Sor would have been hard to miss. He was on the far side of the room, flanked by an exoskeleton-assisted Dweller and a black-clad Drac.

  Vanderveen took a glass of wine off a tray, drifted through the crowd, and warbled a much-practiced greeting. Her efforts to learn Prithian had begun on LaNor and had continued under Sok Tok’s tutelage, prior to the translator’s recent death. Her command of the language was better now—but far from perfect. The Prithian diplomat replied in kind, then switched to standard. “Well done, my dear! It won’t be long before we fit you with wings!”

  It was an old joke, but the foreign service officer laughed anyway, and continued to sing rather than speak. That cut the other diplomats out—and gave Vanderveen the opportunity she was looking for. Her grammar was atrocious, and human vocal cords couldn’t produce certain inflections, but Sca Sor was impressed nevertheless.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Vanderveen began, “when the Prithian race went to the stars, it was like a flight from the sacred mountain that soared over all below. With the passage of time Prithian shipowners prospered by serving planets that were too far off the main shipping routes for larger companies to bother with.

  “Now, as the Ramanthians expand their empire, many of the paths between the stars have been closed. If profits haven’t started to fall yet, they will soon, causing great hardship for your people.

  “More than that great suffering has resulted from Ramanthian aggression, and will continue, unless they are stopped. According to the Book of Wings, it is the duty of each soul to advance that which is good and to fight the forces of evil. That is the course to which we and our allies are committed. I urge you to urge your government to join the Confederacy, and by doing so, to join the battle against evil.”

  Sca Sor had large, oval-shaped eyes. They blinked in unison. Not only was the prolonged use of his language unprecedented—but so was the reference to the Book of Wings. An ancient text comparable to the human Koran or Bible. Few off-worlders went to the trouble to read it. His crimson shoulder plumage rippled approvingly. “Your superiors chose wisely when they selected you to speak for them. Some accuse my people of benefiting from the Confederacy’s work without providing support. I happen to agree with them . . . but lack the authority required to effect a change of policy.

  “This matter has been reviewed before . . . but always within a commercial context. We are a minor power . . . and many of our leaders are loath to offend the Ramanthians. But the moral argument has weight—as does your capacity to put it forward. I will pass your message along . . . perhaps the council will reconsider.”

  It was good feedback, no, excellent feedback, since intelligence indicated that a group of so-called pragmatists had consistently managed to frame the question as one of trade rather than moral imperative. The Confederacy’s diplomatic corps had reinforced that approach by consistently steering clear of religious matters, always framing their arguments as if everything could, and should, be driven by simple self-interest. Maybe, just maybe, Sca Sor, and beings like him, could transform the nature of the discussion into something higher. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Vanderveen trilled. “I look forward to your response.”

  They parted after that, as Sca Sor headed toward one of the tables loaded with food—and Vanderveen went in search of a restroom.

  A line had formed outside the first one she came to, but the diplomat had been in the building before and remembered a second-floor conference room that boasted its own restroom. There wasn’t any security to cope with since the first two floors of the building were almost entirely dedicated to reception and conference rooms and considered to be semipublic areas.

  The diplomat left the lift, made her way down a narrow hallway, and spotted the conference room where she had been forced to endure a three-hour meeting. The door was open, so she took a peek inside. A twelve-person table occupied the center of the space and was surrounded by adjustable chairs. Windows dominated one wall, a large holo tank claimed a second, and a pin board covered most of a third.

  The door Vanderveen was looking for was off to the right. Consistent with her expectations, the restroom was vacant. The diplomat entered and closed the door.

  Five minutes later, just as the foreign service officer finished checking her makeup, she heard a door slam. Next came the sound of a giggle followed by an extremely familiar voice. “Jonathan! Stop it! You’re tearing my dress.”

  Vanderveen cracked the door open and peered through the gap. The Clone military attaché had removed Ambassador Wilmot’s dress by that time, tossed it aside, and laid her on the conference room table. He had just pulled her panties off, and was in the process of removing his uniform, when the Foreign Service Officer closed the door and turned the bolt.

  What followed was the longest fifteen minutes of Vanderveen’s life as her boss moaned like a lost soul, yelled, “Yes, yes, yes!” and uttered a scream so loud that it seemed as if everyone in the building would hear it.

  It wasn’t long thereafter that someone tried the door. Wilmot was annoyed. “It’s locked, dammit! Why would the furballs lock the can?”

  “Careful,” a male voice
said. “Maybe someone’s in there.”

  Wilmot said, “Shit! Let’s get out of here,” and Vanderveen heard the clack of high-heeled shoes followed by a solid thud as the outer door closed.

  Not wanting to charge out into the corridor and possibly be seen, Vanderveen forced herself to wait for a full minute before entering the conference room.

  But then, before the diplomat could make her escape, the outer door opened again. Concerned that Wilmot had left something behind and returned to get it, Vanderveen backed into the restroom. She pulled the door closed and relocked it.

  No one tried the door. Instead, Vanderveen heard the murmur of voices, neither of which sounded like Wilmot’s. Slowly, so as not to give herself away, the FSO turned the bolt and eased the door open. What she saw was very interesting indeed. There, sitting catercorner from each other, were two of her fellow diplomats—a Ramanthian, whom she immediately recognized as Ambassador Alway Orno, and the Thraki foreign minister, Oholo Bintha. Of even more interest, however, was the nature of their conversation. Vanderveen listened intently.

  “. . . Which means,” Orno continued, “that the Sheen ships aren’t compatible with the rest of our fleet. Rather than put a computer in charge, the way your ancestors did, our naval officers prefer to command such ships themselves. That means replacing the command and control systems, making modifications to each ship’s weaponry, and reprogramming all of the maintenance nano.”

  The Thrakies were skilled roboticists, so much so that even their pets were machines, each of which was as unique as its owner. Bintha’s pet robot, or “form,” chose that moment to emerge from his coat pocket and climb onto the conference room table. The tiny machine morphed from something that resembled a four-legged spider into a biped that performed a series of cartwheels. The Thraki nodded approvingly. “Yes, I can understand the problem. In spite of the fact that it was our ancestors who created the Sheen and put them into motion, they chose to control their arks much as your naval officers do. Even we refuse to let machines make decisions for us.”

  “Yes,” the Ramanthian agreed, “we are similar in that regard. So, given the fact that your people have the skills required to retrofit the fleet, I wondered if you would be willing to assist us.”

  Vanderveen felt her heart beat faster. The Thrakies were neutral, that’s what they claimed at any rate, so how would the foreign minister reply?

  Bintha frowned. “My people are neutral—I believe you are aware of that fact.”

  “Yes,” Orno answered smoothly, “but it isn’t military assistance that I seek. My race requires certain services. The same services that you make available to others. Surely neutrality doesn’t involve the cessation of all commercial activity. How would your people survive?”

  “Well,” the Thraki said thoughtfully, “you make a good point. A truly neutral government would support both sides equally.”

  “Although,” Orno continued, “it might be a good idea to keep the relationship confidential, lest someone get the wrong idea.”

  “Absolutely,” Bintha agreed, “assuming that some sort of agreement is reached.”

  “Which brings us to the matter of terms,” the Ramanthian suggested. “We have approximately three thousand Sheen ships. How much would it cost to refit them?”

  Rather than dodge the question, as Vanderveen thought that he would, the Thraki tackled it head-on. A clear indication that the question was anything but unexpected. “About two and a half million credits per ship, or 75 million all together, plus certain trade concessions at the cessation of hostilities.”

  There it was, an open offer to provide the Ramanthians with sub rosa support, in return for money and trade concessions. Vanderveen remembered Sok Tok’s dying words: “. . . Don’t trust the Thrakies . . .” and felt a tremendous surge of anger. The translator had been correct—and here was the proof.

  Surprisingly, from Orno’s perspective, the financial part of the package was fairly reasonable. That meant that the trade concessions, once the Thrakies put them forward, would be less so. But that was to be expected. Of more importance was the fact that the Thrakies believed that the Ramanthians would win the war and wanted to position themselves for the future. That didn’t stop him from trying to get a better deal, however. “The price you put forward strikes me as a bit high, but that’s what negotiations are for, and we can leave such matters to the experts.

  “As for trade agreements, yes, we would be most interested in sitting down to discuss the postwar environment, and how both peoples could better themselves through mutually advantageous commercial agreements.”

  The human diplomat knew that behind all the diplomatic mumbo jumbo was the age-old notion of Ramanthian reciprocity, meaning, “if you scrape my chitin, I’ll polish yours.” There was more, but most of it consisted of self-congratulatory posturing and further assurances of sincerity.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Thraki and the Ramanthian left the conference room. Vanderveen forced herself to wait, left the restroom, and crossed the conference room to the door. A quick peek was sufficient to ascertain that the hall was empty. The diplomat’s heels made an angry clacking sound as she made her way down the hall. She had information, valuable information, but what to do with it? Should she turn it over to Wilmot? And reveal how the intelligence had been gathered? Or find some other way to take advantage of it, which would involve stepping outside of proper channels and acting on her own? It was a difficult choice—and one that would haunt her dreams.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  One of the planet’s one-hour-and-twenty-one-minute-long periods of daylight had just ended as Nodoubt Truespeak and his fellow chieftains approached the outskirts of the village. Local warriors had been aware of both them and their escort for six day-cycles by then, and knew the visitors weren’t hostile because of the light arms they carried, the fact that most members of the group were well past middle age, and the peace pennant that fluttered over their heads. Dooths snorted columns of warm vapor out into the air, their hooves beat the semifrozen ground into a muddy stew, and the column filled the trail from side to side.

  But the process of entering a village, even a friendly one, was a complicated affair that involved ritual purification, a pro forma inspection by the local master-at-arms, and the giving of symbolic gifts. Seemingly outmoded rituals that had grown up out of a need to prevent the spread of disease, detect hidden weapons, and cement alliances.

  That meant that a full night cycle was to pass before Truespeak and his companions were allowed to leave the company of their mounts, enter the village proper, and be received there. Time in which General Booly could have fled had he wished to do so—or summoned airborne troops from the fort.

  But the human had done neither one, which was just as well for Truespeak, who had promised his fellow chieftains that the legionnaire would meet with them. What they didn’t know was that rather than issue an invitation, which would have almost certainly been refused, Truespeak had conspired with Corporal Nowake Longsleep to take advantage of a trip that Booly had scheduled on his own. It was a security breach for which Longsleep would almost certainly pay.

  Still, if the chiefs could get Booly’s ear, if they could persuade him to arrange a meeting with President Nankool, the entire effort would be well worth it. A maiden offered him a cup of hot soup, and he was careful to thank her, but the Naa’s true hunger was reserved for something else.

  A warrior armed with a torch led Booly and Maylo into the tunnel. It was oval in shape, and vertical grooves had been cut into the rock walls to simulate the inside of a throat. The temperature fell as they moved inward, and water oozed from above and trickled into gutters. Their guide turned. He was a brindled brute, who wore nothing more than a vest, baggy trousers, and weapons harness. His voice was a growl. “Watch your step.”

  The warning arrived just in time. The stairs were broad, cut from solid rock, and worn toward the center of each tread. Booly
remembered the passageway from childhood—and reached for Maylo’s hand. “Watch out . . . they’re slippery.” Maylo thought about her condition and was grateful for her husband’s help.

  By then a booming sound could be heard, like the sound produced by a kettledrum, or the beating of a monstrous heart. The air grew warmer, the stairs took a turn to the right, and the scent of incense filled Maylo’s nostrils. To cover the strong odor associated with humans? Or for some other reason? There was no way to know.

  Booly saw the warrior step through an oval-shaped doorway and followed him into the open space beyond. The torchlit cavern was huge. The roof arched upward to vanish in darkness. It was supported by thick, intricately carved rock. A closer inspection revealed packs of wild pooks, herds of wooly dooths, and the Towers of Algeron all woven together to support the ceiling or sky.

  The floor of the cave sloped down and away from the point of entry. More than a hundred Naa were already seated toward the back, leaving room for those yet to arrive down in front. Some of the villagers had known Booly as a youth. They remembered him as the cub who could never keep up, who couldn’t smell anything that wasn’t right under his nose, and always wore a lot of clothes. Now he was a chief among chiefs, a powerful warrior, and a person to reckon with. Not just any person, but their person, by virtue of the mixed blood that flowed through his veins.

  One of the villagers uttered a strange undulating cry, others joined in, and Maylo felt a chill run the length of her spine as the sound echoed back and forth between the cavern walls. The wail came to an end when the legionnaire raised a fist, shouted something in Naa, and the crowd applauded.