Dimwit mounted his dooth, kicked the animal onto the trail, and kicked it yet again. The animal groaned, sent plumes of lung-warmed air down toward the ground, and passed a prodigious amount of gas. The trek resumed.
If the mesa had a name, Booly didn’t know what it was. Only that it stood straight and tall, just as it had the last time he’d been there, camping with his mother.
It was she who showed him the narrow, often dangerous, path that circled the sheer-sided cliffs, pointed out the tool marks the ancients had left on the rock, and fired his imagination. “Who were they?” she asked. “And from whom were they hiding?” For surely some great evil had been upon the land, a threat that drove them up off the slowly rising plain, to make a home in the sky.
Had they won? These hard-pressed Naa? And survived that which sought to hunt them down? Or had the group been decimated? And wiped from existence? There was no way to be sure.
And there was another story, a more personal tale, which came back to Booly as his dooth labored toward the top. It had to do with his grandfather, William Booly I, a one-time sergeant major who was wounded during an ambush, taken prisoner, and nursed back to health by a Naa maiden, a beautiful maiden, named Windsweet.
His grandfather was smitten, very smitten, and soon fell in love. But the whole thing was wrong. Wrong according to the Legion, wrong according to the Naa, and wrong according to her father. Windsweet helped the legionnaire escape, bandits gave chase, and a patrol saved his life.
Later, after returning to his unit, the soldier tried to forget the maiden and the way he felt about her, but found that impossible to do. That’s when Booly’s ancestor did something which Booly himself, as an officer, could never forgive: William Booly I went over the hill.
The dooth rounded a corner, rocks clattered away from its hooves and fell toward the scree below. They rattled, started a small slide, and tumbled down the mountain.
The noise caused Nocount to jerk his animal to a halt. He turned to Dimwit. “The motherless alien is halfway to the top.”
“So?” his friend inquired sarcastically. “If he can make it, so can we.”
“I know that you idiot,” Nocount responded impatiently. “But why bother?”
Dimwit frowned, processed the words, and brightened. “We could wait here!”
“Now there’s an idea,” Nocount replied sarcastically. “Let’s try it. No point in doin’ all that work if we don’t have to.”
Dimwit agreed, swung down from the saddle, and headed for some likely looking rocks. He needed to pee.
The trail wound through the site of an ancient rock slide, shelved upwards, passed through a rocky defile and ended on a windswept plateau. A crust of icy snow covered what remained of the ancient walls. Yes, Booly thought to himself, whatever roamed below must have been very unpleasant to force the old ones up here.
The officer dismounted, took the dooth by its reins, and led the animal toward a rocky spire. It was there if memory served him correctly that his mother and he had camped. Not on the surface, at the mercy of the groaning wind, but below, in chambers created by the ancients.
He located the spiral stair without difficulty, pulled a torch out of his pack, checked to ensure that the underground common room remained habitable, and allowed the light to play over some empty ration boxes. Others had camped there since his childhood visit, but not for many years, judging from the dust on the containers.
Someone had left a mound of somewhat desiccated dooth dung, however, which meant the legionnaire could enjoy a fire and a more pleasant evening than he had counted on.
But dooths came first, as all Naa learn the moment they are allowed to ride, and Booly returned to the surface. He removed the animal’s saddle, rigged a nose bag filled with grain, and hobbled its feet.
Then, confident that his mount would remain nearby, the officer carried his gear below. It took the better part of a hour to build a dooth dung fire, clear the room of trash, and prepare a simple meal. Firelight danced the walls as the story retold itself.
Having deserted the Legion, his grandfather went back for the maiden, and took her away. Knowing that her father would follow, and fearful of what might happen if the two of them came into contact, Windsweet led her lover to the high plateau.
The Hudathans attacked Algeron shortly thereafter. Booly’s grandfather went off to fight them and left Windsweet by herself. And it was there, in that very room, that his grandmother threw the Wula sticks and learned that the child in her belly would be male.
Was that what his mother meant? That what he needed was here? Buried among old memories?
Something caught Booly’s eye. Something white, something beyond the dance of the flames, something almost obscured by graffiti.
The legionnaire stood, circled the fire pit, and found what he was looking for: the badge of the 13th DBLE. A coincidence? Or something more? The officer discovered a lump in his throat, wondered why the room felt so warm, and took his coat off. That’s when Booly knelt on his parka, felt for his combat knife, and started to dig. The well packed earth was dry and hard.
The fire, augmented by some Legion-issue fuel tabs, burned hot and bright. Nocount took a pull from his canteen, passed the container to Dimwit, and delivered a prodigious belch. “I hope the human comes down tomorrow. We’re almost out of drak.”
The second Naa took a drink, felt the liquor burn its way down into his stomach, and wiggled his nose. That odor ... What was it? Not drak, not his friend’s pungent body odor—it was something else. Then he had it. Dimwit’s brain sent the message to his lips, told them what to say, but not in time.
First Sergeant Neversmile had stripped to the waist. His fur was black with patches of white. They seemed to glow as he stepped out into the firelight. “Greetings my brothers ... I saw your fire and wondered if you might spare a traveler something to eat.”
Both of the bandits were in the habit of taking things from travelers but never gave them away. They ran their eyes down the newcomer’s body, saw no sign of weapons, and felt a lot more secure. Nocount decided to toy with the stranger. He pulled a Legion-issue .50 caliber recoilless out from under his jacket and waved it back and forth. “Sure, I’ll give you something to eat ... How ’bout a bullet?”
Neversmile smiled. A bad sign if there ever was one. “Sure, if you don’t mind eating a few yourself.”
Nocount frowned. “I have a gun, and you don’t.”
“True,” the legionnaire said agreeably, “but I have a friend ... and her gun is bigger than your gun.”
Dimwit squinted into the surrounding gloom. “Friend? What friend?”
“That would be me,” Wilker replied, stepping out into the light. Servos whined as weapons came to bear. “Hi, how ya doin’?”
Dimwit peed his pants. Nocount decided to gamble.
The knife point struck metal and skidded through olive-drab paint. Booly gave a small grunt of satisfaction, scooped dirt with his hands, and revealed the top of an old ammo box. Though faded, the words “Grenades 40 mm HE,” could still be read. Such containers were highly prized by the Naa and used for a multiplicity of purposes. The officer dug around both ends, freed the handles, and checked for wires. There were none. Then, careful lest the box be resting on some sort of spring-loaded mine, he felt underneath. Nothing.
Confident that it was safe the legionnaire grabbed the handles and pulled the container out of its hole. It was light, too light for a box with grenades in it, which confirmed his initial impression. Someone had used the box for something else.
Booly carried the container over and placed it in front of the fire. Most of the dark green paint was intact, but there were patches of dark brown rust, and any number of scratches. There was no lock, just a series of latches, all of which were stiff. He pried them open, took a long deep breath, and pushed the lid up and out of the way.
The contents were sealed in clear plastic, and Booly recognized some of the items even before he sliced through the outer cover
ing. He saw his grandmother’s Wula sticks, his father’s Medal of Valor, his mother’s long-barreled target pistol, and much, much more. There were photos, diaries, Naa story beads, his grandfather’s flick blade, and a Hudathan command stone. Not the sort of items most mothers would leave for their sons—but the kind that a warrior would. For each and every one of the objects told a story, was part of who he was, and a source of strength. It was her way of reminding him of where he came from, of who had gone before, and the nature of his inheritance. Not land, not money, but a legacy of honor.
Suddenly, without knowing why, the officer thought of Maylo Chien-Chu. She had doubts about their relationship. That was obvious. Could her doubts have been related to his? After all, why should she be sure of him, if he doubted himself? Or was that too easy?
Whatever the reason, he felt stronger now, confident that he was entitled to the stars that rode his shoulders and the responsibility that went with them. Because of the objects in the box? The pilgrimage to get them? The fact that his mother cared? It hardly mattered. What was, was.
Half an hour later Booly crawled into his sleeping bag, closed his eyes, and entered a dreamless sleep.
Millions upon millions of snowflakes fell from the lead gray sky, performed airborne pirouettes, and spiraled into the ground. They formed a lace curtain through which Neversmile and Wilker maintained their watch. A jumble of boulders broke the wind, provided the twosome with some cover, and screened the trail. They waited through six foreshortened “days” before stones rattled, a dooth coughed, and General William Booly made his way down off the plateau.
He paused no more than twenty feet away from them to scan his surroundings. He felt something—but wasn’t sure what. Whatever it was sent a chill down his spine. The officer resisted the impulse to pull his blast rifle, kicked the dooth in the ribs, and continued on his way. He wanted to reach the fort—wanted to leave the planet. Algeron was in good hands, and there was work to do. Lots of it.
Neversmile waited until the general had established a sizeable lead, mounted the cyborg’s back, and spoke into the mike. “Senses to max ... patrol speed.” Wilker obeyed.
Behind them, covered by a thin blanket of cold wet snow, lay two mounds of carefully piled rocks. Algeron continued to spin—and darkness swept in from the east.
5
Even the final decision of a war is not to be regarded as absolute. The conquered nation often sees it as only a passing evil, to be repaired in after times by political combinations.
Karl von Clausewitz
On War
Standard year 1832
Planet Hudatha (Protectorate), the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The packet ship Mercury dropped into orbit, offered a burst of code, and waited for the appropriate response. Battle station Victory, one of four such structures constructed immediately after the last Hudathan war, hung like a dark omen over the planet below. One of the vessel’s many computers checked, confirmed the newly arrived ship’s identity, and gave the necessary permissions.
The Mercury’s control room was too small to accommodate visitors—but a viewscreen filled one of the wardroom’s four bulkheads. Governor, now Envoy Sergi Chien-Chu watched with keen interest as the battle station grew to fill the smaller vessel’s screen. At the conclusion of the last war, he had played a role in the seemingly endless design process that led up to the Victory’s construction. So, in spite of the fact that he’d never seen the finished product before, the industrialist recognized the spherical shape as well as the heavy duty weapons mounts and the other installations common to Monitor class warships. Because, for all her size, the battle station was capable of movement, had to be capable of movement, given the complex interplay of gravitational forces associated with Hudatha and her Jovian binary.
The battle station Triumph, now obscured by the planet itself, had nearly been destroyed during the mutiny while Victory and two other platforms remained loyal. A matter of no small importance lest the Hudathans escape.
Chien-Chu thought of the Monitor class ships as something akin to old-fashioned corks, the kind used to keep mythical genies trapped within their bottles. Now it was he who proposed to release them. Was he correct in wanting to do so? Or just terribly naive?
But the packet ship bore two passengers . . . and as the Victory grew larger and the landing bay opened to receive them, the second had some very different thoughts. War Commander, now Ambassador Doma-Sa looked out on what appeared to him as nothing less than a mechanical monster, a machine that could sterilize the surface of the planet below. The fact that his people had actually perpetrated such horrors on others, had reduced entire worlds to little more than radioactive slag, made no difference whatsoever. This was unjust, this was unfair, this must end.
The Victory’s cavernous landing bay swallowed the Mercury as if she were little more than a snack. Chien-Chu watched with considerable interest as the packet ship followed a bright orange robodrone down the center of a blast-scarred deck and toward the area reserved for transient vessels. Here was a significant portion of the Confederacy’s remaining strength, resident in row after row of sleek two-seat fighters and squadrons of boxy assault vessels. None of which could be used against the Sheen lest the genie escape. Who was truly captive? The industrialist wondered. The Hudathans? Or the forces left to watch them?
There was a noticeable bump as the packet ship touched down. All manner of maintenance droids, robo hoses and other automated equipment rolled, slithered, and swung into action. The Mercury would be refueled, provisioned, and relaunched in less than six hours.
Doma-Sa struggled into some standard issue Hudathan space armor. Chien-Chu thanked the Mercury’s four person crew and hauled his duffel bag to the lock. It took three minutes to cycle through.
Self-propelled stairs stood waiting, along with a space-suited lieutenant commander and two ratings. She saluted, and her voice came over Chien-Chu’s on-board multi-freq com unit. “Welcome aboard, Admiral. My name is Nidifer. We received orders to dispense with the side party. I hope that was correct.”
Chien-Chu returned the salute and smiled. “Yes, thank you. Your people have enough to do ... Let’s save the ceremony for real admirals. Please allow me to introduce Ambassador Hiween Doma-Sa.”
The naval officer bowed to the extent that the space armor would allow her to do so. “Welcome aboard, Ambassador. My name is Nidifer, Lieutenant Commander Nidifer. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please follow me.”
It took the better part of fifteen minutes to cross the busy flight deck, enter the VIP lock, and cycle through. The Victory’s commanding officer was waiting to greet them. He was tall and thin, and looked like a skeleton brought to life. He was the real thing, meaning an officer who had graduated from the academy, and wore two stars. His hand was hard and bony. “Admiral Chien-Chu ... Ambassador Doma-Sa ... welcome aboard. Admiral Kagan at your service. Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you ... but one of our shuttles lost power. A tug is bringing her in. I thought we’d give you a chance to stow your gear and gather in my cabin. Sound okay to you?”
The visitors assured him that it did, and little more than thirty minutes later the visitors arrived in Kagan’s cabin. The Victory was considered a hardship post, which meant that extra money had been spent to make the ship more livable. Wood paneling lined the bulkheads, back-lit shelving held some of the art objects the naval officer had collected during his years of service, and the furniture was worn but comfortable. The admiral gestured toward some chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
Doma-Sa chose a chair backed by a bulkhead, knew it had been placed there for his comfort, and felt a little better.
Refreshments were offered, both guests refused, and Kagan looked from one to the other. He was curious and let it show. “So? What can I do for you?”
Chien-Chu gestured toward the planet that hung beyond the view port. “First we’d like a briefing, you know, surface conditions, intel reports, whatever you’ve got. Then we’ll need
some transport.” He looked at Doma-Sa. “That should cover it.”
Kagan felt a rising sense of anger and fought to control it. Here he was, sitting on what amounted to a time bomb, while some half-baked has-been thought up ways to waste his resources. But the bastard had pull, the kind of gees that could crush a mere two-star, and the officer forced a smile. “Yes, of course. I’ll arrange for the briefing. But that’s as far as I can go. The ambassador isn’t cleared to receive military intelligence. As for the trip, well, Hudathan nationals can return to the surface whenever they choose, but you will have to remain in orbit. Or return with the Merc—the choice is up to you.”
One of the things Chien-Chu liked about his status as a cyborg was the fact that when he ordered his face to remain blank it actually did so. “I’m sorry, Admiral. I forgot to present my credentials. Perhaps you would be so kind as to review them.”
The cyborg withdrew a small case from his coat pocket and gave it over. The naval officer inspected the seal, applied his thumb to the print-sensitive pad, and saw the lid pop open. A disk nestled in a plastic holder. Kagan took the disk, excused himself, and entered the neighboring office. He was back three minutes later. His face was pale. The words sounded stiff and formal. “I am to place myself under your command for the duration of your stay, render all possible assistance, and keep the nature of your mission secret.” He looked down into Chien-Chu’s synthetic eyes. The resentment was clear to see. “What may I ask is the nature of your mission?”
Chien-Chu smiled in an effort to put the man at ease. “Ambassador Doma-Sa and I are here to examine the feasibility of integrating certain branches of the Hudathan military into the Confederacy’s armed forces.”
By Force of Arms Page 6