The Goda War

by Deborah Chester

  Falmah-Al twisted her gloves in her hands as her gaze swept away from their faces to the yellow and green lights winking in complex patterns upon the instrumentation banks forming a narrow band between windows and floor. Everything else around her was black: the metal grids supporting the glastel, the chairs, the tables, the uniforms, space itself. Only the braid of rank, the winking lights, the gleam of hooded eyes, and the stars themselves showed color. And color was truth. Tired of meetings and arguments, she could not wait to plant her feet back on the ravaged earth of Darjahl Imperial.

  A soft beep in the communications module fitted unobtrusively in her ear made her step falter for a second before she resumed her slow pacing. Falmah-Al clenched her jaw so that the tightened muscles activated a response.

  “Millen here,” said the major. “We’ve found the suprin’s body hidden in an underground tunnel network. Dead for several days. Barkey’s examining the corpse now. There are…complications. Request your attention first possible opportunity.”

  She clenched her jaw in acknowledgment, holding down the excited urge to pull out her communicator and question him thoroughly.

  “Right,” he said. “Millen out.”

  She swung back to the men assembled in the battle room. The meeting was over; they were rising. The deputies snapped to attention. Falmah-Al stood quietly, deciding not to share her news just yet. The years had taught her the value of caution over a momentary grab for glory. Millen had said there were complications. She would evaluate them before she made any official statements.

  The shuttle flight down to the planet’s surface took two hours. Lt. Izak, his stiff collar still betraying a stain of dampness from the report presentation, sat across from her, busily shuffling flimsies before her with rapid-fire summaries of their contents. She could read as fast as he could talk; she never let him forget it.

  “The cargo bays are on standby, Colonel. Your low priority interrogation equipment will be dropped as soon as you authorize this release form. Er, the palace itself has sustained some damage but the smoke is being sucked out now, and the undersecretary has submitted it might be used for better things than holding prisoners—”

  “Let it burn,” she broke in. “We are establishing a new order of life for the Chaimu. We will not adopt their soft ways.”

  Izak sighed and ripped the flimsy in half. He replaced it with two others. “There is an office building directly across from the palace which the governor wants to use for a similar purpose. However, the initial sweeping was inadequate. A junior staff deputy was injured this morning from a device attack.”

  “I’ll send in another team to take care of that. Keep the building evacuated until it’s re-guaranteed.”

  As Izak nodded, making a swift notation, she pressed a switch. The map screen near her seat lit softly, showing Impryn cut into arbitrary sectors and gridded already according to her specifications. She punched in an overlay of the tunnel network. The suprin had been found in Sector One. Too close to the governor’s newly established headquarters. The correlation made her uneasy. How many exits and entrances to the tunnels were there? How easy was access? How easy was infiltration?

  She frowned. She meant to keep a tight lid on this city and refused to be awed by its tremendous size. “This amphitheatre here.” She pointed at a dot on the screen less than a radiam from the palace, governmental complexes, and the embassies where the governor and his staff were now living. “Destroy it. Shut off the other buildings directly around it. Gas them to make sure they are empty, but burn that amphitheatre first. We are not here to enjoy ourselves.”

  Izak ducked his head and looked at her from beneath his thin black brows. This habit made him seem both timid and sly. He was too ambitious to make his loyalty unimpeachable. Ton seemed to trust him, but she was far from being in the governor’s confidence. She meant to keep a close eye on this deputy and appoint one of her own as soon as possible.

  “The public buildings of Impryn are famous even to us, Colonel,” he said in soft protest. “Chaimu architecture is stunning, surely a universal treasure. Wouldn’t preservation be a better—”

  “We are not here to preserve the sites of Chaimu atrocities!” She slammed her rank signet into the pressure sensitive corner of the flimsy authorizing her equipment to be unloaded. The mark of her crest gleamed a momentary blue against the yellowish tint of the flimsy, then faded to white. “You have your orders, Lieutenant. Anything else?”

  He jumped to whisk things away and opened a second document case. She glanced out the port. They were in atmosphere, descending through fat clouds tinged with sun’s gold on top and rain’s black on the bottom. It did not rain on her homeworld. She turned her face away from the view.

  “This,” said Izak warily, “is a request for your prompt inspection of the royal prisoners collected thus far.”

  “How many?”

  “Approximately two hundred, mostly females and children, and a collection of, er, of creatures.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Explain. Pets?”

  “No, Colonel. Mature Chaimu males, royals but—”

  “Ah!” She sucked in her breath, recalling a spy report. “The Gwilwans. Royal male Chaimu who are not in line for succession are not executed but are instead neurologically altered at birth so that they develop the physical vestiges normally bred out of their race. They are reputed to be quite colorful in appearance. I believe they are trained to hunt down and eat humans in the game arenas.” Her eyes narrowed on Izak, who had paled. ‘‘Your precious amphitheatre, I believe. Have them killed.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” He made a notation of the order with alacrity. “Then there is yet another complaint from the nairin and his party.”

  She smiled, wondering how the nairin would react to the news of his parent’s death. She glanced forward, where the governor and his administrators sat in a small conference of their own. How long dared she wait before she informed Ton of the discovery?

  Falmah-Al grimaced, impatient to be on the ground. “What else, Izak?”

  “A request from the nairin to meet with you.”

  “With me?” Her brows shot up. “I thought he had been clamouring for Ton.”

  “After several denials I am sure, Colonel, that he thinks you may be more receptive to his demands.”

  “I am too busy to spare time for traitors,” she snapped. “Let him wait. If the governor has no immediate instructions for my attention, I will be occupied in the field for the rest of the afternoon. Inform my office, please.”

  A warning light from the pilot blinked on overhead. She reached for the safety restraints as Izak began filing away his documents.

  The landing was featherlight on a pad cleared and marked in the rubble of a broad street carving a winding path between towering buildings. Falmah-Al closed the port shutters and drew her disruptor. On her way to the hatch, she paused to peer into the crowded cockpit.

  “Perfect, Molaud,” she said, clapping the man on the shoulder that had been blown away years ago in her service and had been replaced with metal and bionic nerve fusions. He was the only pilot she trusted. “Raw meat to your table.”

  “Alamam, Colonel,” he responded in the traditional way, grinning at the compliment, and handed her a head-set.

  She spoke into it briefly, nodding at the affirmative answer. The outside was clear. She handed the head-set back to Molaud, lifting her thumb. He cut off the hatch lock.

  The hatch sprang open with a faint hiss, and she waved the lesser staff members through first. Ton stood back, impatient but docile enough with standard procedure. His hair, silvered but still thick, gleamed under the dim interior lights. His pale blue eyes watched her without expression. When she glanced back at him, however, he did not immediately fall into step behind her.

  “You’ve received information, haven’t you?” he said. “You’re on the scent of something. I can tell by the way your eyes are glowing.”

  Falmah-Al put her back to the open hatchway,
unable to suppress a grimace of impatience as she faced him. It was the first time in the entire campaign that he had made any attempt to speak to her beyond the necessary requirements, and all she wanted to do was get out and find Millen.

  “My report will be on your desk soon,” she said.

  “Don’t be so damned secretive!” he exclaimed. “I am supposed to be on top of everything here. If you’re going to start undermining my position by setting up your own factions, then you can ship out with the fleet right now.”

  “Threats are unnecessary,” she retorted, angered by his insecurities. “I am being cautious, not secretive. The suprin’s death has been confirmed—”

  “When? During the meeting? Gazal!” Ton threw his arms up in the air. “Why didn’t you say something? All that those men wanted was confirmation. We could have saved ourselves an hour of arguing and speculation.”

  “Not while there are complications,” she said. “I’m going now to check out the situation and receive Millen’s full report. Until then I don’t think it wise to shout the news from the rooftops.”

  They glared at each other for a long moment. Finally Ton snorted and dropped his eyes.

  “All right. All right,” he said irritably. “But I want your behavior modified, Colonel. Do you understand? We are on the same team here. There’s no room for personal conflicts.”

  She stiffened. “I am not offering any. I am doing my job properly and efficiently. If you cannot trust my judgment—”

  He cut her off with an oath. “This is a pointless conversation. I should have known you couldn’t keep personal feelings out of your work. Get on with it, Colonel. I’ll expect a full report in my office the moment you feel you can present yourself. It’s about time this matter was cleared up. We need to be concentrating on finding the records that will show us where those doomsday weapons are located.”

  Furious, Falmah-Al opened her mouth, but managed to hold back the unwise words. What a pompous paranoid! Unable to stay inside the shuttle with him another moment, she snapped up her disruptor to a ready position and descended the steps with him right behind her in standard protected position. But there was no problem with snipers. The area was secure. Imish troops in black unit suits, their helmet screens only lightly polarized since the sky overhead was dark with the menace of rain, ringed the shuttle and formed a gauntlet running toward a land crawler waiting nearby. A bubble shield had been fitted over the top hatch, and Imish purple and amber flags draped the sides listlessly. There was no breeze to make them flutter.

  As soon as she and the governor cleared the shuttle, soldiers ran forward to enclose them and as this phalanx proceeded toward the crawler, Falmah-Al broke free to hurry ahead, already checking the route again upon her communicator. She hauled herself up the side of the crawler, gave a swift but thorough examination of the interior, eyed the energy readings supporting the bubble shield, and got herself out of the way. Ton positioned himself inside the bubble, mumbling to himself as he practiced his speech, and security outriders on stri-jets flanked the crawler as it lumbered forward for the governor’s third parade through the city.

  Falmah-Al caught her breath, still seething as she broke out the thumbnail-sized module from the base of her communicator, tuned it to the parade frequency, and fitted it back into her ear. The chatter was almost constant as points reported in on the crawler’s progress. She took a moment to glance around at the tall silent buildings. The last fringe battles had ended three days ago. Her nostrils quivered over the lingering scents of nust gas and exploded disruptor charges. Victory! Nothing smelled sweeter.

  She punched in Millen’s frequency over her communicator. “Major?” she said as soon as he responded. “Falmah-Al. I’m planetside. Give me your location. I’m coming now.”

  “Right,” said Millen over a burst of static.

  Backlash in her ear module made her wince and hastily pop it out to tune it down.

  “Repeat that last, Millen,” she said into the communicator, refitting the module into her ear in time to hear someone say the governor’s parade was going to get rained on. “I didn’t catch it.”

  “Are you sure our little friend sitting over in Interrogation One is the real nairin?”

  She went cold inside. “Explain—gazal!” She swore loudly, jumping as the first drops of rain hit her hard enough to sting.

  “Colonel?” asked Millen sharply. “Are you—”

  A deputy was waving. She ran for the land crawler indicated and scrambled up and over the side into its cramped shelter just as the heavens cracked open and sheets of water began drumming down. The operator slid past her and closed the hatch, cutting off the noise and wet. Falmah-Al bent to peer out one of the port views and frowned at the water gusting across the street and driving soldiers before it like a violent shepherd. A part of her was awed by such a display of natural wealth. Imagine water pouring from the sky.

  “Colonel?” shouted Millen over the static on her communicator. “Are you all right? What’s happening over there?”

  Jolted out of her fascination, she jerked away from the port view and cracked her elbow painfully on the corner of an instrumentation bank.

  “Gazal-ma!” she swore and savagely cut off Millen’s alarmed questions. “It’s all right, Major. Don’t send down the Benshas.”

  “Thought you’d been ambushed,” he answered more calmly.

  “Rain,” she snapped. “A waste of natural resources. Give me a repeat on the nairin.”

  “Are you sure we’ve got the right man?”

  “Yes.” She frowned, signaling for the operator to start up the land crawler. “Why? Is this your complication?”

  “I think so. If I understand Chaimu customs correctly, someone else has snatched the throne.”

  “What?”

  Millen’s voice cut over the static, dry and slightly amused. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new suprin to contend with, Colonel.”

  By the time the land crawler lumbered over the debris and rubble obstructing most streets, the storm had ended. Falmah-Al climbed out warily into the warm damp air which was fresh with unfamiliar smells and found this district similar in appearance to the one the shuttle had landed in. More office and governmental buildings, some nondescript, others florid with ornamental architecture, stood about her. This area had suffered more damage. The street ahead was closed entirely where several walls had fallen, leaving skewed structures and burned-out shells.

  Millen was waiting for her on the wide steps of a porticoed building. As she emerged from the crawler, he came toward her with a wide grin. He wore the grey camouflage uniform of the mercenary auxiliary army. It was torn at the knees, ripped along one sleeve, and stiff with dried blood and mupalm stains. He had never exhibited a neat military presence. It didn’t matter. He always turned in the results she wanted.

  “Major Millen,” she said as he halted before her and sketched a sloppy salute. “Are you sure there’s a new suprin? Do we need to bring in Nairin Tregher?”

  “I’m sure his reaction would be useful.” Millen’s eyes were as yellow and flat as a reptile’s, with the same narrow pupils. Set in a wide square face above a squashed, lumpy nose and a scarred mouth, they were startling eyes, utterly cold and without expression. She suspected he was not entirely human, and although one of the Forbidden Directives commanded the Imish never to deal as brothers with those of mixed blood, Millen was too valuable an ally to investigate closely.

  Those dead eyes came alive for once as Millen jerked a thumb at a subordinate who pulled out a communicator to call Interrogation One.

  “There’s an access point to the tunnels in this building,” Millen said, nodding at the porticoed structure. “While we wait for Tregher to be delivered, you might as well look at the body.”

  Millen fell into step beside her as she strode forward. They trotted up the wide steps and into the gloomy interior. Porta-lamps had been strung up. Power was still off in the city on her orders. Outside, lightning split
the sky with a sizzling crack, and she flinched.

  “Nature’s fireworks,” said Millen, grinning at her with an impudence no one else dared. “It seems to rain several times a day on this damned bog-hole. Down this way.” He turned immediately left down a short corridor that ended in a powerful fission-lock door. Through it steps led steeply down. “We’ve been scanning the tunnel system below the city and digging out the nests gathering there. But here below this sector which was supposed to be cleared, Alim kept getting trace readings that he never could pin down.”

  “An equipment malfunction?”

  “No.” Millen’s grin widened. “We finally figured out that he was picking up a Sedkethran.”

  “What?” She nearly stumbled two steps from the bottom. “Impossible. What would one of those be doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but at least that’s why we started poking around down here and found the suprin.”

  Falmah-Al followed Millen along a gloomy, low-ceilinged passageway to a cluster of cells. The place smelled of dampness and of something even more repugnant. Two guards were standing alertly at another fission-lock door. At Millen’s gesture they moved aside.

  “The entrance to the tunnels lies through here. A complicated system.”

  “I’m not interested in a tour, Major.” Impatiently she went through the door and down another series of steep, crumbling stone steps into a dark web of damp, low-ceilinged tunnels. She gripped the butt of her disruptor, uneasy in such a hellish place.

  Millen switched on a porta-lamp, and its beam stabbed the darkness back. Another beam shone in an answering signal somewhere ahead. They moved toward it, and were met by one of Millen’s men.

  “Any more readings, Alim?” he asked.

  Alim, dark, greasy, and looking at home in this place, shook his head in the bobbing manner of the Walicas. “Some, Major. Very faint.” His beady eyes moved to Falmah-Al, and he made a respectful gesture. “Alamam, Colonel.”

  She ignored him, glancing ahead through the surging shadows that seemed to leap at her and fall back with every careless shift of Millen’s porta-lamp. “Where’s the body?”